Link to the Wharf Revue 2007
The Sydney Theatre Company puts on something called the Wharf Revue each year. In 2007 a federal election was looming when the production was staged. Listen, and die laughing. Of particular interest is the section by “Paul Keating”. Click on this link , ot copy and paste it to your web browser. It runs for an hour.
http://www.abc.net.au/cgi-bin/common/player_launch.pl?s=rn/summer&d=rn/summer/2007/audio&r=sts_09012008_2856.ram&w=sts_09012008_28M.asx&t=Monday%2009%20January%202008&p=1
Sunday, 13 January 2008
Coming, cricket or not!!
Winning the toss.
It’s always dangerous to make judgments about issues when not in possession of the full story, and it goes without saying that a story like the confrontation in Sydney, in January 2008, between the Indian and the Australian cricket teams, will be distorted by the much larger interests in the two countries. It would seem, therefore, that the wise thing to do would be to refrain from comment. But Australians in significant numbers seem to be doing exactly the opposite, and, astonishingly, in the land of the Cronulla riots, seem to overwhelmingly on the side of the Indian team. This would seem to be an gratifying revelation: we really can deal with a crisis in cricket in the spirit of…. well, cricket. I’d really like to leave it there and bask in self congratulations on behalf of the people of the land of the fair go. But something is nagging me about the whole thing. I’ve already acknowledged that I don’t have the full story, so here I go on the basis of the story as I do have it.
Firstly, is Ricky Ponting’s sense of what a press conference is, a bit self serving? An Indian journalist asks him a question that challenges his sense of what went on on the field, and Ponting retorts, If you are questioning my integrity you shouldn’t be standing here. Talk about dum’n’duma. I hope Cricket Australia tells him what press conferences are for before he has to do it again. If a journalist questions one’s integrity, denying their right to do so is not proof of one’s integrity. It is proof of one’s unsuitability for leadership. If someone’s question really is a slur on one’s character, a truthful answer is the necessary and sufficient response. Petulant obfuscation leaves the observer in no doubt about who’s on the right track – a point I will return to shortly.
Secondly, the Indian position seems to be twofold: there is no proof, other than the assertions of some members of the Australian team, that Harbhajan Singh actually called Andrew Symonds a monkey; and anyway, calling someone a monkey is not insulting from an Indian point of view.
On both counts they are being disingenuous.
On the issue of whether or not Singh used the word monkey, the question has been asked, How can the umpire take the word of Australian players and not that of Indian players? Oh dear! It’s Dum’n’duma at it again! You can get away with asking a question like that only if you know the accusation is false – in which case you don’t need to ask it. It is enough to deny the accusation and know that you are right. If others choose not to believe you, they’re the ones with the problem. Knowing and speaking the truth is the proof of dignity. If you know the accusation is not false, however, asking the above question means that you are indirectly accusing the other side of lying, knowing that to be false – in which case you condemn yourself by asking it. Rhetorical obfuscation (as in Ricky Ponting’s case) shows that one has something to hide. This, I contend, is also precisely what the Indians have done.
How can one be confidant – as distinct from know – that the spokesmen for the Indian position are in fact the ones who are lying? Simple: look for obfuscation in what else they have said.
There might well be a god in the Hindu pantheon who is a monkey; and India may well be among the many country in the world in which people affectionately call others, usually children, monkeys. These are two grounds on which the accusation of intending insult are disputed. This is obfuscation.
