Sunday Scribbles XVIII

My, don't the roman numerals stack up? It's a fabulous Sunday here in Auckland: it rained a little this morning, but I'm out on the deck now, shirtless (an arresting sight. Or is it arrestable?) under the sun umbrella. There's enoughof a breeze to make it seem that the humidity's at tolerable levels...and I have an amazing CD playing.

This is my 18th official Sunday Scribbles. I have absolutely no idea what I've burbled about in the past. Nothing of any great note, I'm sure. But I'm closing in on my 100th blog. Will i mkake it to the century before Christmas? Probably not.

I have a few seriously busy days ahead. The Library wants me to double up on my workload this week, to make it easier on the following week. The logic escapes me, but i am not in any realposition to stamp my tiny little feet. It just means that I'll be driving about like a loon over the next four days. If you're in Waitakere City, I'd advise you to keep a weather eye out for a white Mazada van. It's liable to have a dehydrated and cranky driver.

Jenny and I went shopping this morning. This basically means that Jenny shopped while I carried. We first went to the Devonport Farmer's Market, which was a huge disappointment. Actually, as it was only three stands of slightly wilted vegetables, it was a small disappointment. So we upped anchor and drove to the Takapuna Market. Much more like it. Stands of tatabounded, but there were some real finds. A baker's stand, where we bought a sourdough loaf for our lunner (late lunch, early dinner) or dinch (early dinner, late lunch). Then it was a dozen free-range eggs ($2.50 a dozen: cheaper than the bread. At that price, surely a mistake) and some crunchy-fresh asparagus. We'll whip up a hollandaise, and feast like kings. I might have to get some strawberries as well. We also bought a half-kilo of Waiheke multiflora honey. Breakfast tomorrow will by a slice of Yarrow's bread and the new honey.

Time, I think, to read. I might go for something brainless this afternoon: I found a Torchwood book the other day: good brain-free stuff.

Havce a great week, one and all. See you on Tuesday.

LISTENING TO: Fiona Pears "Fire and Light". She's a violinist, in the Nigel Kennedy mould. Only more attractive.

READING: A Thorshwood book. I love Doctor Who, and Torchwood comes from the good Doctor's series. Excellent stuff... very sexual, too.

WORD OF THE DAY: Relax.

More Rats:

She had laughed, grasped his old, lined face between her hands, and gave him a kiss he still remembered with regret.
It had been a warm kiss, a soft kiss, a kiss of affection and nothing more, and he strove to not damn her for it. She had meant well, but the kiss lingered on his lips far longer than any of the kisses his beloved wife had given him.
He knew full well that sometimes you had to accept the gifts the good Lord gave you, but this was one he wanted to return. He tried explaining it to Arthur, a decade later.
“See, boy. I loved my wife, and I cherish the memory of her.” Arthur knew the truth of this. At times, and usually on a Sunday, the Old Man would wander off, and Arthur would follow him to the cemetery, where he would watch over his Grampa as he squatted by his dear dead wife’s graveside, plucking weeds from the stony soil and chatting away, telling her of recent events, and asking her for advice.
It seems she often answered, for the Old Man would return to the smithy with a spring in his step.
Arthur had never let him know that he’d watched this ceremony, but he had no need to: the Old Man knew.
“Aye, I loved my wife. And she, God bless her soul, loved me. Can you imagine! And I remembered everything about her. Everything.” The Old Man poked at the fire with a stick, and stirred the embers. “But now, I don’t recall her kiss. How can I face her, lad? How can I face her when I meet her in God’s own heaven, when she knows that I have the taste and feel of another woman’s lips foremost in my memory?”

Jayne’s wagon had drawn into the village’s square late in the afternoon, when she had first arrived in Northridge. It was 1902, and Queen Victoria had been dead for two years; many women still wore black as part of their daily clothing, as a mark of respect to her passing. Jayne Francis didn’t. in fact, she caused a ripple of gossip and scandal when she first came into town: she had been wearing a red rough flannel shirt, a broad-brimmed hat with a silver-chain hatband, a broad green neckerchief, and a pair of brown corduroy britches, held up by red braces, and a pair of dusty high-heeled boots. She had pulled her wagon up a few yards from the blacksmith’s, hopped down from the driver’s bench, coiled her whip, tapped the dottle from her curved walnut pipe, and took her lead horse from its harness, fussed over it for a moment, and then walked it over to the smithy. “Hello?” she had called. “Anyone there?”

