As the Green Star Rises, Lin Carter, 1975, p.49
"...ringed the glad where she lay were curiously dwarfed, rising to merely two or three times the height of a full-grown man. And what were these peculiar ruins that lay strewn about, half-buried under roots and bushes? Never had she heard of cities built of stone. In the treetop regions where her race customarily made its abode, deposits of stone were unknown. The cities of the Laonese ere made of crystals - a tough resilient material derived from the sap of the sky-tall trees among whose upper branches the cities of her race were built.
But as a priestess of the Inner Temple, as an Initiate of the Secret Mysteries, she was privy to certain antique lore preserved by the priestly scribes and archivists. Thus, she recognized certain of the stony glyphs as the work of a prehistoric race whose origins were shrouded in mysteries, as was their eventual doom; a race her people held in the highest degree of awe, and whom they know only as "the Ancient Ones."
She half-rose from her recumbent position to examine the enigmatic ruins more closely. Then it was that her wandering gaze fell upon the magnificent form the half-naked black Calidarian. He stood motionless as an eidolon of jet, watching her lissome movements with eyes of cold yet burning quicksilver - eye within which there blazed no spark of pity or humanity -eyes fierce with unholy hunger and with the pure frenzy of desire.
It was Ralidux! So she had not dreamt it all, but was still at the mercies of the mad immoral who had conceived a consuming passion for her loveliness!
She feel back on the cushion of the sward, half-faint at her discovery. As she did so, a mad lust flared up in the immobile features of the Skyman and he sprang upon her as wild beast springs upon his shrinking prey. "
"In the treetop regions where her race customarily made its abode, deposits of stone were unknown."
I'm not sure if you are aware, but Australia (where I call home) is a country rich in natural resources and our economy is benefiting is from a mining boom. There has been much talk and debate, particularly in the last few years, about the mining sector and their seemingly saviour-like status for the country and the economy. Australia did not suffer recession during the great financial crisis. Nor did it during the Asian financial crisis of '97. If you were to ask a person on the street why that is, in most instances that person will respond with 'mining', probably mention 'China' and will offer no further reasons or reasoning. It isn't that this answer is wrong - because it isn't, it's that it is grossly incomplete and borders on ignorant.
The application of Keynesian economic principles via stimulus spending is the most important reason. With the budget surplus left by the Howard Government, the Rudd Government was able to inject money, about three per cent of GDP, into the economy. The nine hundred dollar tax payer hand out was the most successful aspect in the stimulus program, in its overall mission to foster economic growth. It didn't hurt Prime Minister Rudd's opinion polls either. Overall, the stimulus program was not executed perfectly, some of he spending was excessive. But it worked; Australia did not go into recession and unemployment peaked at 5.8 %, the forecast being considerably higher. The Rudd Government was also quick to guarantee the six to seven hundred billion dollars of bank deposits in Aussie financial institutions, an unprecedented move that assuaged fears and safeguarded confidence in the banking. The existence of a superannuation program has also relieved pressure from the public purse, helping to build the aforementioned surplus.
Yes the mining sector has been, and will continue to be important to the Australian economy, but it is not an heroic saviour that has alone delivered us from economic purgatory.
"...rising to merely two or three times the height of a full-grown man."
Click here for a juvenile, yet very masculine quote from Braveheart. Not that this movie is an authority on that period of British history (the Battle of Stirling, for instance, actually took place on a bridge that collapsed and drowned a sizeable portion of the English army, that's why it is actually known as the Battle of Stirling Bridge), but I'd like to think that if prostitution is the world's oldest profession, then dick and fart jokes would have to be amongst the world's oldest sources of humour. The line just makes me want to knock back boilermakers and drive nails through planks of wood, of course whilst recounting stories of sexual conquest, most of which I would fabricate. Those whose origins lie in my experience I would obviously amplify and embellish in true boy-like manly fashion. Good times.
Saturday 17 December 2011
Thursday 1 December 2011
Fifth Entry: Popeye's surprising scholarly influence
The Riddle of the Frozen Flames, Mary & Thomas Hanshew, 1929, p.179
...have seen the two tough-looking sailormen who descended from the first-class compartment there and stepped on to the tiny platform among one or two others, he would never have dreamed of associating them with the Mr. Headland and his man Dollops who had such a short time ago left the Towers for London.
