Life ain’t all that bad is it when you think about it. That depends, ’Arry, on who you are, what you are and where you are. For Instance I reckon I have a better life-style than Kerry Packer. And he’s dead.
Sitting at the galley table with my sturdy GDR typewriter I check my cabin ambience and feel modest content. My jonquils are a bit desiccated but still smiling and perfumed. The water filter needs refilling. A filter makes a hellishun difference to palatability of Sydney water and perhaps removes some of those bacterial nasturtiums and gardenias?
Tiz cold, and snow reported in the hills. Strangely still and quiet, it is. Mercury rising in the looming dark and Jupiter sinking to the west. I wondered how the people on Jupiter were doing as I watched him rise the evening before.
The non-news tells us that the plonkers at the seasonal Summit Meeting have agreed on nothing; each waiting for the other to do something about it all first, but, but I say, they have a “shared vision” of something or other at some point in the distant future … and I expect the people on Jupiter would say the same?
When I was scrabbling through my old copy the other week, looking for something, I was struck by the boring repetitiveness of Mild Mannered Marxist ’Arry Driftwood’s oeuvre and the obvious fact that I have said it all before and no bugger listens and the Sun comes up and down just the same, so why bother? Why not close up the portable and chuck it overboard to create a fish reef? Yair, go on ’Arry. Do it!
I could fashion paper darts from these pages of malarkey and fire them into the Cosmos to travel for aeons unto distant galaxies to amaze and delight the superior people there with the primitive wit of ’Arry Driftwood? Perhaps I could do that?
Many little tasks topside that rebuke me but it is cold and dank so I ain’t going up until the sun peeps out. But what if the sun don’t come out today, ’Arry? Huh? You can work that one out.
“A cold coming we had of it, Just the worst time of the year, For a journey, and such a journey: The ways deep and the weather sharp, The very dead of winter. And the camels galled, sore-footed , refractory …” [The Journey of the Magi. Thomas Stearns Eliot]
So how are your camels shipmates? Interesting people are camels and I have a soft spot for ’em. At least they seem to know what they are doing. But they canna walk on water. Watching people, camels, and silver gulls absorbs my days and cost me aught. An eternal circus. Why do people do what they do, so predictable, but at the same un-predictable. Watch ’em alight from a bus and they will totter past the rear exit to blunder out the front door impeding those trying to board. Why? They ain’t got the sense to get out of their own road. I am not talking about you of course. Hell, no!
We are all mostly dreamers, fantasists and poseurs, nay?
Motor bikes … every lad wants to ride a Grand Prix replica despite the specialized, extreme discomfort for ordinary travel and the cane-toad crouch necessary. What about that merchandising epic the Hardly Devious, so beloved of eastern suburbs bank johnnies. A clumsy noisy overpowered, thirsty agricultural-styled relic. Must have one! The way you can market any old clunker with heaps of dosh.
And so on. It surprises me that we don’t see thousands of blokey blokes going to the office in the BMW Ubiquitous wearing a Batman mask or Clark Kent tights.
Yair, what about me then, Gladys? So I wear a proper boatman’s cap and an old grey beard and people say, “You look like a sailor, mister!” And I say “if I wore a big hat and moleskins then would I look like a bloody cowboy?”
I am what I am, and talk the talk. Orright, orright ’Arry, we know you are not allowed to be upset.
Did you watch that advertising exposé on the ABC? The Gruen Transfer tiz called. Very lovely stuff. How words can twist things. A current coordinated, concentrated, sneering campaign by the media barons against the present temporary government. Every pejorative word and sneering phrase to destabilise and disarm. Oi, another one while I think of it: recall how we always locked UP things and sometimes withdrew things. Now, courtesy of the slavish medya rats and the Hegemony Masters, we lock down and draw down.
I suppose it must match their economy and so go down instead of up? I am only saying.
Mustn’t run on (but I reckon the current brood of homosooks and dummy-suckers and train-whiners are the result of Essendon’s fall from the AFLladder? Ooo, the trains are late … oooer petrol is dear … oooer where is the rain? Why don’t they do something!