International cricket is played by sophisticated people capable of using the word monkey in a variety of ways, some of them endearing and others intended to be insulting. Furthermore, the spectators at international cricket are capable of the same distinctions, even though they’re not all as sophisticated as the people on the field. And players as well as spectators are capable of seriously gross miss-behaviour, no matter what country they come from. Thuggish behaviour on the sidelines or on the pitch is thuggish behaviour, regardless of where it happens. We’re all capable of it, as well as being capable of recognising it. But the Indians seem to be saying that people on the sidelined in India aping… well, apes, cannot be accused of intending to insult Symonds, any more than Singh could be accused of intending to insult the same player, had he called him a monkey. This is just plain stupid – obfuscation of the highest order. Had the Indians said no more than that their man did not use the offending word they would be right about it being their word against the word of the other team. And they would have the appearance of dignity, even if they were lying. But to say that no one ever intended to insult Symonds by word or deed is so patently absurd that it raises the question, Why did they feel the need for such denial? Answer: they are lying about the crowd’s intent because they know that they are lying about what Singh said and his intent. Have I proved my case? No. But I am very confidant. Would I have suspended Singh? No, because the Indians are right: there is no proof – well, there are no independent witnesses, anyway. But because of their petulant obfuscation, the whole world, with the possible exception of a billion people in one part of it, knows the truth.
Personally, I’m very happy that Australians are capable of kicking their sacred cow – the national cricket team – when it deserves it, and barracking for the other side when they deserve it. But please! Let’s be prepared to recognise the cow shit that is being flung around by the Indians for what it is. Sledging a cricketer by insulting him is one thing, but insulting the intelligence of the world? It is looking very much like India is “winning the toss”.
It’s always dangerous to make judgments about issues when not in possession of the full story, and it goes without saying that a story like the confrontation in Sydney, in January 2008, between the Indian and the Australian cricket teams, will be distorted by the much larger interests in the two countries. It would seem, therefore, that the wise thing to do would be to refrain from comment. But Australians in significant numbers seem to be doing exactly the opposite, and, astonishingly, in the land of the Cronulla riots, seem to overwhelmingly on the side of the Indian team. This would seem to be an gratifying revelation: we really can deal with a crisis in cricket in the spirit of…. well, cricket. I’d really like to leave it there and bask in self congratulations on behalf of the people of the land of the fair go. But something is nagging me about the whole thing. I’ve already acknowledged that I don’t have the full story, so here I go on the basis of the story as I do have it.
Firstly, is Ricky Ponting’s sense of what a press conference is, a bit self serving? An Indian journalist asks him a question that challenges his sense of what went on on the field, and Ponting retorts, If you are questioning my integrity you shouldn’t be standing here. Talk about dum’n’duma. I hope Cricket Australia tells him what press conferences are for before he has to do it again. If a journalist questions one’s integrity, denying their right to do so is not proof of one’s integrity. It is proof of one’s unsuitability for leadership. If someone’s question really is a slur on one’s character, a truthful answer is the necessary and sufficient response. Petulant obfuscation leaves the observer in no doubt about who’s on the right track – a point I will return to shortly.
Secondly, the Indian position seems to be twofold: there is no proof, other than the assertions of some members of the Australian team, that Harbhajan Singh actually called Andrew Symonds a monkey; and anyway, calling someone a monkey is not insulting from an Indian point of view.
On both counts they are being disingenuous.
On the issue of whether or not Singh used the word monkey, the question has been asked, How can the umpire take the word of Australian players and not that of Indian players? Oh dear! It’s Dum’n’duma at it again! You can get away with asking a question like that only if you know the accusation is false – in which case you don’t need to ask it. It is enough to deny the accusation and know that you are right. If others choose not to believe you, they’re the ones with the problem. Knowing and speaking the truth is the proof of dignity. If you know the accusation is not false, however, asking the above question means that you are indirectly accusing the other side of lying, knowing that to be false – in which case you condemn yourself by asking it. Rhetorical obfuscation (as in Ricky Ponting’s case) shows that one has something to hide. This, I contend, is also precisely what the Indians have done.
How can one be confidant – as distinct from know – that the spokesmen for the Indian position are in fact the ones who are lying? Simple: look for obfuscation in what else they have said.
