Now moving into my third winter with Sarah Vaughan (sorry, Syrrah, as she now prefers, although those of you reading from Australia may prefer "Shiraz"), I'm noticing a pattern. It starts early in October, as the days start to shorten: the sudden bursts of energy, tearing across the house like her tail is on fire. The wild eyes. The repeated leaps over my head at odd hours of the night. Then there's the scratching on door posts, walls and expensive, antique oak filing cabinets. By the time the New Year arrives, half the furniture is wrapped in paper while the door posts are protected with tape. I don't believe I'll get much of my deposit back when I move.
If I can just be clinical for a moment, I've started to speculate that SV may suffer from SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder). Despite the fact that her behaviour is more MAD (Mentally, Adversely Disturbed - I made that up). I mean, if people can get a biochemical imbalance because of the lack of light, why can't a cat?
Of course there's the argument that she doesn't get significantly more light in the summertime, being an indoor cat who's not allowed to be glimpsed in windows by passersby.
Still. Come summer, butter wouldn't melt in her angelic (if rotted out) mouth. She tiptoes like a cherub around the place, never even glancing at her forbidden scratching posts. She NEVER hides lampwork beads or tries to eat fruit-shaped Christmas ornaments. She wouldn't THINK of trying to tear down my handmade lace curtain or systematically rip the leaves of my already floundering fig tree, perched atop the brown wingback chair, watching one spiral to the ground before going after another one. It just wouldn't cross her mind. No, she'd rather sit on a cushion blissfully and think about what a good owner she has (at least that's what I assume consumes her thoughts - what else could it be?)
I will admit, it's not the most enviable life a cat could want, living here with me. In fact, since taking up residence here, SV has been like the Anne Frank of kitties, living in hiding from the pet Gestapo (building management, two doors down). She's not allowed to sit in the downstairs window, or poke her little nose outside. But it's for her own good, really. Of course, try explaining that to her when she's stampeding across the floor at 5:30 a.m. over my downstairs neighbour's bedroom. Do the words "provoked informant" mean nothing to her??
I do wish she could be an outdoors cat - and not just so I could boot her out when she starts getting daft. Or to save on the whole litter box mess. I wish she could go and catch birds and mice (nothing against birds and mice, but it's a cat's life). Frolic in the snow. Climb real trees instead of my filing cabinet. One year I brought a big pile of leaves into the living room for her to pounce on. My roommate at the time, a Korean, thought I was insane (although to be fair I think she thought that just anyway). Syrrah just loved it, even though I was the one who had to throw them around while she just watched.
Right now she's acting fine, curled up, sleeping, beside me - which leads me to believe she's connivingly plotting her next exploit. What will it be, I have to wonder? Shooting cutlery off the kitchen countertop again (bonus points for doing it from forbidden territory)? Tossing my neatly rolled pyramid of dish clothes to the far reaches of the kitchen? Perhaps shovelling all the litter out of the box one more time for a laugh - like I have nothing better to do than chase around in the wake of her calamity - Hurricane Sarah/Syrrah/Shiraz - demolition times three. The perfect storm.
So I'm thinking about a) some serious medication and 2) pet counseling now, to make it through the winter. Just not sure who's going to need more when it comes down to it - her or me.
Monday, November 29, 2004
Sunday, November 21, 2004
pressing 'play'
Things I wish I had recorded, over the course of my life, so I could hear them at the push of a button whenever I felt I needed to:
- My mum and grandma, singing me to sleep
- Tony telling the dream of the stick sister
- Chanel and me speaking Konglish
- Jenny laughing
- Dionne and me singing TV theme songs to London and back on Fine Arts tours
- Kirk working himself into a lather singing "Green, green Rover"
- Terry ("Rash Wanton") saying, "I'm staying out of this one" or "Quoi?"
- The drunk Korean and his mates singing outside my window at 2 a.m. one morning
- Avery, at 2 or 3, saying, "De ya, be ya be ya be ya," (translation: "See ya, wouldn't wanna be ya")
- Liam, around the same age, saying, "You're my boy, Aunty"
- Kyle saying pretty much anything.
