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 |   A tentative blog to test the temperature. |
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Ten years ago I was writing several blogs on various subjects - F1 motor racing, Music, Classic Cars, Great Romances and, most crushingly, a personal journal that included my thoughts on America, memories of England and Africa, opinion, humour, writing and anything else that occurred. It all became too much (I was attempting to update the journal every day) and I collapsed, exhausted and thoroughly disillusioned in the end. So this blog is indeed a Toe in the Water, a place to document my thoughts in and on WdC but with a determination not to get sucked into the blog whirlpool ever again. Here's hoping.     |
| A Cat Scan Pookie tells me that cats have their own version of WdC's Newsfeed. It's called a Mewsfeed. |
| Few Encounters If I ever met a real artist, his name was Harry Few. Of all the Fine Arts students that I knew at university, there was only one that we all knew was the real thing and Harry was it. We were dimly aware that we were playing at being artists, as talented as some of us were. And we bolstered the pretence with activities we felt suitable to our status as a small and separate group amongst the masses of a predominantly agriculture-biased institute of learning. So we would buy loaves of French bread and bottles of cheap wine and sit on the grass in the park to consume them (Dejeuner sur l'herbe) and get ourselves invited to Performing Arts parties at our sister university down in Durban (as the only one whose other major was English Literature, these also gave me a chance to assume the cloak of the great writer, brooding grimly amidst the general frivolity). Harry was never a part of all this, however. I first heard of him early in my second year. For a long time he was known only as "one of the first years" and his exploits, as well as his paintings, became legendary as the stories about him spread. It was rumoured, for instance, that he made money to support his drinking by going on board merchant ships in Durban harbour and drawing portraits for the crew. And his paintings were wildly different, with none of the obvious influence of our tutors that crept into the work of all of us. Harry's work never changed, resisting all attempts to tame it, just as its creator went his wild way uncurbed. In time, we learned that his name was Harry Few and descriptions began to filter through. He was a little fellow, apparently, with glasses and ragged hair, the very antithesis of our image of "The Great Artist" and a complete contradiction of the tales of his exploits. Yet those stories were true, as I found out when I met him eventually. He made light of them, considering them nothing out of the ordinary, and even inviting me on one of his sailor-drawing adventures. I ducked, although I cannot remember whether my excuse was real or invented. It seems strange to me now that a long time passed before I met this fabled character. I suppose my mind was on other things at the time and Harry was so often not on campus, his exploits requiring frequent absences. And, when we did meet, it was not momentous and little came of it except the discovery that our homes were but a few miles apart. In the rest of my time at university, I think we only bumped into each other on two or three occasions. When I left, I assumed that was the last I would hear of him but it seemed that he had a higher regard for our acquaintance than did I. It was a surprise when he sought me out and appeared on the doorstep, bottle of brandy in hand. This became the standard procedure when Harry came home on a break from university; he would turn up with the inevitable bottle of brandy and we would proceed through the evening, talking and getting steadily more inebriated until the bottle was drained. He drew incessantly and would show me the results. I did one drawing in his style, both to see if I could do it and in homage. The result was similar but without that explosion of wild emotion so typical of Harry's stuff; mine was cool and quiet. I think it was the writer in me that insisted upon more order in my drawings - and so he was the greater artist. Harry had left university by the time I lost contact with him. There came a Christmas when he did not turn up and I learned that he was suffering from alcohol poisoning. The doctor had insisted upon an alcohol-free regime and somehow Harry's parents had enforced the ban. I had never pursued the friendship, being busy with my own life and not really a drinker anyway; my dreams of being a great painter had faded too as writing became more important to me. So Harry became no more than a memory to me. But he left me two things that remain with me still: one, a stomach so abused by sudden bouts of brandy consumption that I have not been able to touch the stuff since, and two, the knowledge that, if there is such a thing as a great artist, I knew one once. Word Count: 768 |
| Confirmation I have seen the future and it is freaking stupid. I wrote this several years ago, so I know it's true. |
| Fecundity There are eight million stories in the naked city. And I can't think of one of them… That first sentence is a quote of the closing statement of the early (1958 - 1963) television series titled Naked City. The full statement is, “There are eight million stories in the naked city. This has been one of them.” The series mimicked documentary style in its construction and may have been the original mockumentary. But the most annoying thing about it is the fact that it produced enough new material to fill so many weeks . Most of these were written by one writer, Stirling Silliphant, who also created and wrote for the spin-off, Route 66. Such prolific production is particularly galling when I seem to have run out of ideas, especially as that blasted tag line keeps returning to my mind. Word count: 138 |
| Dodgy I love the British slang word, “dodgy.” It means “dubious,” “not to be trusted,” and “potentially dangerous,” but has an extra edge of deliberate flirting with nemesis about it. It is one of those words that I would describe as delicious in its richness. An example of its use would be the fact that I have a dodgy relationship with writing. More specifically, I am uneasy when examining the mechanics of my own writing and do not think much about it as a result. When asked how I write, I can easily think back to the process and watch in my imagination as I churn the stuff out, but I never look too closely. I am guessing, rather than actually examining in detail. It’s the golden goose thing, you see. When you have a goose that lays golden eggs, you don’t dissect it to see how it works. That would stop the flow of golden eggs, obviously. And it’s the same for me with writing. It seems to work without much effort so I dare not look too deeply or I might break the thing. At the same time, I am well aware that to rely on whatever the process is, without understanding it, is also a dangerous tactic. It reminds me of a Paraguayan tennis player named Victor Pecci. Active in the late seventies and early eighties, Pecci was