There might well be a god in the Hindu pantheon who is a monkey; and India may well be among the many country in the world in which people affectionately call others, usually children, monkeys. These are two grounds on which the accusation of intending insult are disputed. This is obfuscation.
International cricket is played by sophisticated people capable of using the word monkey in a variety of ways, some of them endearing and others intended to be insulting. Furthermore, the spectators at international cricket are capable of the same distinctions, even though they’re not all as sophisticated as the people on the field. And players as well as spectators are capable of seriously gross miss-behaviour, no matter what country they come from. Thuggish behaviour on the sidelines or on the pitch is thuggish behaviour, regardless of where it happens. We’re all capable of it, as well as being capable of recognising it. But the Indians seem to be saying that people on the sidelined in India aping… well, apes, cannot be accused of intending to insult Symonds, any more than Singh could be accused of intending to insult the same player, had he called him a monkey. This is just plain stupid – obfuscation of the highest order. Had the Indians said no more than that their man did not use the offending word they would be right about it being their word against the word of the other team. And they would have the appearance of dignity, even if they were lying. But to say that no one ever intended to insult Symonds by word or deed is so patently absurd that it raises the question, Why did they feel the need for such denial? Answer: they are lying about the crowd’s intent because they know that they are lying about what Singh said and his intent. Have I proved my case? No. But I am very confidant. Would I have suspended Singh? No, because the Indians are right: there is no proof – well, there are no independent witnesses, anyway. But because of their petulant obfuscation, the whole world, with the possible exception of a billion people in one part of it, knows the truth.
Personally, I’m very happy that Australians are capable of kicking their sacred cow – the national cricket team – when it deserves it, and barracking for the other side when they deserve it. But please! Let’s be prepared to recognise the cow shit that is being flung around by the Indians for what it is. Sledging a cricketer by insulting him is one thing, but insulting the intelligence of the world? It is looking very much like India is “winning the toss”.
Sunday, 6 January 2008
Driving with children
On I Spy, Buzz and Prime Numbers
One of John’s nieces with her husband and three kids – eldest starting high school in 2008 – stayed with us for four days from Boxing day. A good time was had by all, going fishing, making things out of clay, eating, more eating, and finding – perhaps making – room for even more food. We did a bit of driving – a trip to Nimbin; another to the Cold Roast (Gold Coast for those no up on your Strine) with the kids swapping cars as we went. The favourite game was I Spy With My Little Eye.
It occurred me after a while that it’s a game that adults would benefit from – and about which someone could almost certainly write a thesis. I won’t go into too much detail here, but how often have you heard jaded grown ups complain about the boring car trip they had just done? That would be because they didn’t pay attention, wanting to be somewhere else, perhaps – the destination rather than the journey. Imagine the most featureless scene you have ever… well, seen… There’s always more there than immediately “meets the eye”. Actually, if something’s there, it meets the eye, given 20/20 vision, but it may not get your attention. So I Spy played in what would normally be thought of as a boring and unstimulating place will generate attention to details not normally noticed. It may even give rise to the need to name phenomena previously unknown to one or more of the players. The special challenge when driving is that one has to choose categories of objects that can be seen, while moving, for at least as long as it takes players to answer correctly or give in. The kids did this without even being aware of it – until, that is, one of them nominated something that was not observable once we had gone past it, and one of the others articulated the rule that had been implicit until that point. If I were to say to you that everything we do/know is theory-laden your eyes would probably glaze over. But I just gave you an example of what I would be talking about, were I talking about it – which I am. The kids recognised that the rules that applied in static situations would not work in dynamic situations and adopted a new set of behaviours to deal with the changed situation; and only when it became necessary, clarified the way the rules had changed. Now imagine trying to explain that to them. It can be done, but not while they’re playing the game.