Funny, I can still hear all these voices in my head, digitalized or recorded or however the brain captures such things and keeps them, but occasionally I'd like to hear them outside of my head. If not in person, then in some way recorded and played back, out loud and for real. Can a sound be tangible? Perhaps not, but it can be real.
The weird thing is that the sound bytes I want to replay most are not so much monumental. They aren't the landmark moments of friendship or life. They are friendship and life. They're the most off-hand slices of life - the times when we forgot ourselves and just lived.
What prompted this out-of-the-blue missive? Well, it's kinda silly, really. I was laying on my back after doing a few curl-ups, when Sarah Vaughan came round. So I picked her up and balanced her on my legs, and suddenly felt like I should sing to her, "Green, green Rover; green, green Rover; see Rover grow; see Rover grow; green, green Rover . . . " (long story, don't ask).
From there, it just hit me - I've had the privilege of having some weird, wonderful people in my life. I mean, really weird. And really wonderful. Sometimes both at the same time. And their eccentricities have added so much to my life, in the way of colour and texture, it would be nice to replay it every now and then. To remind myself. To relive these conversations, these wild adventures. To ensure they were real.
Still, I suppose, the memory is something.
- My mum and grandma, singing me to sleep
- Tony telling the dream of the stick sister
- Chanel and me speaking Konglish
- Jenny laughing
- Dionne and me singing TV theme songs to London and back on Fine Arts tours
- Kirk working himself into a lather singing "Green, green Rover"
- Terry ("Rash Wanton") saying, "I'm staying out of this one" or "Quoi?"
- The drunk Korean and his mates singing outside my window at 2 a.m. one morning
- Avery, at 2 or 3, saying, "De ya, be ya be ya be ya," (translation: "See ya, wouldn't wanna be ya")
- Liam, around the same age, saying, "You're my boy, Aunty"
- Kyle saying pretty much anything.
Funny, I can still hear all these voices in my head, digitalized or recorded or however the brain captures such things and keeps them, but occasionally I'd like to hear them outside of my head. If not in person, then in some way recorded and played back, out loud and for real. Can a sound be tangible? Perhaps not, but it can be real.
The weird thing is that the sound bytes I want to replay most are not so much monumental. They aren't the landmark moments of friendship or life. They are friendship and life. They're the most off-hand slices of life - the times when we forgot ourselves and just lived.
What prompted this out-of-the-blue missive? Well, it's kinda silly, really. I was laying on my back after doing a few curl-ups, when Sarah Vaughan came round. So I picked her up and balanced her on my legs, and suddenly felt like I should sing to her, "Green, green Rover; green, green Rover; see Rover grow; see Rover grow; green, green Rover . . . " (long story, don't ask).
From there, it just hit me - I've had the privilege of having some weird, wonderful people in my life. I mean, really weird. And really wonderful. Sometimes both at the same time. And their eccentricities have added so much to my life, in the way of colour and texture, it would be nice to replay it every now and then. To remind myself. To relive these conversations, these wild adventures. To ensure they were real.
Still, I suppose, the memory is something.
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
hello kitty never says 'goodbye'
A little known fact: Hello Kitty turned 30 this month. She's an old girl now (that's for a certain friend who also hit that landmark this month - should have given her a HK something). But she still looks great (Hello Kitty, I mean . . . okay, and said friend). It gives us all hope, as long as we totally overlook the fact that she's, well, a cartoon character. The cat, I mean, not my friend. But I digress.
Funny thing about Hello Kitty - I don't think she ever went away. I mean, not like the others - Care Bears, Rainbow Bright, Strawberry Shortcake, My Little Pony, Smurfs (say when) - who all disappeared somewhere with the '80s (possibly held hostage by a gang of rogue, shoulderpad wearing Cabbage Patch Kids?) and have now, inexplicably, started to make a comeback in all the stores. Which irritates me to no small degree. Come on, kids, get your own graphic icons, don't recycle mum and dad's.