Strawberries, and summer salads.

Summertime. Christmas-time. Strawberry-time. I bought three punnets of strawberries for $4 on the way home today. Two of them, around 800 grams in total, have gone. Vanished. Hit the uvula, and beyond.

Strawberries are what makes this time of year so fresh and zingy. The ones I bought today were small, and packed a powerful, sugar-and-flavour laden punch. I'm almost dizzy with delight. I chopped the little buggers up, mixed 'em with a little icing sugar (confectioner's sugar to you North Americans) and then slodged on a couple of huge tablesponns-ful of home-made Greek-style yoghurt. Stir twice, eat.

Jenny and I are finding that it's far better to eat a full meal in the middle of the day. I take a couple of freshly-made salads (one of them potato salad, the other a green one) and some cold meat to work. At the end of the day, we just have something light. We sleep better, and wake refreshed. And it's certainly easier to maintain this sort of regime in the summer, when there's such as abundance of relatively inexpensive fruits and veges: wintertime's a tad awakward. Most workplaces don't have the facilities for whipping up a roast meal in the middle of the day...

Speaking of which: are you on the organic / free-range pig bandwagon yet? It's been a long while since I ate a battery-farmed chicken, or one of their eggs... And I doubt very much that we'll be having anything but free-range pork in our household, either. If we can't farm them ethically, and in a cruelty-free environment, then we don't belong in the farming business. And every New Zealander is in the farming business. New Zealand dies without our farms... and our farms die without our custom. Our connection to farming comes through our wallets.

Which means, of course, that we really have to look at ways we can help our agrarian sector reduce its share of our carbon emmissions.

Incidentally - don't get too hyped by the old "NZ's emmissions have increased by 20% since we signed the Kyoto agreement." yes, they have. But our poopulation has also grown by, gee whiz, around 20%. Yes, we should be doing better. We have, essentially, been standing still. Not good enough.

Strawberries, of course, are carbon-friendly, emmission-free, and environmentally sound. They have to be. Nothing that good could possibly be an evil entity.



Reading: John Connolly's "Gates of Hell". Hmm. Also "The Year of Living Biblically", by someone Jacobs. Hilarious, and thought-provoking.

Listening To: Wait for it.... Instrumental Memories, Disc One. A Walk in the Black Forest. A Swingin' Safari! Stranger on the Shore! Classical Gas! Themes from Bonanza, James Bond, The Avengers, The Pick Pussycat, The Good, the Bad, and The Ugly! Exodus! The Shadows! Mancini! Acker Bilk! And yes - it's better than David Gray, by a factor of, oh, galaxies times 10 to the power of 23.

Word of the Day: Billboard. Loved the St. Matthews in the City billboard: grumpy Joseph lying next to unsatisfied Mary, with the headline: Poor Joseph. God is a hard act to follow.



More Rats:

