Day: January 5, 2017

Hello Mary Dirac-Brown, he responded instantly

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Mary was going out for a meal with some former colleagues who had taught under functioning analysis and triquacking theory.She stood in her bedroom, surrounded by piles of clothes, wondering how hot the restaurant might be and how cold and frosty the air in the road by the bus stop.
I think I’ll phone Pete she told herself.
Pete answered on the first ring.After so many years, she still recognised his semi- South African accent and pleasing voice
Hello,it’s Mary Dirac-Brown hers, she said shyly.
Hello Mary Dirac-Brown, he responded instantly
Why, he sounds like the Amazon website, she thought to herself.That figures!
Hello Pete, I was wondering if you could give me a lift to the restaurant tonight
You don’t need a lift, it’s on the ground floor, he informed her quietly and sensitively
I mean in your car.I can’t drive now.
Why not?
Actually, I never took the Test because I always drove very fast
Why didn’t you use the brakes? he teased her.I reckon you might have passed.
I stopped the car and vowed never to drive again but now it is a problem with Stan  dead etc
Well, what time do you suggest? Shall I come earlier?
Why does he say that ,she pondered
No, it will take ages to put  all my clothes away.I can’t make up my mind what to wear.
Why not just copy Hilary Clinton?
I must not buy any more clothes.Shall I dress smartly? Or smart casual or unsmart?
I know, said Pete.Shut your eyes and pick up 3 things off the bed and then wear those.
Mary closed her eyes.When she opened them she had a pair of Arran legwarmers, a green silk shirt and a black pleated silk skirt.
I suppose if I wear my new long camel coat, the leg warmers will be hidden, she whispered.She took a bottle of dandruff shampoo and washed her light gold locks and then waxed her bikini line by mistake.
My goodness,  why and how did I ever think of doing that, she pondered ruefully?And in the winter who wears a bikini?
Dressed in her pure silk outfit, the legwarmers hidden under thigh high red leather boots, she created a buzz in the restaurant as she climbed in through the window followed by Pete in his yellow wool suit and green tie.
Why did you come in via the window, asked Tom McDonne, the former head of  her maths department.
We didn’t see any doors, she cried gaily.And Mossad wants more women agents so I thought MI5 might like to see me.
Who is this Mossad, Tom asked?
It’s the Israeli intelligence service.You must have heard of them.
But they don’t want old people! Tom told her ignorantly
That’s why we came through the window, so if any spies are here they will see how agile I am still.And I still know what uncountable infinity is.Aleph, aleph.
Tom led them to a  long table.
Wow, it’s a log table Mary screamed.I’ve not seen one for years.
Well, with computers and such like we don’t really need them anymore, Tom revealed.
Are they real logs, she queried.
No, they are vinyl, the waiter admitted furtively.Easier to wash
Mother never washed my log tables, Mary told the men impudently.
Let’s order some food, Tom said, as they all sat down
I fancy the Polish Hussar Roast,  he admitted.
What has a Polish Hussar ever done to you, Mary asked?
Nothing yet but I live in hope
And so do all of us.

To be continued

Vintage internet slang

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Wired Style: A Linguist Explains Vintage Internet Slang

I was captivated by this idea that there wasn’t just one correct language or style out there, as I’d learned in school, but that different authorities had their own subtle variations, and I could make a personal choice between them. I started exercising conscious nationalism in preferring the Canadian spellings of neighbour, centre, syrup, zed. When I learned that British practice was to put non-quoted periods and commas outside the quotation marks, just like you’d do with parentheses, I decided that I preferred its strict nesting logic and borrowed it too, despite the fact that I couldn’t justify it nationalistically. And of course, I introduced a rapid-drop policy for hyphens and superfluous capitals.

But the bigger change was in my attitude. It became clear to me that, as far as language evolution was concerned, my choice was between missing the boat and sticking around on a shore with an ever-dwindling band of curmudgeons, or riding the waves and getting to help steer.

Hence my use of singular they. Now, there does happen to be a plethora of historical evidence for it, but that’s not why I use it. I use it because I just like it. I like having a non-gendered option, because he or she and rewriting to avoid pronouns gets clunky, because I believe in respecting people’s gender identities. I use it to refer to a nonspecific or unknown person because it rolls trippingly off the tongue, and I use it to refer to a specific, known person because it doesn’t yet come completely naturally, but I like what it stands for so much that it’s worth pushing through and setting an example. Using singular they is a political decision, and I’ll fight you on it.