Now imagine a society in which I Spy With My Little Eye is not just a game but the sacred ritual that mediates their sense of who they are, and must be played five times a day at precise times. This society existed long before there were trains cars and aeroplanes, and developed their ritual in a world that was virtually static; and concealed the fact that they developed the ritual by telling themselves – and coming to believe – that the ritual was written on a stone tablet that was lowered from heaven on a golden rope. In time their neighbours begin to travel in trains, cars and aeroplanes. But because an object cannot be seen once they have passed it, they find they cannot perform their ritual. Well, they can if they travel in cars, because they can stop while they do their thing. But trains and planes won’t stop for them, and anyway, what’s there to see at 30,000 metres, and when the train, plane and even the car takes them beyond the landscape they know to landscapes they have never seen before, and therefore cannot name, how could they play their game? What would they do? Refuse to travel in trains and planes to far away places, and travel by car only within the landscape they know? Or change the ritual? Maybe even abandon ritual altogether for want of the theory that ritual is context dependent – indeed condemning as “Modernism” such a theory when it arose. See what I mean about the potential for a thesis. And all because I overheard kids playing a game.
At the risk of frightening you to death, I want to tell you about another game that I don’t think they understood at all. It is called Buzz. One person says a number – it can be either odd or even. The other person says Buzz. The first person says another number, but if the first number was odd, the second has to be odd. If it is not, the other person has a turn. On this set of rules, the result is that someone who knows the difference between odd and even numbers and can count to 100 gets to say every odd or even number between 0 and 100 and stays in for the whole time. Boring. No one played by that set of rules for long. Which set me thinking. They must have misunderstood the rules. It would be so simple to modify them. Succeeding numbers had to be the opposite of the numbers that preceded them, for example. I say an odd number, my partner says buzz, and I must then say an even number, otherwise it is my partner’s turn. But even that can’t have been the intent of the game. What could it be? I had an idea. Maybe it was a game about Prime Numbers. So I asked the Tatum, who had just finished grade one, how many twos in four. Two, she said. How many twos in two? One. OK, I thought, she knows about division. So I said, tell me a number that can be divided with nothing left over by itself or one. What? the problem was the word divided. She knew how to do it but not how to name it. And what about “with nothing left over”? Well, I said, how many threes in eight? More than two but not three. Yes, two with something left over. Oh, yeah. OK, now tell me an number that can be divided by itself or one with nothing left over. Long pause. They all can, she said. Another long pause as I pondered what had gone wrong. I was trying to steer her towards the concept of prime numbers and was facing the prospect of all numbers being prime numbers if I didn’t refine the rules of the game. Yes, I said. Now tell me a number that can be divided only by itself or one with nothing left over. Four, she said. No. there’s nothing left over when you divide four by one and by four. But how many twos in four? Two, she said. And nothing left over, I prompted. Oh yeah. What about five? Yes. Give me another one. Not six, she said. Why? Because there are three twos in six. Correct. Another. Seven. Yes, another. Not eight. Correct. Nine she said triumphantly. There’s four twos in nine with one left over. Ah, I said, but how many threes in nine? Three, she shot back. Oh! And nothing left over. Yes. Now do you see how it works? I want numbers that can only be divided by one or themselves with nothing left over. So now we have a new set of rules for the game Buzz. I say a number and you buzz me. My next number must be one that can only be divided by itself or one with nothing left over. Long pause. Say that again. OK but before I do, lets give the numbers we’re talking about a name. What will we call them? Long pause. I don’t know, don’t they already have a name? Well, yes, actually, they do. What is it then? They’re Prime Numbers. Can we play I Spy With My Little Eye Again? We never did get to play Buzz with prime numbers. Oh, and by the way, later on I thought that maybe there are various stages to the game. First you just get odd or even numbers sorted; then deal with both; and then with primes.
One of John’s nieces with her husband and three kids – eldest starting high school in 2008 – stayed with us for four days from Boxing day. A good time was had by all, going fishing, making things out of clay, eating, more eating, and finding – perhaps making – room for even more food. We did a bit of driving – a trip to Nimbin; another to the Cold Roast (Gold Coast for those no up on your Strine) with the kids swapping cars as we went. The favourite game was I Spy With My Little Eye.