He had questioned everything as a boy, and he questioned everything now.
Too much at times, thought the old man. Grampa Smith loved Arthur Tomlinson with a depth that made his old frame tremble, and he also admired him enormously. Arthur’s grown to be the man I had always hoped to be, and could never be, he thought. He has courage to burn, but I worry that I have fed him the milk of meekness, instead of the strong drink of faith. God will be my judge, he thought.
Aye, thought Arthur. And God will judge you well. The old man had been Arthur’s only real point of stability in his life. His parents, while dead and martyred, had been fickle and shaky with the direction they had attempted to give him. His memory of them wasn’t kind, and was not coloured by rose-tinted spectacles. He remembered his mother as being weak, and forever ill. He remembered his father as being a great noisy creature, full of bluster and drink, but with little substance. Still, he honoured their memory, for they had given him life.
A sudden bugle call interrupted their reverie. “Oh, not again,’ groaned the old man.
“Don’t be daft, Grampa. It’s Miss Jayne!”
The local constable had given up arresting her for breaching the peace years ago, as the-then judge had always only given her a stern talking to, sent her on her way, and then went to her back-room on every available Tuesday night for the regular poker school.
Jayne Francis hosted the town’s only all-night poker game, attended by the afore-mentioned judge, the doctor, Father O’Leary, and Whetu Ngamoki, from down at the pa. Occasionally a second table was set up, and Old Man Smith, the current constable, Mr Lee the Chinese greengrocer, and Ben Weatherby, George’s father, would play.
Jayne didn’t play, but was the referee: and her word was law.
Arthur had been a boy of sixteen when Jayne Francis had come to town, and he had been immediately entranced by her. She was the brightest creature the growing village had ever seen, and had scandalised the matrons of Northridge. Firstly, of course, she had bought the General Store out from under old man Turnbull. He'd been a cheating bastard, but he was their cheating bastard. She opened a line of credit for the Maori down at the pa, and it had been strictly honoured. She spoke the Maori’s language reasonably well, and could swear a blue streak in English, French, Dutch, Flemish, and German: countries she had visited often before washing ashore in New Zealand. Jayne Francis had never told anyone – mainly because it was none of their bloody business, thankyou very much – that she had been the child of a couple of wandering magicians, employed by a circus that travelled through Europe every year.
Jayne Francis had arrived in Northridge on the driver’s seat of a large wagon, drawn by three great Clydesdale mares, and a Shire stallion. All her worldly possessions had been in the wagon, including a bank’s letter of credit, to the value of slightly more than five thousand guineas: a respectable fortune.
She was a slight woman, with an animated face, and flashing blue eyes. Her red hair was untameable: every morning she yanked it back into a savage bun, and secured by a dozen interlocking pins that still managed to fall out over the course of the day. She had considered cutting it all off, and shaving her head as she imagined a nun would, but acknowledged that her hair may well have been her best feature. Her wide mouth, as suggested earlier, could spit a stream of venom that would stop a navvy in his tracks, but her intense intelligence also meant that unexpected ideas and opinions could bubble up. She wore a smile as often as a scowl, and her laughter could charm a Tui from the flax-bush.
She almost always wore trousers, bush shirt, a bandanna at her neck, and another tied around her wrist: scandalous clothing which had sent more than one sharp tongue to wagging, but when she attended the Christmas Ball with Old Man Smith in 1903, she had stopped proceedings. Her bright green satin dress was wide at the hem, supported by a dozen starch-stiffened petticoats. It pinched in at the waist, and was cut low to expose a glamorous cleavage, emphasized by a froth of lace. At her wrist was a fine red silk scarf, instead of the usual blue neckerchief. At her throat rested a string of creamy pearls, matched by simple pearl ear-rings. Grampa Smith’s smile was a brilliant as hers, and he later told her that if he hadn’t been a Godly Christian, ma’am, then he would have given the lot of them bloody bluenose bastards the fingers. She had laughed, grasped his old, lined face between her hands, and gave him a kiss he still remembered with regret.

Good taste

I have always considered my friends to have good taste. After all, it follows that if they've chosen me as a friend, then...

Yeah, well. Anyway - a friend recommended I listen to a certain musician. This person's CDs never fail to please, I was told. Interesting lyrics, beautul and strong melodies, a whole new way of music is upon us, she said.

So, I got a David Gray album out of the library. And i played it. No, that's not quite true. I played the first four tracks. I think I can be said to have given it a decent shot. I will never listen to another David Gray song again. Ever. So now I know that at least one of my friends has a small lapse in her tastey things. Actually, that doesn't read all that well, but I think you'll know what I mean. After all, you're a friend... which means you have perfect taste. Well - almost perfect taste.

In my job I get to read a lot of bumper stickers. Some are funny ha-ha, and then I see some that are funny-peculiar. Occasionally, i see one is just plain stoopid, like the one that swanned into view today: "I am not ashamed of Jesus. I am not ashamed of the Bible. I am not ashamed of God." it said. Well, I'm sorry, but yes you are. That sort of schoolboy sloganeering has its roots somewhere... If you're not ashamed, what are you? Deeply embarrassed? Cringeing just a wee bit? One thing you're not... is proud. If you were, you'd be telling the world. Wouldn't you? or is that an embarrassing question?