not only remarkable for being the only Paraguayan tennis player I’ve ever heard of (didn’t even know if they played tennis in Paraguay), he was also amazing to watch. He was the most naturally gifted player I’ve seen, by several miles. An absolute joy to watch as he flowed about the court and made the most dazzling shots. The problem was that his ability could only take him so far. His highest achievement was to reach the final of the French Open one year. He never won any of the big tournaments. For a few short years he was a regular at Wimbledon and then disappeared into anonymity. What was lacking in Pecci was that he relied on his talent and wouldn’t put in the extra hard work to reach the very top. It’s a danger that threatens even the most talented, this temptation to lean heavily on your natural skill and skirt the sweat of training. So I’m aware of what I call the Pecci factor. And I try hard to put in the work to get better at writing, and acknowledge my debt to WDC in supplying me with a stream of prompts to write to. Practice doesn’t make perfect, but it does improve. What I won’t do, however, is attempt to dismantle the process to see how it works. I can tell you what seems to be happening when I write, but I’ll never attempt to dig deeper. That would be too dodgy. Word count: 476 |
| I Do Like a Bit of Obscurity Today I have completed my last entry for the fourth year of the Promptly Poetry Challenge. It’s an experimental little thing, my poem, but it also contains a reference that I have been debating whether or not to explain in a Note. After much internal debate, I have decided to write about it here, thereby leaving the interpretation of the poem entirely to the vagaries of fortune and the viewing habits of its readers. Any work of art must stand or fall on its own sooner or later, after all. The reference is to flat hedgehogs and it originates in a few lines of sheer genius from Mackenzie Crook’s delightful comedy TV series, Detectorists. Rather than write out the exchange, I have embedded the relevant scene below. It may be incomprehensible to Americans, since I believe you don’t have hedgehogs, so I will tell you that a reasonable substitute would be the possum. All very mysterious but hilarious if you’re a Brit. Word count: 162 |
| Farewell Bob Our household was saddened yesterday by the death of Bob Newhart. He had a good innings, as we say in the UK, but the earth is always a little poorer when great personalities depart for celestial climes. And Bob was one of the greatest comedians with a style all his own - quiet, hesitant, self-effacing, and drier than a martini, but hilariously funny as well. We are all in his debt and I especially (since he states so clearly my position) for this skit, perhaps the comedy sketch that cuts the deepest towards a truth we all know but never speak: |
| Contemplating Infinity It’s not the limitless expanse of the universe that makes us aware of our insignificance. It’s the vast, incomprehensible number of all the people who have ever lived and those who now inhabit the planet Earth. Each of us is a single grain of sand on a beach that goes on forever. And our only hope for being noticed amongst the myriads of our fellow creatures is that some day we might be driven by the wind from the beach to the sea and so to the depths where we might fall into the mouth of some oyster that then gets irritated enough to begin covering us with a coating of some smooth substance that hardens and eventually makes us into a pearl. Even then we have to depend on the chance of being found and included in a cosmic string of pearls to grace some infinite neck. Kinda puts us into perspective, doesn’t it? Word count: 155 |
| Rant for the Day I see that Cubby is currently stripping wallpaper. A fine pastime in which I’ve done my share of indulging. But it’s the name variations that bear no relationship to the original that bug me. Sure, let us know what you’re doing every minute of the day, but don’t hide who you are. Yes, I know it’s possible to check on the username but I get confused as to who owns what username. It can look really familiar but highly unlikely that I can link it to the usual given name. So it rarely helps with identifying a person through all these name changes. You won’t find me changing my name or adding to it every five minutes. And it’s true that I don’t even know how to do it. But I could find out. I could. If I wanted to. So there. Word count: 142 |
| The Vagaries of Memory Strange how forgotten memories will pop up occasionally for no apparent reason. I was searching the old brain the other day, looking for something to write about, when a memory of college days came out of nowhere. It was positively hilarious at the time, or so we thought, so it might be vaguely funny to recount it now. You’re wondering who “we” refers to in the previous sentence. To be honest, I can’t remember exactly how many we were but would guess at three or four. And we were mildly inebriated students with nothing to do on a Friday night but look for mischief. Someone suggested visiting one of our professors, a young, one-of-the-boys type who had no objection to receiving visitors. We staggered to his apartment and knocked. He seemed happy enough to see us and invited us in. Once in the living room, we found that he already had a visitor. A rather straight-looking gentleman sat with ramrod precision in one of the chairs, regarding us with distaste. I guess we were not the most savoury of characters in appearance, most being rather hairy and casually dressed in jeans and ragged T-shirts. We settled into the chairs and waited rather awkwardly for matters to commence. And it was the straight fellow who began by addressing a speech to our professor. In our rather addled state, it made little sense to us and the speech had not proceeded for long when one of us interrupted the guy with a question. He paused and answered. Then turned back to the professor and continued. Only he did not go on from where he had been halted. He began again from the beginning. We listened in confusion. Then someone else asked a question and the man patiently ceased his spiel to answer. After which, he began again from the beginning. Once this scene had been repeated a few more times, the truth dawned on us. He was an encyclopaedia salesman and had learned his sales pitch by heart. The problem was that he couldn’t remember it if interrupted and had to start again each time. Well, you can imagine how tempting this was to us, given our age, state of mind, and need for entertainment. We were quite merciless in our invention of questions to force the poor fellow to start again and again. In the end, our professor took pity on him and brought his torture to an end by turning down the offer of encyclopaedias. The crestfallen man departed and we left soon thereafter, giggling and creating a noisy distraction in the streets on the way back to the college. And now, in my dotage, the memory returns to have me snickering at the keyboard instead of coming up with some serious subject to pontificate upon. Such is life. Word count: 469 |
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