Which is just as well, as it happened, for it was with Borkins that Cleek and Dollops were most concerned. Upon the probability of their friendship with the butler hung the chance of their getting work. They had left Mr. Narkom to go up to London and keep his eyes open for any clues in the bank robberies case, and had promised to report to him as soon as possible, if there were anything to be gleaned at the factory. Mr. Narkom had expressed his doubts about it, had told Cleek that he really did not see how any human agency could possibly get Nigel Merriton off, with such appalling evidence to damn him. And what an electrical factory could have to do with it...!
"You forget the good Borkin's connection with the affair," returned Cleek, a trifle sharply, "..."and you forget another thing. And that is, that I have found the man who attempted my life, and mean eventually to come to grips with him. That is the only reason why I did not speak at the inquest this afternoon. I am going to bide my time, but I'll have the beggar in the end. If working for a time at an electrical factory is going to help on matters, then work there I'm going to, and Dollops with me...
"If there should be need of me, don't forget that I am Bil Jones, sailorman, once of Jamaica, now of the Factory, Saltfeelt. And stick to the code. A wire will fetch me. He hopped out upon the platform...
"...two tough looking sailormen..."
I initially struggled with this passage, nothing really prompting any thoughts. Just as I was beginning to despair, one of my childhood heroes barged into mind, saving this blog entry and plastering my face with a childish grin.
About a year ago I read that the common misconception about the strength imbuing properties of spinach is the result of a typo in some 1870s German report. Apparently the iron content of this vegetable was printed one spot too far to the right. Wikipedia disputes this, claiming it an urban myth. With whom do I place my naive trust, the at times hilarious Cracked.com, or the democratic aggregate knowledge centre, Wikipedia? In these times of confusion and crisis one can only find answers at the true source of all knowledge.
Just kidding.
On his enjoyable, amusing and informative program, QI (Quite Interesting), Fry asks his panel (usually consisting of comedians, clever people, actors and the like) which green vegetable has ten times more iron than average. Spinach is not the correct answer, its adamant and incorrect proposal celebrated with sirens and some small measure of embarrassment for the contestant that voiced the obvious and predictable. Here it is for you.
OK, so he doesn't actually mention the typo nor the report, our favourite sailor man isn't included at all. On re-examination of the Wikipedia spinach article, I have noticed that the author has substantiated his claim with a reference: a PDF from the Internet Journal of Criminology; 'Spinach, Iron and Popeye: Ironic lessons from biochemisty and history on the importance of healthy eating, healthy scepticism and adequate citation. ' Thirty-four pages detailing an articulated research response to our(my) question. It's actually a decent read. I now don't really care about the non/existence report now (which the author of this journal article concludes has not been found, but does not deny that it may have existed and may still materialize), being much more impressed with my forgotten hero Popeye and his capacity to prompt academic investigation and scholarly rumination.
I always thought it would be Optimus.
...have seen the two tough-looking sailormen who descended from the first-class compartment there and stepped on to the tiny platform among one or two others, he would never have dreamed of associating them with the Mr. Headland and his man Dollops who had such a short time ago left the Towers for London.
Which is just as well, as it happened, for it was with Borkins that Cleek and Dollops were most concerned. Upon the probability of their friendship with the butler hung the chance of their getting work. They had left Mr. Narkom to go up to London and keep his eyes open for any clues in the bank robberies case, and had promised to report to him as soon as possible, if there were anything to be gleaned at the factory. Mr. Narkom had expressed his doubts about it, had told Cleek that he really did not see how any human agency could possibly get Nigel Merriton off, with such appalling evidence to damn him. And what an electrical factory could have to do with it...!
"You forget the good Borkin's connection with the affair," returned Cleek, a trifle sharply, "..."and you forget another thing. And that is, that I have found the man who attempted my life, and mean eventually to come to grips with him. That is the only reason why I did not speak at the inquest this afternoon. I am going to bide my time, but I'll have the beggar in the end. If working for a time at an electrical factory is going to help on matters, then work there I'm going to, and Dollops with me...
"If there should be need of me, don't forget that I am Bil Jones, sailorman, once of Jamaica, now of the Factory, Saltfeelt. And stick to the code. A wire will fetch me. He hopped out upon the platform...
"...two tough looking sailormen..."