Not Hello Kitty, though. She's been sitting sideways in her blue overalls on notebooks, pencils, pendants, t-shirts and purses, and tens of thousands of other Sanrio-branded items for three entire decades. That's more than Madonna, for crying out loud - and she hasn't had to reinvent herself even once.
So what is it about the sober white cat? I mean, yeah, she's cute, but so was Pikachu. And who remembers him?? She has no mouth - could that be a clue? Do we have a special soft spot for small animals without a means of verbal communication? Or food intake (anyone else ever wonder this)? Her expression - think deer in the headlights - is endearing to be sure, but it never, ever changes (hmm, kind of like Sarah Vaughan). Whatever it is, celebrities should take pause.
I didn't have very many HK accessories, myself. I went in for her friend more, My Melody (little rabbit with pink hood, also handicapped in the mouth department if I remember correctly). I had a My Melody colouring book (which my yokel cousins got their hands on and coloured WRONG - I still haven't gotten over that), My Melody stickers, My Melody notebooks, pencils, pencil box, the lot. Kelly was more for Hello Kitty. At the time I thought she (HK) was too mainstream - but in fact she's the one who picked up the quirky cult following - which, I hate to admit, I'm secretly a part of. Not like my friend A., who headed unabashedly to Hello Kitty World when she visited Japan two years ago, but there's definitely a soft spot.
Did I mention I've had three white cats? All of them had mouths, of course, and none sported a red bow by their ear - or the name Hello Kitty (there's always the future, though). To finish (I know, this has no point but it's been a fun little journey, hasn't it?), I just want to mention some other iconic felines, who may not have grossed the billions our big-headed kitten friend has, but still deserve some vague rememberance every now and then.
They are:
Puss 'n' Boots
Cat in the Hat
Cat Woman (yes, she counts)
The Cheshire Cat
Henrietta Meow Meow Pussy Cat
Garfield
Felix
Mouser (pronounced "mouzer," legendary in the Cornish town of Mousehole - pronounced, you guessed it, "Mouzel")
Cat (Breakfast at Tiffany's, aka "Poor Slob")
Cat (Red Dwarf)
The Black Cat
Morris
Puff
Okay, and since it's my blog and I can say what I want, I just want to give a quick mention to some other great cats that have shared my space:
Mr. Pink
P.J.
"The Kittens" (Kimba, Gizmo, Kissy-Fur, Tiny)
Daniel
Generic
Sarah (who's thinking of changing her spelling to Syrrah)
Kat
Well that about does it for me. Anyone important I forgot?
Next week: Remembering Triple Yan Yan
Funny thing about Hello Kitty - I don't think she ever went away. I mean, not like the others - Care Bears, Rainbow Bright, Strawberry Shortcake, My Little Pony, Smurfs (say when) - who all disappeared somewhere with the '80s (possibly held hostage by a gang of rogue, shoulderpad wearing Cabbage Patch Kids?) and have now, inexplicably, started to make a comeback in all the stores. Which irritates me to no small degree. Come on, kids, get your own graphic icons, don't recycle mum and dad's.
Not Hello Kitty, though. She's been sitting sideways in her blue overalls on notebooks, pencils, pendants, t-shirts and purses, and tens of thousands of other Sanrio-branded items for three entire decades. That's more than Madonna, for crying out loud - and she hasn't had to reinvent herself even once.
So what is it about the sober white cat? I mean, yeah, she's cute, but so was Pikachu. And who remembers him?? She has no mouth - could that be a clue? Do we have a special soft spot for small animals without a means of verbal communication? Or food intake (anyone else ever wonder this)? Her expression - think deer in the headlights - is endearing to be sure, but it never, ever changes (hmm, kind of like Sarah Vaughan). Whatever it is, celebrities should take pause.
