Sunday Scribbles XXXIV

Altogether now. To the tune of "Yesterday":

Treachery,
You're not half the thing you used to be
You were a shadow hanging over me
Oh, I believed in treachery...

I know. I've said it before. And, in the sure and certain hope of sounding like a grizzled old curmudgeon, I'm about to say it again.

The mis-use of words devalues them.

When a rugby player sprains his ankle, it's described as a "tragedy", and he's "devastated" by it. Tosh. It's annoying, and he's slightly upset. And when a couple of hundred people drown in the Cook Islands because of the venal actions of incompetent civil servants, it's also described as a "tragedy". What - it's as upsetting as some footy player spraining an ankle? I think it's a little more severe than that.

I watched the TV progarmme about James Cook last night. It was, on the whole, very good, and I shall watch the next episode with interest. Only one major blue: right at the start, they had a shot of a childish Cook superimposed on the Union Flag. When he was a lad, the Union wasn't in existence, so the Union Flag (or Union Jack, when it's flown from a vessel) didn't exist. A trifling concern, and satisfying only to nit-picking old sods in stained trackpants. (Mine aren't stained, I hasten to add.)

But I was irked when the perky little presenter described the North Sea as "treacherous". Now, let's think about this. The North Sea is a dangerous stretch of water. Storms are sudden, and violent. In the days of sail, literally hundreds of craft foundered in the North Sea (I'm pretty sure it was called the German Sea back then, by the way. But let's not quibble.).

To sail into the North Sea was to put yourself into peril. So, you expected danger, you expected to be in danger. If a storm arose, the North Sea was meeting your expectations - which is precisely the opposite of treacherous. Letting go of the athropomorphic argument (a non-sentient thing cannot possibly betray you, because the act of betrayal demands a conscious decision), if something / someone does what they're supposed to do, they're not being treacherous.

If the North Sea became a pellucid lake every time anyone sailed upon it, then it would have betrayed all expectations. It didn't. Therefore, it was not treacherous.

So, when someone does willingly and unexpectedly betray you, knowing full well that their actions are going to hurt you... they're being treacherous. When something acts as expected, they're fulfilling your expectations, and being loyal to you.

The North Sea is not, and cannot ever be, treacherous. If a human motivation is to be ascribed to it... it's merely being loyal. Dangerous, perilous, and loyal.

LISTENING TO: Johnny Winter, "Johnny Winter". His first album, and the first pure blues music I ever heard. It was a stunning revelation, after the Pat Boones and Doris Days the radio played back in the 50s and 60s.

READING: Finishing "Dewey" today. It's really, really sweet.

GOING TO: Jenny's Mum's place today. Happy Mother's Day to allMumsy-wumsys. It's not an exagerration to say that you are the most important people on the planet. Followed closely, of course, children.

More "Paper Heroes":

“48, Sire,” said Fox, giving his lover an extra few days. If there’s one thing that Gaius Andronicus Equus Gluteus Maximus isn’t, it’s numerically literate.
Fox left, leaving a trail of skin behind him. “Woman,” called The Equus. “Come in with your broom.”
The current wife of The Equus, his 13th to date, came in and swept the floor, keeping her eyes averted. One side of her face was blackened with bruising.
“Sanfrisco,” he told her. “I’m off to Sanfrisco. By train.”
“Sire,” she said, wishing him dead. But wishes didn’t work here. They never had. They never would. “The Pin grant that your travel is blessed.” She wondered where or what Sanfrisco was, and knew she didn’t care. If he were going there, then maybe she would have some time without him.
She was, as all his wives had been, Woman. She served and serviced him completely, rarely complaining. The bruise on her face was testament to the wisdom of keeping complaints buttoned in, buttoned down, closed in.
She sighed quietly, and swept. With luck she would go to Pin soon, and be rid of this life.
She looked around his office. The wide glass-topped desk was spotless, except for a few flakes of psoriatic skin. She removed them. She had once missed some of the Fox’s diseased skin, and The Equus had made her eat it.
Her stomach heaved at the memory.
Still it is an honour to serve The Equus. Her mother had served the previous one, and she had been the result. She felt her belly. It is possible that she was carrying a child herself. It would be a miracle if she birthed, though. Brother and sister shouldn’t quicken children.
The thought made her tremble, and she glanced up. He had his back to her, and was gazing out the window. She collected the dust, and went to leave.
“Woman.” His voice was soft, almost gentle. “Make the sign.” He had been watching her reflection in the window. She obediently turned to the great Shield, and looked at it.
A great Bald Eagle, wings spread wide, two rifles in its claws. It stands before the Stripes of Red and White, and under it were the marks. She couldn’t read, but she wouldn’t have understood them even if she had been able to. But she knew they were powerful marks, marks by which her life, and the life of The Equus, was driven. Had she been able to read the marks, she would have known they read NRA.
Enray.
Henry.
And the Divine Pin is that which starts the bullet’s fire, which strikes down the unbeliever. The Firing Pin. She made a pistol with her fingers, and "fired" it. Then fled.

Time, it was

And what a time it was. We've gone a week or so since my last posting, and it seems a great deal has happened.