I initially struggled with this passage, nothing really prompting any thoughts. Just as I was beginning to despair, one of my childhood heroes barged into mind, saving this blog entry and plastering my face with a childish grin.
 |
| He's Popeye, the sailor man! |
 |
 |
| Stephen Fry, the greatest repository of information the world has ever known. |
OK, so he doesn't actually mention the typo nor the report, our favourite sailor man isn't included at all. On re-examination of the Wikipedia spinach article, I have noticed that the author has substantiated his claim with a reference: a PDF from the Internet Journal of Criminology; 'Spinach, Iron and Popeye: Ironic lessons from biochemisty and history on the importance of healthy eating, healthy scepticism and adequate citation. ' Thirty-four pages detailing an articulated research response to our(my) question. It's actually a decent read. I now don't really care about the non/existence report now (which the author of this journal article concludes has not been found, but does not deny that it may have existed and may still materialize), being much more impressed with my forgotten hero Popeye and his capacity to prompt academic investigation and scholarly rumination.
Thursday 17 November 2011
Fourth Entry: 'The Dark Flower' - A dismal display of attraction and a high priced middle finger
ments. Never did anyone try less to fascinate. He could not recall one single little thing that she had done to draw him to her. Was it, perhaps, her very passivity, her native pride that never offered or asked anything, a sort of soft stoicism in her fibre; that and some mysterious charm, as close and intimate as scent was to a flower?
He waited to open till he heard her footsteps just outside. She came in without a word, not even looking at him. And he, too, said not a word till he had closed the door, and made sure of her. Then they turned to each other. Her breast was heaving, a little, under her thick frock, but she was calmer than he, with that wonderful composure of pretty women in all the passages of love, as who sould say: This is my native air!
They stood and looked at each other, as if they could never have enough, till he said at last:
"I though I should die before this moment came. There isn't a minute that I don't long for you so terribly that I can hardly live."
"And do you think that I don't long for you?"
"Then come to me!"
She looked at him mournfully and shook her head.
Well, he had known that she would not. He had not earned her. What right had he to ask her to fly against the world, to brave everything, to have such faith in him - as yet? He had no heart to press his words, beginning then to understand the paralyzing truth that there was no long an re-
"...she was calmer than he, with that wonderful composure of pretty women in all the passages of love..."
I doubt it would surprise any reader that this passage, with its dramatic and passionate overtones, conjured memories of past romantic, intimate and physical liaisons. Don't worry, I'm not going to launch into any sort of tawdry boasting or claims of exaggerated prowess. I wasn't too sure of what I was going to write without having to tread down the ex-girlfriend path. On further reflection and repeated readings I began to identify with how a person can be momentarily robbed of their faculties simply by the presence of another.
A few years ago I was welcoming the arrival of the new year at a lock-in at a bar where we knew the staff and management. I had finished a long day and night of work, so I was pretty tired. Sitting with my boss and one of the bouncers from another bar, I noticed a girl walk in. She was simply beautiful. "Who's the brunette?" my question laced with awe and wonder. My boss got up and brought her over to our table, telling her exactly what I had just asked (to no one in particular I thought). She delicately sat herself adjacent to me, crossed her legs, placed both hands on one knee, looked me straight in the eye and genuinely smiled. "Hello Luke, how has your New Year's been?" I could only reply with some sort of guttural sound and incoherent stammering whilst my eyes sagged to the floor. Not a charming display. She probably assumed that I was drunk (it was four - five o clock in the morning), after a few moments she diverted her attention to a person from whom she could elicit words, articulate sentences and something tantamount to wit. My mature response was to quicken the pace of my drinking, the effects of which was intensified by a long split shift and a paucity of food, ultimately turning me into the drunken idiot she originally assumed I was.
"Never did anyone try less to fascinate."
I don't remember where, but a few years ago I read an article about extravagant displays of wealth in people's homes and offices. The line I remember most, and I am loosely paraphrasing, was that 'spending a great sum of money on a sculpture/piece of art and giving it maximum exposure (a landing/entry area) is a grand way of extending a giant middle finger to colleagues, competitors and associates' Does this belie a fulfilling existence? It would be easy to say no, but my life infrequently intersects with the lives of high-earning peoples, so I'm not really in a position to judge, let alone dictate how they should best spend their money. Acquiring and strategically placing a ludicrously expensive piece of art for the purpose of telling someone to go fuck themselves might to some be quite immature. I like the subtlety and lack thereof, but mostly, I applaud the effort.
Which one makes the greater impression on you?
Thursday 3 November 2011
Third Entry: 'Wet Magic', The Clash and a good kick in the arse
Wet Magic, Edith Nesbit, Kesinger Publishing 2004 - p.37
...impossible in these latitudes. Do you know anything about the rope they caught me with"
"No," said Bernard and Kathleen. But the others said, "it was a lariat."