I didn't have very many HK accessories, myself. I went in for her friend more, My Melody (little rabbit with pink hood, also handicapped in the mouth department if I remember correctly). I had a My Melody colouring book (which my yokel cousins got their hands on and coloured WRONG - I still haven't gotten over that), My Melody stickers, My Melody notebooks, pencils, pencil box, the lot. Kelly was more for Hello Kitty. At the time I thought she (HK) was too mainstream - but in fact she's the one who picked up the quirky cult following - which, I hate to admit, I'm secretly a part of. Not like my friend A., who headed unabashedly to Hello Kitty World when she visited Japan two years ago, but there's definitely a soft spot.
Did I mention I've had three white cats? All of them had mouths, of course, and none sported a red bow by their ear - or the name Hello Kitty (there's always the future, though). To finish (I know, this has no point but it's been a fun little journey, hasn't it?), I just want to mention some other iconic felines, who may not have grossed the billions our big-headed kitten friend has, but still deserve some vague rememberance every now and then.
They are:
Puss 'n' Boots
Cat in the Hat
Cat Woman (yes, she counts)
The Cheshire Cat
Henrietta Meow Meow Pussy Cat
Garfield
Felix
Mouser (pronounced "mouzer," legendary in the Cornish town of Mousehole - pronounced, you guessed it, "Mouzel")
Cat (Breakfast at Tiffany's, aka "Poor Slob")
Cat (Red Dwarf)
The Black Cat
Morris
Puff
Okay, and since it's my blog and I can say what I want, I just want to give a quick mention to some other great cats that have shared my space:
Mr. Pink
P.J.
"The Kittens" (Kimba, Gizmo, Kissy-Fur, Tiny)
Daniel
Generic
Sarah (who's thinking of changing her spelling to Syrrah)
Kat
Well that about does it for me. Anyone important I forgot?
Next week: Remembering Triple Yan Yan
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
it is a kind of madness
So I'm sitting in front of my computer, pouring over a story on these two award winning, young entrepreneurs, when suddenly something hits me in the head: "I must read Ulysses."
No, really, that's the thought that struck me, out of nowhere. "I must read Ulysses." As if I had nothing in the world better to do than stagger through one of the world's most ponderous tomes. As if I don't have enough mind-numbingly pedantic material sitting untouched from my lute teacher (Odo of Cluny anyone?). As if I never made it only half way through Portrait of the Artist before giving up in despair (okay, let's be honest, it was boredom). I still can't tell you what that one was about - there was a boy, he was in Ireland, I think he might have had a birthday, but that's all I could make out. That was about a dozen years ago, when my grand scheme was to work my way up through Joyce's works to the grand finale, Ulysses, the coup de maitre, via Portrait and Dubliners (they're not a trilogy, but your supposed to read them first). Now I just want to skip that crap and jump straight into it. I know, spoken like a true lit major, n'est pas?
The question of "why?!?!" obviously springs to mind. Quite frankly, I'd like to be able to toss around a quote or two. "Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls," perhaps, or "a policeman sweating Irish stew into his shirt; you couldn't squeeze a line of poetry out of him." Not that they translate to just ANY conversation. But I'd like to tell my lute teacher, next time he goes on a tangent, that "history is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake." Why not?
Also, with all this German exposure I've been getting recently - I've actually started telling people I am German (well, I am, completetly on my mum's side; I'm only Irish from my paternal grandfather, mixed with Scottish from my paternal grandmother) - it's time I start getting back in touch with my Irish roots, which have always defined me before. This should help (unless I drown in it, which would be counterproductive).
. . . Or I could just check out Ulysses for Dummies, at http://www.bway.net/~hunger/ulysses.html (yes, I've already started to research this - I must have more time than brains?). Either way, I simply must get a book - a sort of literary trophy, somewhat akin to a hunter's moose head over the fire place - a testimony to my fortitude, as the Washington Post put it.
May just go hunting for one next week. I will argue that owning one is half the battle, even though getting past the first page is really the triumph. But baby steps, baby steps. Will definately keep you posted.