I see that the Cosmopolitan Club has just demonstrated what a bunch of back-country hicks they are. They invite an Indian Sikh gentleman to their club to honour him for his good works in the community - then refuse him entry because he's wearing his turban. Cosmopolitan yokels: it's a concept.

READING: John Connolly's latest. It's different. More on that later.

LISTENING TO: Not David Gray. No, I'm listening to another "Best Of" collection: this time it's the Rolling Stones... "Gimme Shelter"is bursting my eardrums right now. I've started listening to more RS these days that Beatles. And i just heard that John Lennon's been dead for 29 years. Crap.

TODAY'S WORD: Dyscalculia... it's like dyslexia, only to do with numbers. Cool.



More Rats!


There had been no fellowship of Friends at Northridge, but the old man enjoyed his own council, and studied the Scriptures every day. And every day, when the young Arthur had come home from school, filled with questions about the day’s lesson, he had done his best to answer. God alone knew whether he had answered adequately, but he felt that he had always answered with sincerity, if not love. So it was up to God and Arthur now. Up to God and Arthur.
Arthur cleared his throat, and said, “Conscription’s soon to be a reality, you know. As a single man, I would be eligible.”
“That’s truth, boy. You would indeed. What can I say? I can’t advise you on this, Arthur.” The old man sucked at his pipe, and sighed. “I’m glad the decision’s not mine to make. I feel that I would turn my back on them. I did, when they went to South Africa on that fool’s errand. They’ve no right to order young men to go and kill other young men!’ The old man was growing angry, and his voice was shrill and cracked. Arthur reached up, and adjusted the oil lamp. Great hu-hu moths were beating at the thin insect screen, desperate for the flame. Joans of Arc, thought Arthur. Joans of Arc, eager to do battle in the flame of war. And in the end it was flame that ate her. How could a church that preached love do that to a fellow human? He shook his head, and thought again of Amy, as he did a dozen times a day.
Amy Copthorne, as the observant reader will have deduced, is Tim’s much older sister. She’s almost 25, and in danger of being left, as they say, on the shelf. Arthur wonders why he thinks of her so often, then wonders why he wonders. Arthur was nothing but truthful with himself. She’s not for him, anyway, he thought. She’s a Copthorne, he’s an orphan blacksmith.
Still, he loved her. He spoke to her at least once a week. She always seemed to be at Miss Jayne’s house when he went around there to do some chores. Arthur Tomlinson was now 28 years of age, directionless and rudderless. He owed a debt to Grampa Smith, but could never repay it. This talk of war repelled him, and perversely excited him at the same time. His beliefs, moulded as they had been by more than 20 years of debate with his foster-father, were unshakeable. He suffered every time he shot a wild beast, so he knew that he could never bring his gun to bear on a fellow human. Yet at the back of his mind Satan’s imp was whispering about glory and medals and returning with honour, and how he could ask Amy Copthorne…
He shook his head, and moved away from that train of thought. It’ll never happen, he thought to himself.
Arthur stood five feet nine inches tall, and his labour over the anvil had given him a solid, thick build. His shoulders were broad, his chest deep. He enjoyed spending a weekend in the thick bush that was still within an hour’s walk of the village – although the farmers were starting to beat it back. The bush was thick with game: the introduced deer roamed freely, and cleared paths for the hunter. His hands were heavily calloused, broad, and muscular. He could cradle a rifle’s weight and hold it rock-steady for minutes at a time. His chest nipped in to a slim waist, and his legs were almost too long for his body. He was a strong man, made for activity and action. The old man had scrimped to keep the boy in school until the age of sixteen, and the lad had responded well, his open face eagerly shining for the knowledge that the teachers had for him. He hadn’t been a model student, by any means. His continuing education with Grampa Smith had seen to that. The old man had encouraged the lad to question everything, to accept nothing at face value, but to recognise truth when he saw it. This had resulted in a number of thrashings, but they had been all well-earned. He had questioned everything as a boy, and he questioned everything now.