It occurred me after a while that it’s a game that adults would benefit from – and about which someone could almost certainly write a thesis. I won’t go into too much detail here, but how often have you heard jaded grown ups complain about the boring car trip they had just done? That would be because they didn’t pay attention, wanting to be somewhere else, perhaps – the destination rather than the journey. Imagine the most featureless scene you have ever… well, seen… There’s always more there than immediately “meets the eye”. Actually, if something’s there, it meets the eye, given 20/20 vision, but it may not get your attention. So I Spy played in what would normally be thought of as a boring and unstimulating place will generate attention to details not normally noticed. It may even give rise to the need to name phenomena previously unknown to one or more of the players. The special challenge when driving is that one has to choose categories of objects that can be seen, while moving, for at least as long as it takes players to answer correctly or give in. The kids did this without even being aware of it – until, that is, one of them nominated something that was not observable once we had gone past it, and one of the others articulated the rule that had been implicit until that point. If I were to say to you that everything we do/know is theory-laden your eyes would probably glaze over. But I just gave you an example of what I would be talking about, were I talking about it – which I am. The kids recognised that the rules that applied in static situations would not work in dynamic situations and adopted a new set of behaviours to deal with the changed situation; and only when it became necessary, clarified the way the rules had changed. Now imagine trying to explain that to them. It can be done, but not while they’re playing the game.
Now imagine a society in which I Spy With My Little Eye is not just a game but the sacred ritual that mediates their sense of who they are, and must be played five times a day at precise times. This society existed long before there were trains cars and aeroplanes, and developed their ritual in a world that was virtually static; and concealed the fact that they developed the ritual by telling themselves – and coming to believe – that the ritual was written on a stone tablet that was lowered from heaven on a golden rope. In time their neighbours begin to travel in trains, cars and aeroplanes. But because an object cannot be seen once they have passed it, they find they cannot perform their ritual. Well, they can if they travel in cars, because they can stop while they do their thing. But trains and planes won’t stop for them, and anyway, what’s there to see at 30,000 metres, and when the train, plane and even the car takes them beyond the landscape they know to landscapes they have never seen before, and therefore cannot name, how could they play their game? What would they do? Refuse to travel in trains and planes to far away places, and travel by car only within the landscape they know? Or change the ritual? Maybe even abandon ritual altogether for want of the theory that ritual is context dependent – indeed condemning as “Modernism” such a theory when it arose. See what I mean about the potential for a thesis. And all because I overheard kids playing a game.
At the risk of frightening you to death, I want to tell you about another game that I don’t think they understood at all. It is called Buzz. One person says a number – it can be either odd or even. The other person says Buzz. The first person says another number, but if the first number was odd, the second has to be odd. If it is not, the other person has a turn. On this set of rules, the result is that someone who knows the difference between odd and even numbers and can count to 100 gets to say every odd or even number between 0 and 100 and stays in for the whole time. Boring. No one played by that set of rules for long. Which set me thinking. They must have misunderstood the rules. It would be so simple to modify them. Succeeding numbers had to be the opposite of the numbers that preceded them, for example. I say an odd number, my partner says buzz, and I must then say an even number, otherwise it is my partner’s turn. But even that can’t have been the intent of the game. What could it be? I had an idea. Maybe it was a game about Prime Numbers. So I asked the Tatum, who had just finished grade one, how many twos in