No, really, that's the thought that struck me, out of nowhere. "I must read Ulysses." As if I had nothing in the world better to do than stagger through one of the world's most ponderous tomes. As if I don't have enough mind-numbingly pedantic material sitting untouched from my lute teacher (Odo of Cluny anyone?). As if I never made it only half way through Portrait of the Artist before giving up in despair (okay, let's be honest, it was boredom). I still can't tell you what that one was about - there was a boy, he was in Ireland, I think he might have had a birthday, but that's all I could make out. That was about a dozen years ago, when my grand scheme was to work my way up through Joyce's works to the grand finale, Ulysses, the coup de maitre, via Portrait and Dubliners (they're not a trilogy, but your supposed to read them first). Now I just want to skip that crap and jump straight into it. I know, spoken like a true lit major, n'est pas?
The question of "why?!?!" obviously springs to mind. Quite frankly, I'd like to be able to toss around a quote or two. "Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls," perhaps, or "a policeman sweating Irish stew into his shirt; you couldn't squeeze a line of poetry out of him." Not that they translate to just ANY conversation. But I'd like to tell my lute teacher, next time he goes on a tangent, that "history is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake." Why not?
Also, with all this German exposure I've been getting recently - I've actually started telling people I am German (well, I am, completetly on my mum's side; I'm only Irish from my paternal grandfather, mixed with Scottish from my paternal grandmother) - it's time I start getting back in touch with my Irish roots, which have always defined me before. This should help (unless I drown in it, which would be counterproductive).
. . . Or I could just check out Ulysses for Dummies, at http://www.bway.net/~hunger/ulysses.html (yes, I've already started to research this - I must have more time than brains?). Either way, I simply must get a book - a sort of literary trophy, somewhat akin to a hunter's moose head over the fire place - a testimony to my fortitude, as the Washington Post put it.
May just go hunting for one next week. I will argue that owning one is half the battle, even though getting past the first page is really the triumph. But baby steps, baby steps. Will definately keep you posted.
Sunday, November 14, 2004
the itsy-bitsy spider
I found a spider, the other day, prowling about on my kitchen countertop. I hate spiders. Despise them, in fact. So, I devised a way of removing the awful thing without killing it and getting spider guts all over the surface where I prepare my food.
My cunning plan was to place a jar, a Wide Mouth Mason, over it, immobilizing it in the hope that it would climb up the side so that I could put a lid over the jar and transport it into the great outdoors, where it belongs.
Immediately, it started running laps around the jar, totally oblivious to the fact that jars were made for climbing (were they not?). After waiting for fully half-a-minute, I got distracted by other things and forgot about it there. Until . . .
More than 24 hours later, I rediscovered said arachnid, sitting listlessly near the edge of the jar. Apparently, it had tired of running circles around the circumference of its prison and had resigned itself to certain death.
Always the humanitarian, I took it upon myself to free the wee beastie from its misery (and my house) and promptly found a piece of paper to slide under the jar and transport it out.
About the time I reached the veranda, the loathsome thing came back to life, obviously sensing its impending freedom, and tried to make a break for it. Out it slipped from beneath the mouth of the Mason and started to run, liberated, across the page toward my hand.
Horrified, I moved quickly to escape his hairy legs on my skin (not to mention a wicked set of fangs, I have no doubt, just itching with a 24-hour vendetta). I dropped the paper - - and then, in the confusion, the jar. Down went the paper with the spider, joie de vivre renewed. Down went the jar, on top of it, killing it instantly.
“Och. Isn’t it ironic?” I thought, and went inside.
My cunning plan was to place a jar, a Wide Mouth Mason, over it, immobilizing it in the hope that it would climb up the side so that I could put a lid over the jar and transport it into the great outdoors, where it belongs.
Immediately, it started running laps around the jar, totally oblivious to the fact that jars were made for climbing (were they not?). After waiting for fully half-a-minute, I got distracted by other things and forgot about it there. Until . . .
More than 24 hours later, I rediscovered said arachnid, sitting listlessly near the edge of the jar. Apparently, it had tired of running circles around the circumference of its prison and had resigned itself to certain death.