Sunday Scribbles XVII

The annual stuff-fest is underway. The time of year when you see and meet the best that's in people, and the worst that's in people. I despise Christmas. If it was a religious festival, I wouldn't mind so much. Hang on - it is a religious festival. Duh! The religion beinng the worship of stuff. How much crap is going to change hands this year? Billions of dollars will be spent. How much of that crap is actually going to be worth anything? 5%? 10%?

They say that it's for the children. Actually, it's for the retailers, and their businesses. This is the month many retail businesses do up to a half of their annual turnover. That's OK: there's nothing wrong with a person making a living. But let's not kid ourselves that Christmas has any other focus than that of acquiring stuff.



Leaping to God's defence. The news, a couple of days ago, that an atheist organisation was fund-raising to put some ads on a fewe buses was welcome. The ads are to say something like "God probably doesn't exist.. so stop worrying, and get out and have some fun". A fine sentiment. The reaction to the news was immediate, and predictable: god-botherers leaping to the defence of their omnipotent and all-knowing deity - as if he (yes, I'll stick with the masculine pronoun. It's how god is seen by his patrician creators. So I'll be polite.) actually needed defending. I would have thought that if he was almightily annoyed by atheists, he would have been getting in a few smitings by now. He didn't, so therefore he either doesn't need the defence of humans, or he doesn't care a rat's ass, or he doesn't exist.

If he does exist, he must be sorely disappointed by the level of argument that has been put up by his corner. The Bible says he exists, and the Bible was written by god, so therefore... That was a goody, and nearly convinced me. Right.

Actually, I feel the reactions (on Stuff.co.nz) from the god botherers demonstrated that god definitley doesn't exist. If he did, then he would have made sure his defenders at least knew how to spell and punctuate. It was obvious that most followers of god were, at best, semi-literate.

Probably. A lot were concerned by the use of the word "probably", and crowed mightily that atheists wouldn't just come out and say "God doesn't exist". Atheists should never come right out and say that, because such a statement is an act of faith, not of fact. It is almost impossible to prove a negative. And, as many atheists' non-belief is powered by a scientific point of view, they can't state categorically that there is no god, because it can't be proven. But a quiet stroll through the gardens of reason and clear thinking will demonstrate that god probaly doesn't exist. We can be 99.999% certain, but never 100% certain. Christians would rather be boiled in oil than have it proven that god doesn't exist.

The atheists were also castigated by their anti-christian statement. This, of course, is chauvinism, and subsequently utter tosh. The statement isn't anti-christian : it's anti-god. The whole judeo-christian-moslem god structure is built on sand. Any god will do: he just probably ain't there.

Listening to: Steppenwolf, "At Your Birthday Party". Great 1960s rock. Really great.

Reading: John Connolly, "The Gates". More on that later.

Word of the Day: Probably. A word that demonstrates the open-mindednessof scientists, the world's most valuable people. Give me a scientist over a theologist any time.



More Rats:

“Aye, Grampa. You did me a good deed that day.”
“But did I, boy? Did I?” the old man was earnest, and troubled. “Your parents weren’t of the Friends. They were good solid Methodists, God rest their souls. I was a friend of your Dad’s, but they didn’t really approve of me, with my Quaker ways.”
“I don’t know, old man. “ Arthur steadied himself for a moment. He looked down at his hands, still grimy from the day’s labour. He was confused, and stammered on. “You gave me a home, guidance, and love when I needed it. I am who I have become, and I’m happy with it. You taught me that killing is wrong, that to make war is stupid. As it happens, I have applied my mighty intellect against your arguments,” and he flashed a quick grin at the old man, “and I find no fault. No, sir. This morning was annoying because I brought shame to you, and for that I apologise.”
“No embarrassment, no apologies,” Grampa Smith’s voice was brisk. “Although you were a damn’ fool. You handed that blasted Weatherby exactly what he needed. But we’ll need to keep an eye on young Tim. Did you see how eager he seemed?”
The Old Man questioned himself severely every night, as he lay in his lonely bed. He cared for the boy deeply, and had treated him with great kindness. Arthur had wanted for little as he grew. He had schooled well. He was bright, inquisitive, his mind a diamond-bright darting minnow that ferreted after the truth. The old man had followed the Society of Friends’ teaching – as he understood and remembered them – since his childhood. There had been no fellowship of Friends at Northridge, but the old man enjoyed his own council, and studied the Scriptures every day.