"Ah." said the Mermaid, "my worst fears are confirmed - But who could have expected a lariat on these shores? But that must have been it. Now I know why, though I have been on the point of working the magic of the Great Storm at least five hundred times since my capture, some unseen influence has always held me back."
"You mean," said Bernard, "you feel that it wouldn't work, so you didn't try."
A rattling, ripping sound outside, beginning softly, waxed louder and louder so as almost to drown their voices. It was the drum, and it announced the beginning of the circus. The Spangled Child put his head in and said, "Hurry up or you'll miss my Infant Prodigious Act on the Horse with the Tambourines, " and took his head out again.
"Oh dear, " said Mavis, "and we haven't arranged a single thing about rescuing you.
"No more you have." said the Mermaid carelessly.
"Look here," said Frances, "you do want to be rescued, don't you?"
"Of course I do," replied the Mermaid impatiently, "no I know about the llama rope. But I can't walk even if they'd let me, and you couldn't carry me. Couldn't you come at dead of night with a chariot - I could lift myself into it with your aid - then you could drive swiftly hence, and driving into the sea I could drop from the chariot and escape while you swam ashore."
"I don't believe we could - any of it," said Bernard, "let alone swimming ashore with horses and chariots. Why, Pharaoh himself couldn't do that, you know." And even Mavis and Frances added helplessly. "I don't see how we're to get a chariot," and "Do think of some other way."
I shall await you." said the lady in the tank with perfect calmness, "at dead of night."
"...anything about the rope they caught me with?"
I like punk rock - not all of it, but much of. The Clash I am especially enamoured with, particularly for the way in which their music evolves over their decade-long existence. Their first and last songs, 'White Riot' and 'This Is England' really demonstrate the band's progression. Their early stuff is exactly what you'd expect from a late 1970s British punk band, the scratchy half shouted vocals combined with the drum beats and guitars evoking images of mo-hawks and safety pinned nostrils. Then something changes with their cover of 'Police and Thieves' and you know it from the first guitar strum; a foreign influence that is to be further applied in later offerings. I love charting the band's musical progression and listening the influences that underscores each song; politics, society, reggae, ska, you name it.
Incorporating different styles from the influences of burgeoning cultural groups in Britain, The Clash transcend punk rock and freed their music from the encumbrances of genre and the predestination of musical identity. Potent lyrics across their discography and a shifting musical experimentation explains their ongoing influence, but also why I enjoy blasting their songs and badly singing along.
"You feel that it wouldn't work, so you didn't try."
This is something that has definitely applied to me at various points in my life. There have been times when I wouldn't try something for fear that it wouldn't work, or that I would convince myself that to try was an exercise in futility. Doomed to fail, so what's the point? At many times, what I have needed is what's commonly known as 'a good kick in the arse'. I am fortunate today to have received two such kicks in my mid-twenties, without which I honestly don't know what I would be doing or where I would right now be.
The first kick was provided by one of my closest friends after dinner one night. About what we were conversing, I'm not sure, but her voice suddenly became a mix of exasperation and concern, taking a scathing edge; "When are you going to stop dicking around behind a bar and actually do something?" We discussed a return to university, but I was despondent; I knew myself too well, that I had no discipline and would fuck it up. Again. After further discussion and an assessment of my situation, I determined to apply, not only to university, but myself.
The second kick came a few months after the first and also involved a memorable moment. I had always been determined to spend some time working in the United Kingdom. I had spoke about it for a number of years and promised many British travellers that I had met and worked with, that I would see them soon. I was totally useless in fulfilling these promises. Again, no discipline. Another one of my closest friends was visiting from the U.K., having brought his girlfriend over as well. Whilst we were utterly inebriated and urinating he told me of his intent to propose and asked me to be his Best Man should she accept. After having restored my penis to my underwear, I told him that I would be honoured and we embraced in a manly fashion (let me clarify now that he too had confined his member to jeans and underwear). She accepted and I suddenly had to save for a trip to the motherland.
A year in the U.K., living in youth hostels and sleeping on couches. Time back-packing across England and Europe, meeting and working with great people (and a couple of arseholes along the way), drinking myself into oblivion (quite literally at one point), a winter with snow and ice, long train trips over foreign lands and even a couple of romances; that year was quite an experience.
These were formative moments from which I have learned and grown. I'm sure there will be times when I will be in need of additional 'kicks', and I can only hope that in the spirit of good friendship there will be those whom are will to take aim and swing their boot.
...impossible in these latitudes. Do you know anything about the rope they caught me with"
"No," said Bernard and Kathleen. But the others said, "it was a lariat."