Always the humanitarian, I took it upon myself to free the wee beastie from its misery (and my house) and promptly found a piece of paper to slide under the jar and transport it out.
About the time I reached the veranda, the loathsome thing came back to life, obviously sensing its impending freedom, and tried to make a break for it. Out it slipped from beneath the mouth of the Mason and started to run, liberated, across the page toward my hand.
Horrified, I moved quickly to escape his hairy legs on my skin (not to mention a wicked set of fangs, I have no doubt, just itching with a 24-hour vendetta). I dropped the paper - - and then, in the confusion, the jar. Down went the paper with the spider, joie de vivre renewed. Down went the jar, on top of it, killing it instantly.
“Och. Isn’t it ironic?” I thought, and went inside.
Thursday, November 11, 2004
lest we forget
I'm going to be undiplomatically honest for a moment. It's 11 a.m. on Thursday, November 11 and I'm taking a moment of silence. To remember, of course. The problem is, my entire minute is being wasted trying to remember what I'm not supposed to forget . . . and I'm not exactly sure what that is.
I had no family in the war - any war, so I don't need to remember them. I mean, if that's what we're supposed to be thinking about. I wasn't alive myself, so I can't exactly mull about how horrible it was with bombs dropping all around.
I used to wonder, as a Pathfinder participating in the Remembrance Day Service at the Rutland Cenotaph, what the old veterans were thinking about during their minute of silence. Scenes of carnage? The feeling they got while blowing another human being to bits? The vision of their best friend going down beside them as they made the rush on Vimy Ridge? The expression on their mother's face when she learned their brother would not be coming home?
Now they, they have memories.
As for the rest of us, I'm actually kind of disappointed with our ability to remember. We make this big deal, wear the poppies, deliver the speeches, fly the flags at half mast, take the minute of silence, but then send the troops out once more to the breech, dear friends, once more. We forget the destruction, devastation and general unfairness of war and send out more people - fathers, brothers, sons, mothers, daughters, sisters, to be filled with lead or noxious gases or to torture their foreign counterparts in a country on the other side of the world.
These are, as John McCrae so eloquently put it, people who "lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved."
Remember? WWII: It was supposed to be the war to end all wars. But we forget - sporting our patriotic, red poppies, we forget the wrongness of it and we do it again and again. Korea. Vietnam. The Gulf. Bosnia. Afghanistan. Iraq. Have I forgotten any? Probably. Like everyone else, it seems, my memory is just not what it should be.
It's pointless to "remember" the war. Or wars. Our memory is selective and fails the moment another country pisses us off, or has something we need (or even just want). At least during the Second World War the point was to stop a madman. Now, the mad men buy their way into power and rule the world uncontested, attacking whoever they want whenever because they have their very own regiment of toy soldiers and "bang, bang, pow, isn't this fun?"
Now I remember what I wanted to remember: life is precious. Everybody's life is precious, and they count. There should be no pawns, no insignificants, forced to run up a cliff against gun fire knowing even before they start that few - and probably not them - will make it. And for what? So that some country will retain their freedom to go to war and kill more in the future, because they, themselves, forget.
I have another poem. One I discovered a couple of years ago in an old magazine. It's not famous and often quoted like Flanders Fields - which, while beautiful, finishes by rallying the troops and asking them to fight on. This one was written by a young (21-years-old), British soldier named Alec de Candole during the First World War. It's lovely, if whimsical, but holds its real power in the footnote at the end. Read:
When the Last Long Trek is Over
By Alec de Candole
When the last long trek is over,
And the last long trench filled in,
I'll take a boat to Dover,
Away from all the din;
I'll take a trip to Mendip,
I'll see the Wilshire downs,
And all my soul I'll then dip
In peace no trouble drowns.
Away from noise of battle,
Away from bombs and shells,
I'll lie where browse the cattle,
Or pluck the purple bells.
I'll lie among the heather,
And watch the distant plain,
Through all the summer weather,
Nor go to fight again.