Driving Tiger, Hidden Hydrant

A little while ago I was given further consideration to the subject of nobility, and started making a short list of people who acted - to my mind, anyway - nobly. Nobley? Tiger Woods was in my list. Now, however, it seems he's just been a knob. A knob who's been nobbled.

When the whole so-called Tigergate (sigh) scandal broke, I was vaguely surprised by how unsurprised I was. It was, I suppose, bound to happen. The Greeks had a word for it: hubris. The self-delusion if infallibility, and being certain of your invincibility.

When you spend more than a nanosecond on deep thought about Tiger's self-ordained dilemma, you have to acknowledge how inevitable it all was. Here's a good looking, really, really wealthy young man who is away from hearth and home for great stretches of time. And he fell to temptation. He wouldn't have had to expend any energy whatsover in finding a beautifully skinny woman whose first instinct is to get horizontal when a good looking, really, really rich young man swings into view. Especially if he's also (apparently) unattainable. He faced temptation, and lost. Take into account his name, and the fact that he is an alpha-male, one who is driven to have things his way...and you'll see that

he never stood a chance. Why we built him up to be the person we all wanted him to be rests in our consciences. He has enough problems of his own without having to carry the can for our expectations. There's some justification in the argument that this whole media bunfight tells us more about ourselves than it does about Tiger. Let's leave the poor bastard alone.



Blog to read: Ivyleagueinsecurities.com



LISTENING TO: Mark Knopfler, "Kill To Get Crimson". Track One is ridiculous: lachrymose, saccharin. The rest are OK.

READING: I made a start on the new Dan Brown book. Gave it a good shot: 16 of his 3 and 4 page chapters. It's crap. So I read a Doctor Who book, instead. Huge fun. I have the new John Connolly "kid's" book waiting for me. yum yum yum.

WORD OF THE DAY: Hubris.



More Rats:



every day Arthur saw the object of his heart’s yearning, he would gaze, and simply sigh.
Weatherby’s triumph was complete. “I signed the King’s commission, yesterday, coward.” He spit the word. “I am to be made Colonel, and I shall be going to peril against our King’s foe alongside the real men of this Province.”
Arthur bowed his head. So, he thought. This is the taste of defeat. He would never have thought that the blustering bully Weatherby would have found the pluck.
Arthur turned away, to the laughter of the crowd, and, blushing scarlet, picked up his hammer again. Grampa Smith had been working angrily at the bellows, and the horseshoe was cherry-red. Arthur lifted the hammer, and beat, and beat, and beat at the metal, cooling it with his tears of rage.
It was late in the evening, and the two men had eaten well of mutton, potatoes, and cabbage. At the back of the smithy was a ponga lean-to, and Grampa Smith had spent the past few years attracting a colony of glow-worms into it. The creatures flickered their love-messages to each other in the deepening night. The old man made a pot of tea, and sat a can of condensed milk beside the enamelled tin cups. Arthur punched a hole in the can with his pocket-knife, and dribbled a sweet spoonful into his cup, then poured the strong brew over it. He sighed, and took the mug in his hands. The heat poured through the metal, but Arthur’s thickly calloused fingers and palms protected him from being burn. All he felt was a pleasant warmth.
The old man, Grampa Smith, sat on the bench opposite him, took a breath, and growled “I’m sorry, lad.”
“Sorry?” Arthur was astonished. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for, Grampa. It was me who spoke out, and I’ll accept the consequences.”
There was a long companionable silence before the old man spoke again. “You’ve made me very proud, lad. You were, what? Five. Yes, five when I brought you in, when your folks died in the house-fire. Otherwise it would have been St James’ Orphanage, up in Hamilton for you.”
“Aye, Grampa. You did me a good deed that day.”