The baby was found: no kidnapping, nothing sinister. Just another tragic accident, one which - because the child vanished - grabbed the attention of the nation. If it had been immediately obvious that it was what it was - a simple drowning - then we would have thought about it for a minute, then forgotten. As it was, we were forced to confront the reality of a little girl lost for seven days. A week of anguish for the parents, a week of reflecting that it was out good fortune that it never happened to us, and to send... what? thoughts? prayers? care... to the parents. All futile, of course, but I am sure they would have found some comfort in knowing that this small community of ours, this village we call New Zealand, was concerned for them, and for a brief time, loved them. We can do no more. We could have done less.

ACC: New Zealand has a brilliant, universal no fault, no blame compensation system that sees ordinary people provided with a helping hand should an accident occur. Sporting accident, accidental death, a fall at work... whatever, we're covered. Of course there's a cost: we pay a premium direct from our pay-packets, and our employers also pay their share. Our motor registration is largely ACC premium. And now, because the ACC's getting a little short of the readies, the government (as rabid a bunch of teeth gnashing right-wingers as we've ever suffered under) are upping the premium. Fair enough? Not the way they're doing it. A smallincrease for motor car drivers, a huge amount (from $250 a year to $750 a year) for motorcyclists. The rationale is that motorcyclists have more accidents, and are costlier to repair: spinal and head injuries are buggers of things. The thing is this: 80% of motorcycle crashes are caused by motor car drivers. That is - motorcyclists are to pay for the stupidity of the very people who try to kill them.

Our Favourite Murderer is a scum-sucking egoist who should count his lucky stars that he's still alive. I'm a bleeding-heart pointy-headed liberal, and I think the prick should swing. And he's now using the public purse to pay for an appeal. Apparently he figures that we didn't see enough of him as he preened, strutted, and verbally masturbated for five days at his trial.

Grinning Bill English seems to have gotten away with rorting the gullible New Zealand public. Do the honourable thing, Bill, and bugger off. Suggest to your wife and family that you all move back to your "home" in Thinksmall, Otago. You could find you're a lonely man down there in your primary home.

TV: Fringe is brilliant, and I'm sorry to see the end of the first series. What terrific revelations, though. The NZ series "The Cult" is, if anything, better. "True Blood" is truly great. That's it for good drama. Comedies? "Two and a Half Men" is solidly huge, but "The Big Bang Theory" is surely the freshest and funniest thing ever on the tele. WHEN IS "DOCTOR WHO" COMING BACK? Just thought I should ask.



HEARTWARMING STORY: (Tear Factor of Five). Went to a new Nursing Home (new to me) on Tuesday. Took a few hundred books, and - on a whim - some talking books. Explained to the old folk how it worked, and they went for it. The Activities lady asked me if i had anything for old "Walter" in the corner. He'd suffered a series of dramatuic strokes, and was physically knackered. Brain was good though. I suggested a talking book. She foiund out what he liked - a good thiller - and i gave her one. She got him connected up, and i turned away to deal with a question. Five minutes went by, and Activities Lady, with tears in her eyes, pointed to "Walter". "For the first time in five years," she said,"he's smiling." And he was. A brfoad grin was draped over his face. That's what my job does.

Word of the Day: Hope. As in "I hope Grinning Bill English grows a pair, and resigns."

READING: Clive Barker, "The Great and Secret Show". Huge.

LISTENING TO: Pink Floyd, "The Wall". I think the boys may have something here.

More Moana! At Last!

Chutty looked at me, and said, quietly, “Your turn, love.”
I gripped his hand again, and looked down at my piece of paper. Was it only 14 years and a few months ago that I'd made these vows? It felt like it was just yesterday. I took a deep breath, and read. My hand was shaking.
“I was only a girl when I first met you,” I started, “and you stayed with me while I grew and matured. You were always there for me, even though there were many times that what I did was far removed from what you would normally have been doing. You have always been patient, and kind, and generous, and funny. I could no more imagine life without you, that I could dream of becoming Queen of England.
Because you have given me riches beyond measure, treasures too vast to count. You have given me your love: and the love of a good man… surpasseth all understanding.” Treen grabbed the paper from my hand, and looked at it. She glared at me. “That's not what you said either, Mum,” she accused.
“No, it wasn't, was it?” I said.
“And so,well, and so it falls to me to congratulate you both, yers, congratulate you both,” said Reverend Knox.
“Thanks, Reverend,” said Chutty, holding out his hand.
“Call me, yes, please call me John. My Mothert, bless her, named me after one of Jesus' apostles, did you know?”
“John, an apostle, eh? Well, how about that?” and that earned Johyn the apostle a slightly tighter hand grip from my husband. The Reverend – sorry, John, named after an apostle – went pale.
“Crikey, mate. John. Sorry.” Chutty didn't sound sorry. He sounded pissed off. “Some times I don't know my own strength.” If there's one thing he hates, it's being patronised.
“No, it's ah, all right. I hurt my hand a little earlier today.”
The words fell like cold iron into the room. I reached out and grabbed the Reverend's hands. Two of the knuckles were scraped, and bruised.
It was then I became conscious if a high-pitched sound in the room. I looked around, to find it came from Wendy. I turned back to the Reverend John the apostle.
“Mum and I found Wendy at the lych-gate early this afternoon,” I started. Mum piped up, interrupting me. I've never heard her sounding so satisfied. “I told you she has that dyslexia thing, dear. She been seeing the Reverend every Saturday for private reading lessons.”