"Ah." said the Mermaid, "my worst fears are confirmed - But who could have expected a lariat on these shores? But that must have been it. Now I know why, though I have been on the point of working the magic of the Great Storm at least five hundred times since my capture, some unseen influence has always held me back."
"You mean," said Bernard, "you feel that it wouldn't work, so you didn't try."
A rattling, ripping sound outside, beginning softly, waxed louder and louder so as almost to drown their voices. It was the drum, and it announced the beginning of the circus. The Spangled Child put his head in and said, "Hurry up or you'll miss my Infant Prodigious Act on the Horse with the Tambourines, " and took his head out again.
"Oh dear, " said Mavis, "and we haven't arranged a single thing about rescuing you.
"No more you have." said the Mermaid carelessly.
"Look here," said Frances, "you do want to be rescued, don't you?"
"Of course I do," replied the Mermaid impatiently, "no I know about the llama rope. But I can't walk even if they'd let me, and you couldn't carry me. Couldn't you come at dead of night with a chariot - I could lift myself into it with your aid - then you could drive swiftly hence, and driving into the sea I could drop from the chariot and escape while you swam ashore."
"I don't believe we could - any of it," said Bernard, "let alone swimming ashore with horses and chariots. Why, Pharaoh himself couldn't do that, you know." And even Mavis and Frances added helplessly. "I don't see how we're to get a chariot," and "Do think of some other way."
I shall await you." said the lady in the tank with perfect calmness, "at dead of night."
"...anything about the rope they caught me with?"
I like punk rock - not all of it, but much of. The Clash I am especially enamoured with, particularly for the way in which their music evolves over their decade-long existence. Their first and last songs, 'White Riot' and 'This Is England' really demonstrate the band's progression. Their early stuff is exactly what you'd expect from a late 1970s British punk band, the scratchy half shouted vocals combined with the drum beats and guitars evoking images of mo-hawks and safety pinned nostrils. Then something changes with their cover of 'Police and Thieves' and you know it from the first guitar strum; a foreign influence that is to be further applied in later offerings. I love charting the band's musical progression and listening the influences that underscores each song; politics, society, reggae, ska, you name it.
Incorporating different styles from the influences of burgeoning cultural groups in Britain, The Clash transcend punk rock and freed their music from the encumbrances of genre and the predestination of musical identity. Potent lyrics across their discography and a shifting musical experimentation explains their ongoing influence, but also why I enjoy blasting their songs and badly singing along.
"You feel that it wouldn't work, so you didn't try."
This is something that has definitely applied to me at various points in my life. There have been times when I wouldn't try something for fear that it wouldn't work, or that I would convince myself that to try was an exercise in futility. Doomed to fail, so what's the point? At many times, what I have needed is what's commonly known as 'a good kick in the arse'. I am fortunate today to have received two such kicks in my mid-twenties, without which I honestly don't know what I would be doing or where I would right now be.
The first kick was provided by one of my closest friends after dinner one night. About what we were conversing, I'm not sure, but her voice suddenly became a mix of exasperation and concern, taking a scathing edge; "When are you going to stop dicking around behind a bar and actually do something?" We discussed a return to university, but I was despondent; I knew myself too well, that I had no discipline and would fuck it up. Again. After further discussion and an assessment of my situation, I determined to apply, not only to university, but myself.
The second kick came a few months after the first and also involved a memorable moment. I had always been determined to spend some time working in the United Kingdom. I had spoke about it for a number of years and promised many British travellers that I had met and worked with, that I would see them soon. I was totally useless in fulfilling these promises. Again, no discipline. Another one of my closest friends was visiting from the U.K., having brought his girlfriend over as well. Whilst we were utterly inebriated and urinating he told me of his intent to propose and asked me to be his Best Man should she accept. After having restored my penis to my underwear, I told him that I would be honoured and we embraced in a manly fashion (let me clarify now that he too had confined his member to jeans and underwear). She accepted and I suddenly had to save for a trip to the motherland.
A year in the U.K., living in youth hostels and sleeping on couches. Time back-packing across England and Europe, meeting and working with great people (and a couple of arseholes along the way), drinking myself into oblivion (quite literally at one point), a winter with snow and ice, long train trips over foreign lands and even a couple of romances; that year was quite an experience.
These were formative moments from which I have learned and grown. I'm sure there will be times when I will be in need of additional 'kicks', and I can only hope that in the spirit of good friendship there will be those whom are will to take aim and swing their boot.
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