Sunday Scribbles XVI

I think I've actually started to crystallise what I was trying to say ther other day. It's really not the beoming As One with Australia that worries me. It's the way of doing it. The entire structure is founded on growth. My problem is this: hasn't the world foundered on growth? This insane desire for more tat, more bling, more plasma... it ain't healthy. I'm not an advocate of getting rid of technology. But I am concerned that corporations - international businesses that are predicated on growth - have more influence on what happens to the planet than do individual nations. And when their need for growth overcooks them, they come to the state witgh their hands out, crying out to be fed. And we've done so... because to not feed the maw of growth and consumerism is to see us fall back to the levels of the (say) 1970s. Or the Third World. Actually, the way we lived in the 1970s is how the Third World lives now, in many, many ways. Oddly, I didn't mind it then, and I wouldn't mind it now.

And don't think that this means I'm feeling my age and am indulging in dribbling nostalgia. I'm not. The '70s introduced disco to the world, for goodness' sake. But the Western world enjoyed good health care, good education, good transport.... and contained within it the seeeds of our current plight. The world's going to hell in a handbasket, and we're sending our politicians to Copenhagen to find a solution. Pewrhaps we need to look at the philosophy of growth. If we spent our defence money on educating, feeding, and caring for the world... we'd be a lot better off.

I've never said I wasn't naive.

Or stoopid.

Beautiful day here in Auckland today: I'm looking forward to breakfasting, and going for a long walk. And while I'm walking, I shall make sure that I won't be going into any shop that's larger than adairy. I so object to Sunday shopping. It contributes nothing to society, and takes parents away from their children.


READING: Still with John Birmingham. He's just killed offf another half-billion people. he sure doesn't think small. I've just picked up a copy of "Stalingrad" - am eagerly anticipating getting into that.

LISTENING TO: "Back Against The Wall", various artists. It's Pink Floyd's "The Wall" as done by others. Entertaining.

LAST MOVIE SEEN: On DVD, last night - "I'm Not There", the Bob Dylan Biopic, with a half dozen people - including Cate Blanchett, Richard Gere, and Christian Bale - all playing Mr Zimmerman. It is tremendously good. I will have to watch it again: it's complex, introguing, poetical, allegorical, epic, and brutally honest.

WORD OF THE DAY: Allegorical.


More Rats.


Weatherby hated Arthur Tomlinson. An unreasoning cold rage gripped him whenever he thought of the stocky blacksmith. Tomlinson’s effortless popularity stood in stark contrast to Weatherby’s own hard won – and hard bought - support, and Weatherby suspected that Arthur had the prize he had sought for himself.
Weatherby had been two years ahead of Arthur at the local school, and had been humiliated by the younger boy at almost every turn. Tomlinson’s natural skill and proficiency with a rifle had earned him the shooting medals three years in a row, and he had a natural athleticism denied the older boy. Arthur had made the first XV the same year as Weatherby, and had been a fearsome first-five eighth. In summer, he had played cricket on the village green, dressed in patched flannels, and out-bowled, out-fielded, and out-batted the impeccably turned out Weatherby. At every turn of the young Weatherby’s life, he’d been bested by this upstart. But this time he knew he had him exactly where he wanted him. Arthur, in his turn, had felt the edge of Weatherby’s tongue needling and taunting his all through his school years. He had fallen to his knees in thanks for the respite handed him when Weatherby left for Britain, and had hoped that the man’s return would bring with it an easing of the one-sided feud. It was not to be. Weatherby returned with, it seemed, an even greater dislike for the one man he saw as a rival, and he took every opportunity to belittle and provoke Arthur into an indiscretion. Weatherby hatred for Arthur Tomlinson was boundless, reasonless, and on this occasion he made it work for him.
“You dog, Weatherby!” Arthur stormed. “How can you talk of the glory of war, when it is nothing but a callous slaughter of innocents? If you are so brave, so courageous, why is it we don’t see you dressed in the King’s uniform, eh?”
Old Man Smith was a popular figure in Northridge. There wasn’t a man or woman who didn’t know him, and who hadn’t looked with approval on the job he’d done with the orphaned Arthur. Arthur was as well-liked: he had a kind word for pretty well everyone, and was patient with children – and very good with the horses. If Arthur had but known it, he had been setting the hearts of young women a-flutter for a good ten years now. Arthur’s inborn modesty, however, was a hindrance to him. He honestly believed that he would make no woman a good husband. Besides which, he was in love, and it was a love that was hopeless – so, he daily repaid Grampa Smith for all the kindness the old man had given him over the years, and every day Arthur saw the object of his heart’s yearning, he would gaze, and simply sigh.