four. Two, she said. How many twos in two? One. OK, I thought, she knows about division. So I said, tell me a number that can be divided with nothing left over by itself or one. What? the problem was the word divided. She knew how to do it but not how to name it. And what about “with nothing left over”? Well, I said, how many threes in eight? More than two but not three. Yes, two with something left over. Oh, yeah. OK, now tell me an number that can be divided by itself or one with nothing left over. Long pause. They all can, she said. Another long pause as I pondered what had gone wrong. I was trying to steer her towards the concept of prime numbers and was facing the prospect of all numbers being prime numbers if I didn’t refine the rules of the game. Yes, I said. Now tell me a number that can be divided only by itself or one with nothing left over. Four, she said. No. there’s nothing left over when you divide four by one and by four. But how many twos in four? Two, she said. And nothing left over, I prompted. Oh yeah. What about five? Yes. Give me another one. Not six, she said. Why? Because there are three twos in six. Correct. Another. Seven. Yes, another. Not eight. Correct. Nine she said triumphantly. There’s four twos in nine with one left over. Ah, I said, but how many threes in nine? Three, she shot back. Oh! And nothing left over. Yes. Now do you see how it works? I want numbers that can only be divided by one or themselves with nothing left over. So now we have a new set of rules for the game Buzz. I say a number and you buzz me. My next number must be one that can only be divided by itself or one with nothing left over. Long pause. Say that again. OK but before I do, lets give the numbers we’re talking about a name. What will we call them? Long pause. I don’t know, don’t they already have a name? Well, yes, actually, they do. What is it then? They’re Prime Numbers. Can we play I Spy With My Little Eye Again? We never did get to play Buzz with prime numbers. Oh, and by the way, later on I thought that maybe there are various stages to the game. First you just get odd or even numbers sorted; then deal with both; and then with primes.
2007 December Bulletin
Hello Y’all,
Anyone who is in my monthly email group please bear with me as I address an opening request to people who will receive this by snail mail.
Please, please, please. If you haven’t given me an email address, please seriously consider doing so. And if you think you have but did NOT get an electronic Christmas card from me this year, it means one of two things: you haven’t given me an email address; or it’s not current.
Of course, not everyone has the means of using email, so I will still stay in touch if you don’t give me an email address, but for those with the means, I really would prefer it didn’t have to be by snail mail.
You can give me your email address simply by emailing me at
paulvincentsmith@hotmail.com
You don’t have to write a letter: just put “Add my address to your contacts”, and it shall be so.
Furthermore, I have personal email addresses of 146 people in my list of contacts, of whom 44 have elected to be in my monthly bulletin group. If you would like to be on the list, please send an email with the words “Add my address to your monthly bulletin group”. I will NOT be overwrought if you do want to receive a monthly email from me. It would be nice to have an email address for you for occasional contacts – like Christmas, and maybe even birthdaze if I can get my act together and resurrect my birthday list. If you haven’t told my your birth date just…. you know… do it.
˜ ™
Some of you may already know that John has finished his Diploma in Ceramics and was selected to represent the North Coast Institute of TAFE at a state wide ceramics exhibition in Sydney in January. We were going to drive, but now we are flying, and will consequently be away from home for only three days instead of nearly two weeks. John has enrolled in the Advanced Diploma in Ceramics for 2008 and has been offered an exhibition at the Regional Gallery in Murwillumbah – normally he wouldn’t be able to get in until late 2009, but the gallery director was here on Sunday to see his work and offered to squeeze him in so that he can fulfil the requirements of his Adv. Dip. AND… BREAKING NEWS!! He’s just had an intriguing offer from Newcastle University. We don’t know what it means yet, but we’re hoping ……..well we don’t know what we’re hoping. We’re just hoping.