Alec de Candole never took that trip to Mendip. Two days after he wrote the poem, on 4 September, 1918, he was killed in a bombing raid on Bonningues, during the Battle of Aubigny in Arras. And, no, he did not fight again.
I had no family in the war - any war, so I don't need to remember them. I mean, if that's what we're supposed to be thinking about. I wasn't alive myself, so I can't exactly mull about how horrible it was with bombs dropping all around.
I used to wonder, as a Pathfinder participating in the Remembrance Day Service at the Rutland Cenotaph, what the old veterans were thinking about during their minute of silence. Scenes of carnage? The feeling they got while blowing another human being to bits? The vision of their best friend going down beside them as they made the rush on Vimy Ridge? The expression on their mother's face when she learned their brother would not be coming home?
Now they, they have memories.
As for the rest of us, I'm actually kind of disappointed with our ability to remember. We make this big deal, wear the poppies, deliver the speeches, fly the flags at half mast, take the minute of silence, but then send the troops out once more to the breech, dear friends, once more. We forget the destruction, devastation and general unfairness of war and send out more people - fathers, brothers, sons, mothers, daughters, sisters, to be filled with lead or noxious gases or to torture their foreign counterparts in a country on the other side of the world.
These are, as John McCrae so eloquently put it, people who "lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved."
Remember? WWII: It was supposed to be the war to end all wars. But we forget - sporting our patriotic, red poppies, we forget the wrongness of it and we do it again and again. Korea. Vietnam. The Gulf. Bosnia. Afghanistan. Iraq. Have I forgotten any? Probably. Like everyone else, it seems, my memory is just not what it should be.
It's pointless to "remember" the war. Or wars. Our memory is selective and fails the moment another country pisses us off, or has something we need (or even just want). At least during the Second World War the point was to stop a madman. Now, the mad men buy their way into power and rule the world uncontested, attacking whoever they want whenever because they have their very own regiment of toy soldiers and "bang, bang, pow, isn't this fun?"
Now I remember what I wanted to remember: life is precious. Everybody's life is precious, and they count. There should be no pawns, no insignificants, forced to run up a cliff against gun fire knowing even before they start that few - and probably not them - will make it. And for what? So that some country will retain their freedom to go to war and kill more in the future, because they, themselves, forget.
I have another poem. One I discovered a couple of years ago in an old magazine. It's not famous and often quoted like Flanders Fields - which, while beautiful, finishes by rallying the troops and asking them to fight on. This one was written by a young (21-years-old), British soldier named Alec de Candole during the First World War. It's lovely, if whimsical, but holds its real power in the footnote at the end. Read:
When the Last Long Trek is Over
By Alec de Candole
When the last long trek is over,
And the last long trench filled in,
I'll take a boat to Dover,
Away from all the din;
I'll take a trip to Mendip,
I'll see the Wilshire downs,
And all my soul I'll then dip
In peace no trouble drowns.
Away from noise of battle,
Away from bombs and shells,
I'll lie where browse the cattle,
Or pluck the purple bells.
I'll lie among the heather,
And watch the distant plain,
Through all the summer weather,
Nor go to fight again.
Alec de Candole never took that trip to Mendip. Two days after he wrote the poem, on 4 September, 1918, he was killed in a bombing raid on Bonningues, during the Battle of Aubigny in Arras. And, no, he did not fight again.
Sunday, November 07, 2004
gun slinger
Inside each of us, a particle of redneck lurks. I got in touch with mine, today, at this pumpkin shoot in the back hills of East Kelowna.
My reason for going, in actual fact, was to shoot photos - not pumpkins or water balloons or small, animal-shaped pieces of metal. The pictures go with a story I'm doing on the 100th anniversary of the Hunting and Fishing Club (or whatever it's called) here in town.
The photo shoot turned out great - I got a fantastic cover shot of this total hottie pointing the barrel of a (forgot what kind of) gun straight at the lens. Don't know how well that will go over with the greater population of readers - if the paper even uses it (fingers crossed and double crossed) but it certainly has impact.