Anniversaries

Men aren't, as a rule, good at remembering anniversaries and birthdays. Most of us struggle to remember what date Christmas is. I've forgotten anniversaries in the past, and the birthdays of various spouses. Actually, I've got Jenny's birthday down pat: the problem is I occasionally forget to do anything about it. Knowledge and actions - if they don't go hand in hand, then neither's worth squat.

Today is an anniversary for me, and I don't think I'll ever forget it. It was twelve months ago today that I was made redundant. December 3rd, 2008. I've actually forgotten the name of the guy who delivered the axe-blow that decapitated our wealth - Stephan something - but I retain my sense of betrayal. There you go. Not, of course, that TRN did anything wrong, or anything they should feel shame-faced about. Heaven forbid that such a thought should occur to you. No, they were all honourable men, acting in thoroughly honourable ways. And anyway, it wasn't personal. It was business, that's all.

So far it's cost Jenny and me around a quarter million dollars. But I guess I've learned something: a catastrophe like this needn't cost you everything. We've learned who our friends are (and we've been thrilled by their caring. And I've learned the value of a truly excellent marriage.

Almost worth it, really. No - it is worth it. There's nothing "almost" about it.

But I can't help thinking, every now and then, of chucking a rock through a TRN window, and following it up with something hot and flaming.



LISTENING TO: "I'm Not There". It's the soundtrack to the movie of the same name... all Dylan music (oddly enough, given the subject matter of the movie...), and all performed by other people. It's superb.

READING: Comic Book, "The Preacher". Very, very good. As good as "Transmetropolitan".

WORD OF HE DAY: Bastard. Stephan Wossname, that is. Blame the hatchet-man, that's me. Very mature.



More RATS:


Arthur’s voice drowned the politician’s, and Weatherby glared back across the square, and held back his smile. He could have cheered.

On the day that Arthur shot his first man, he also shot 18 rats. And every time he shot a rat with his RSMLE (his Rifle, Short, Magazine Lee-Enfield, model 1907) he thought of that humiliating moment. Everyone has a turning point in their life, and that moment, when he had seen Weatherby’s lips curl into a smile, had been Arthur’s. And he despised himself for it.

Tim Copthorne, bright and eager, had turned his head at Arthur’s call, and waved his arm. “Arthur! Ain’t it grand?”
“No, it’s not grand, you young fool. It’s madness, and that’s God’s honest truth.”
The crowd had turned their attention away from Weatherby, and he drew them back. He harrumphed, raising his voice again. “Is that the conchy Arthur Tomlinson I see over there, the coward who shows his true mettle by skulking behind his anvil of iron rather than stand in the recruitment line where New Zealand’s true heroes stand? Is that old Gerald Smith there, the same old coward who refused to help his nation when it needed skilled farriers and ostlers in the adventure against the bloody Boer? Take no note of them, young Copthorne. Here is where your destiny lies. Here is where you show yourself to be the man your father knows you to be!”
Arthur, anger misting his eyes, pulled a shirt over his shoulders, and strode out into the square. “You’ll take young Timothy over my dead body, Weatherby. He’s a lad, just a lad. He’s not yet seventeen, and you hope to lure him into war? You dog, Weatherby! For shame!”
“A pup of sixteen, is he, Tomlinson? And already twice the man you are. Conchy, ladies and gentlemen. Conscientious Objectors: another name for coward. Arthur Tomlinson, I would give you the white feather, if not for the fact that it would shame the chicken the feather was plucked from.”

Weatherby hated Arthur Tomlinson.