The choir I am in did its thing in November – a two hour programme, the major item of which was Vivaldi’s Gloria. Apologies to those who have already heard this: it went like a Harley – you know, better than a Triumph!!. I am now setting out on The Messiah. I’m also adapting about half of Leonard Bernstein’s Mass for solo work; and transliterating the 4th movement of Mahler’s 4th Symphony. My music teacher is very happy with my progress. I am also getting quite serious about sewing – mainly from a problem solving point of view; but having found out how much better hand made clothes are than shop bought ones, I am sneaking into the TAFE library photocopying parts of books on tailoring; and getting interested in geometric theorems and their application to drafting. I’m not talking fashion design, by the way. Think shorts, t shirts, trousers, long sleeved shirts, that sort of thing – although I have not forgotten the idea of ceremonial clothing that I mentioned to a few people some time ago. I’m also making soft toys with a view to making stuff for John to turn into porcelain fossils. See
http://www.flickr.com/photos/7899872@N08/
for pictures of his final year exhibition; and also the designs for a set of Stubby Coolers I have just made. You are invited to see innuendo in them. Consider the range of occasions when you might select on for a specific purpose. If you like I’ll design a set for you too. You can supply the pictures or consult my extensive collection. And while on the subject of Flickr, I’m still waiting on courageous individuals to email photos of themselves to caricature. For those hearing about this for the first time click on Caricatures in the right hand column of my Flickr page to see my what I mean – and then send your picture for inclusion in the Hall of the Game. Maybe you’d like a set of stubby coolers with pictures of yourself/family/friends looking frighteningly fiendish.
I very bravely set out to write a blog around the middle of the year, and was going gangbusters for a while, but, as I was warned, I stopped rather suddenly because it was taking up too much time. I’m not sure that I will ever get back to it, but it is going to be a convenient place to post documents such as John’s Artist statement. I have posted it today, as well as the monthly bulletins from June to November. If you want to read John’s artist statement click on
http://twogreytoes.blogspot.com/
Finally, have you been watching the series Monarchy on TV? Last night it was about how the Stewarts (James I, Charles I, Charles II, James II) adopted a self serving ideology and tried to make Britain in their own image, resulting in Charles I losing his head. How strangely familiar that tale is – vaguely reminiscent of a certain politician who came to believe his own publicity that he thought he could remake a certain wide brown land in his own image, and ended up losing his seat!! Not that I’m gloating or anything. But, with apologies to those who have already heard this line, we must have all died and gone to Kevin.
Go Jollily!!
˜ ™
PS
Sox and Boof send their blessings.
See Flickr The Household for pictures of both of them and other family members who have joined the Communion of Saints.
PPS
After a couple of years of regular visits to a Urologist, I finally have a combination of medications that works. If you didn’t know I had been going to a specialist, you have missed all the drama. But don’t worry, I’m sure that at my age, there’ll be more. Life really IS short. I can remember so vividly that brief period of my life when mortality seemed like something that other people had to think about. And I look at bright young things now and relate as never before to poems like To his coy mistress (Type the following into Google if you are not familiar with the poem – or simply click on this link if you are reading this in an email Andrew Marvell: To his Coy Mistress. "Had we but world enough and ... )
Anyone who is in my monthly email group please bear with me as I address an opening request to people who will receive this by snail mail.
Please, please, please. If you haven’t given me an email address, please seriously consider doing so. And if you think you have but did NOT get an electronic Christmas card from me this year, it means one of two things: you haven’t given me an email address; or it’s not current.
Of course, not everyone has the means of using email, so I will still stay in touch if you don’t give me an email address, but for those with the means, I really would prefer it didn’t have to be by snail mail.
You can give me your email address simply by emailing me at
paulvincentsmith@hotmail.com
You don’t have to write a letter: just put “Add my address to your contacts”, and it shall be so.
Furthermore, I have personal email addresses of 146 people in my list of contacts, of whom 44 have elected to be in my monthly bulletin group. If you would like to be on the list, please send an email with the words “Add my address to your monthly bulletin group”. I will NOT be overwrought if you do want to receive a monthly email from me. It would be nice to have an email address for you for occasional contacts – like Christmas, and maybe even birthdaze if I can get my act together and resurrect my birthday list. If you haven’t told my your birth date just…. you know… do it.