But the really impressive shots came after I put the camera away, and they set me up with a sexy little .22 (hmm, the model, who then became my coach, was also 22 - wonder if this is a theme?). I have to admit, it took some convincing - and not just because I'm anti-gun (after all, this is an appropriate place with all the safety measures in place, and no innocent animals were involved except a few from a metallic species). My last major experience with a firearm - about 8 years ago playing paintball - was a disaster. I couldn't hit the broadside of a barn (fortunately, neither could my noble opponent, who also happens to be my sister, so it's probably genetic).
But this - this was different. I had five shots. My target was a line of water-filled balloons. I pointed my viewfinder-thingy toward a yellow one in the middle and fired. Hoo-wa! But then I saw the bullet hit the hillside, metres and metres beyond. "See!?" I told everyone, including sexy model/coach, who was trying to convince me that girls are actually better with guns then boys. So I took aim again. Fire! And the yellow balloon in the centre of the line explodes!! And so did the expletive that shot out of my mouth in total redneck fashion. "Sorry," I explained, "I just can't believe I hit it!!" In the end, I missed two and hit five (he actually gave me seven shots). Them's pretty decent odds, I reckon. I felt like flying the Confederate flag on my way home. Or the Alberta flag. Yee-haw!
Anyway, it was more fun than I expected - especially hitting the mark. Upon revealing that to the president of the club, a very cool guy who's not, in fact a redneck (although he did wear a plaid jacket and camouflage hat and drove a red pick-up truck) he started teasing that I needed to find myself a good, redneck boyfriend who could take me shooting all the time. "Tempting," I told him, glancing back at model/coach. "But I'm actually into artists now."
Yeah, you can take the Rutland chick out of Rutland but you can't take the Rutland out of the Rutland chick . . .
My reason for going, in actual fact, was to shoot photos - not pumpkins or water balloons or small, animal-shaped pieces of metal. The pictures go with a story I'm doing on the 100th anniversary of the Hunting and Fishing Club (or whatever it's called) here in town.
The photo shoot turned out great - I got a fantastic cover shot of this total hottie pointing the barrel of a (forgot what kind of) gun straight at the lens. Don't know how well that will go over with the greater population of readers - if the paper even uses it (fingers crossed and double crossed) but it certainly has impact.
But the really impressive shots came after I put the camera away, and they set me up with a sexy little .22 (hmm, the model, who then became my coach, was also 22 - wonder if this is a theme?). I have to admit, it took some convincing - and not just because I'm anti-gun (after all, this is an appropriate place with all the safety measures in place, and no innocent animals were involved except a few from a metallic species). My last major experience with a firearm - about 8 years ago playing paintball - was a disaster. I couldn't hit the broadside of a barn (fortunately, neither could my noble opponent, who also happens to be my sister, so it's probably genetic).
But this - this was different. I had five shots. My target was a line of water-filled balloons. I pointed my viewfinder-thingy toward a yellow one in the middle and fired. Hoo-wa! But then I saw the bullet hit the hillside, metres and metres beyond. "See!?" I told everyone, including sexy model/coach, who was trying to convince me that girls are actually better with guns then boys. So I took aim again. Fire! And the yellow balloon in the centre of the line explodes!! And so did the expletive that shot out of my mouth in total redneck fashion. "Sorry," I explained, "I just can't believe I hit it!!" In the end, I missed two and hit five (he actually gave me seven shots). Them's pretty decent odds, I reckon. I felt like flying the Confederate flag on my way home. Or the Alberta flag. Yee-haw!
Anyway, it was more fun than I expected - especially hitting the mark. Upon revealing that to the president of the club, a very cool guy who's not, in fact a redneck (although he did wear a plaid jacket and camouflage hat and drove a red pick-up truck) he started teasing that I needed to find myself a good, redneck boyfriend who could take me shooting all the time. "Tempting," I told him, glancing back at model/coach. "But I'm actually into artists now."
Yeah, you can take the Rutland chick out of Rutland but you can't take the Rutland out of the Rutland chick . . .
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