Ayn_Rand

The graphics of the branches look Chinese

The sun sinks but it burns like a  great fire;
All the sky’s aflame with  fierce intent;
Who thinks of death as weakness, is a liar
Before the end  our glory must be spent.

The  graphics of the branches look Chinese
As  blackened brush is drawn across red silk
Infinite yet countable  my days
Running like a river without silt

Thus I am not transcendent in myself
But joined to all that lives I feel I am.
So in conjunction we will find our health
Ambivalence contains both lion and lamb.

The fire of  orange leaves me with a glow
As into night I with all creatures go

Don’t waste your time on growing insincere.

A tin of plum tomatoes in my hand
I stand bemused and wonder what to blend.
An onion, bay leaf, pepper, salt and stock
Will make this beef upon our taste buds knock.

I once grew lavish bush tomatoes here.
I had forty-seven plants, the snails drank beer.
But now my garden’s filled with shrubs and trees
And rarely do I see a moth or bee.

The packaged plum tomatoes  statement’s  here:
Don’t waste your time on growing insincere.
But with a catalogue of fruit  and flowers
I sit and meditate for these quiet hours.

I feel the same about your photograph
I will weep when any man shall pass.

I cannot live without your heated blast

Oh, lidded kettle boil me water fast.
I cannot live without your heated blast
Your spout is small but perfect for its use.
And, as your lid is hinged, it can’t get lost
An electric kettle made by Russell Hobbs
A teapot with a spout and lid with knob
Are what the English need in times of storm
If crisis comes, we need tea hot, not warm
I don’t object to diverse kettle brands.
We had a coal fire once  with kettle stand.
Its  metal black from soot and burned by  coke
We made our neighbours tea which seemed to smoke.
Ah, kettle , instrument of  civil life,
We cannot boil our water on a knife.

Look at me and read me like a book.

I am a kettle made of stainless steel;
I am a saint, for tea  is brewed to heal
And, unlike kettles on an old  coal fire,
I am not dirty nor do I perspire.
My mirrored sides reflect you as you cook;
Look at me and read me like a book.
I’m  full of love and hotter than a man —
Oh, dear lady, love me while you can.
I am an honest kettle, I can’t lie,
Though, not infrequently, I wonder why.
I shall never punish you, my dear,
For perfect love like mine can hold no fear.
All I ask is  that you polish me,
For, in between your hands, I  yearn to be.

 

The value of poetry

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http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/what-is-the-value-of-poetry

clceditingApril 20, 2014 at 12:06 am
For me, I think poetry is truth. Poetry seems to be able to say things about being human that fiction just can’t. Maybe it’s because so much thought and feeling go into the words and finding the right words. Or maybe it’s because poetry is almost always personal, even if you’re writing as a character and not yourself

 

They kindly stole my voice, but it don’t show.

I lost my  own voice  sixty  years ago
My knees are aching  like the devil’s heart
Now the pain has come up from below

My hands are red and swollen, so it goes,
Around my body, hops from part to part
I lost my  own voice  sixty years  ago

Oh, dear heart, it only goes to show
The existential piss of Jean-Paul Sartre
The ache, the pain, have risen from below.

 

The teacher said my  social class was low
More, my Dobble accent was not smart
I lost my own voice then,  yet it died slow.

Today I’m in the upper class, you know!
I taught pure maths in Oxford,  a paid tart.
They kindly stole my voice, but it don’t show.

I’d like to hear my mam and daddy talk
I’d like to go with grandad for a walk
I’ve lost my own voice sixty  years  heart-sore
Now the rage is rising like bread dough.

The script is like a music score

 

My old blue fountain pen allows
The ink across the page to flow
Like wet paint from an artist’s brush,
And words come in a rush.
Enchanting through the hand which writes,
Bewitched with art, beauty alights.
The script is like a music score
Through which we pass as through a door.
Imagination’s home.

As , mysteriously.to you, to me,
The spirits of our hearts are tamed,
By rhythms of pen, of brush, of mind.
They enter vision quite unplanned,
Like moths to flutter softly round
Fire joined heart and hand.

The pen slows down, the hand goes still
And just as dreams at daybreak will,
They shrink, they disappear, they’re gone.
I almost caught that one.