˜ ™
Some of you may already know that John has finished his Diploma in Ceramics and was selected to represent the North Coast Institute of TAFE at a state wide ceramics exhibition in Sydney in January. We were going to drive, but now we are flying, and will consequently be away from home for only three days instead of nearly two weeks. John has enrolled in the Advanced Diploma in Ceramics for 2008 and has been offered an exhibition at the Regional Gallery in Murwillumbah – normally he wouldn’t be able to get in until late 2009, but the gallery director was here on Sunday to see his work and offered to squeeze him in so that he can fulfil the requirements of his Adv. Dip. AND… BREAKING NEWS!! He’s just had an intriguing offer from Newcastle University. We don’t know what it means yet, but we’re hoping ……..well we don’t know what we’re hoping. We’re just hoping.
The choir I am in did its thing in November – a two hour programme, the major item of which was Vivaldi’s Gloria. Apologies to those who have already heard this: it went like a Harley – you know, better than a Triumph!!. I am now setting out on The Messiah. I’m also adapting about half of Leonard Bernstein’s Mass for solo work; and transliterating the 4th movement of Mahler’s 4th Symphony. My music teacher is very happy with my progress. I am also getting quite serious about sewing – mainly from a problem solving point of view; but having found out how much better hand made clothes are than shop bought ones, I am sneaking into the TAFE library photocopying parts of books on tailoring; and getting interested in geometric theorems and their application to drafting. I’m not talking fashion design, by the way. Think shorts, t shirts, trousers, long sleeved shirts, that sort of thing – although I have not forgotten the idea of ceremonial clothing that I mentioned to a few people some time ago. I’m also making soft toys with a view to making stuff for John to turn into porcelain fossils. See
http://www.flickr.com/photos/7899872@N08/
for pictures of his final year exhibition; and also the designs for a set of Stubby Coolers I have just made. You are invited to see innuendo in them. Consider the range of occasions when you might select on for a specific purpose. If you like I’ll design a set for you too. You can supply the pictures or consult my extensive collection. And while on the subject of Flickr, I’m still waiting on courageous individuals to email photos of themselves to caricature. For those hearing about this for the first time click on Caricatures in the right hand column of my Flickr page to see my what I mean – and then send your picture for inclusion in the Hall of the Game. Maybe you’d like a set of stubby coolers with pictures of yourself/family/friends looking frighteningly fiendish.
I very bravely set out to write a blog around the middle of the year, and was going gangbusters for a while, but, as I was warned, I stopped rather suddenly because it was taking up too much time. I’m not sure that I will ever get back to it, but it is going to be a convenient place to post documents such as John’s Artist statement. I have posted it today, as well as the monthly bulletins from June to November. If you want to read John’s artist statement click on
http://twogreytoes.blogspot.com/
Finally, have you been watching the series Monarchy on TV? Last night it was about how the Stewarts (James I, Charles I, Charles II, James II) adopted a self serving ideology and tried to make Britain in their own image, resulting in Charles I losing his head. How strangely familiar that tale is – vaguely reminiscent of a certain politician who came to believe his own publicity that he thought he could remake a certain wide brown land in his own image, and ended up losing his seat!! Not that I’m gloating or anything. But, with apologies to those who have already heard this line, we must have all died and gone to Kevin.
Go Jollily!!
˜ ™
PS
Sox and Boof send their blessings.
See Flickr The Household for pictures of both of them and other family members who have joined the Communion of Saints.
PPS
After a couple of years of regular visits to a Urologist, I finally have a combination of medications that works. If you didn’t know I had been going to a specialist, you have missed all the drama. But don’t worry, I’m sure that at my age, there’ll be more. Life really IS short. I can remember so vividly that brief period of my life when mortality seemed like something that other people had to think about. And I look at bright young things now and relate as never before to poems like To his coy mistress (Type the following into Google if you are not familiar with the poem – or simply click on this link if you are reading this in an email Andrew Marvell: To his Coy Mistress. "Had we but world enough and ... )
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)