retrobhikku: may 2002

we want the finest wines available to humanity:
we want them here;
and we want them now

Yes, it's all true. All the stereotypes of rural Englishness are not merely figments of an ad-man's deranged imagination, they are everyday realities with which some of us must co-exist. Just down the road from the location pictured above is the cybercafe from which I upload entries, stuffing myself with dundee cake the while, washed down with tea from the urn (thirty pence the first cup, twenty-five for those subsequent). And then out onto the green for a dozen overs of wristy spin against Minchinhampton first XI.

And I love this photograph, packed with universals as it is: the road, the elements, human sleep; and just as in Rousseau's Sleeping Gypsy, we aren't sure whether the surroundings of the sleeping person are reality, or the fabric of their dream.

. . . he strolled down to the landing stage, which Moominpappa had built, sniffing the sea air. It was quite still; the rain was falling softly and each drop made a ring in the gleaming water.

from Finn Family Moomintroll, by Tove Jansson

And if you'd care to wait for the cgi version with the cutesy little link icons that you put on your site, your wait will be longer than time itself . . .

History as literary science fiction via robot wisdom: extracts from first millenium chinese accounts of expeditions to the middle east (Babylonia, Syria, Byzantium, Egypt), texts written and rewritten over a few hundred years.

They make coins of silver, which have the king's face on the obverse, and the face of his consort on the reverse. When the king dies, they cast new coins. They have the ostrich. They write on parchment, and draw up documents in rows running sideways.

Their kings are not permanent rulers, but they appoint men of merit. When a severe calamity visits the country, or untimely rain-storms, the king is deposed and replaced by another. The one relieved from his duties submits to his degradation without a murmur.

In the west of the sea there is the city of Ali-san (Alexandria) . . . the people are tall, and upright in their dealings, like the Chinese, but wear foreign dress . . .

They can read foreign books. They regulate by law public and private matters. The palace buildings are held sacred. They hoist flags, beat drums, use small carriages with white canopies.

In this country all the domestic animals come out of the water.

The country is hot and low. It produces lions, rhinoceros, zebu, peacocks, and large birds whose eggs are like urns.

( 'Birds that can run like hares and lay eggs the size of the bowl you see in a steam laundry where they keep the chemical water for taking the tar out of men's pants.'
-from The Third Policeman, by Flann O'Brien )

Tin. Tortoises. White horses. Red hair. Tortoise shell. Black bears. Large conches. Carnelian stones. Southern gold. Kingfishers' gems. Ivory.

This country lies between two seas. It is peacefully governed, and human dwellings are scattered over it like stars.

Crossing the desert . . . there are two countries called Mo-lin (Upper Kush) and Lao-p'o-sa (Lower Kush). Their inhabitants are black and of a violent disposition. The country is malarious and has no vegetation. They feed their horses on dried fish, and live themselves on dates. They are not ashamed to have most frequent illicit intercourse with savages; they call this "establishing the relation between lord and subject." On one of seven days they refrain from doing business, and carouse all night.

Rooting around, I also came across this account of the West by Hsieh Ch'ing Kao, a sailor who was in Europe at the end of the eighteenth century. He's particularly good on America:

America is a small isolated island in the middle of the ocean. It could be reached by sailing west for about ten days from England. Formerly it was part of England but now is an independent country, although the customs and practices of the two countries still remain alike. This land is called 'Flowery Flag' by the Cantonese.
Water transportation in this country is done by means of boats which have wheels on the side and a fire engine in the center. When a strong fire is generated, the wheels are set in motion, thereby propelling the boat forward. The construction of such a boat is clever and ingenious, and other countries are following the example.

( 'His dadda is in far Amurikey.'
'Which of the two Amurikeys?' asked MacCruiskeen.
'The Unified Stations,' said the Sergeant.
'Likely he is rich by now if he is in that quarter,' said MacCruiskeen, 'because there's dollars there, dollars and bucks and nuggets in the ground and any amount of rackets and golf games and musical instruments. It is a free country too by all accounts.'
'Free for all,' said the Sergeant.
- ibid. )

Avumaye baharini papa kumbe wengi wapo. - The shark is the famous one in the sea, but there are many others.

Fimbo ya mbali hayiuwi nyoka. - A weapon which you don't have in your hand won't kill a snake.

Kizuri chajiuza kibaya chajitembeza. - A good thing sells itself, a bad one advertises itself.

Msitukane wagema na ulevi ungalipo. - Do not abuse palm-wine tappers if you wish for drunkenness.

Nifae na mvua nikufae na jua. - Do me a favour during the rainy season, and I shall do the same for you during the dry season.

Umejigeuza pweza, unajipalia makaa? - Have you changed into a cuttlefish, that you heap live embers on yourself?

Not too sure of the meaning of this last one - the habits of cephalopods are always complex . . .

Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls deified among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats.

The tree where man was born, according to the Nuer, still stood within man's memory in the west part of the south Sudan, and I imagine a great baobab thrust up like an old root of life in those wild grasses that blow forever to the horizons, and wild man in naked silhouette against the first blue sky. That bodeful man of silence and the past is everywhere in Africa. One hears the silence, hears one's step, and
stops . . . and he is there, in the near distance. I see him still: a spear point glitters in the sun.

Being the first lines of:
Kipling, Kim
Dickens, Bleak House (a cheat - it's paragraph 2)
Beckett, Murphy
Beckett, Watt
Paul Theroux, The Great Railway Bazaar
Rousseau, The Confessions
Peter Matthiessen, The Tree Where Man Was Born.

Francis Kilvert was a nineteenth century clergyman who lived most of his working life in rural areas on the Welsh/English border. He died at 39, leaving behind 22 fat notebooks which contained his diaries - nineteen of which were destroyed by an elderly relative.

Saturday, 16 January 1875

In the Common Field in front of the cottages I found two little figures in the dusk. One tiny urchin was carefully binding a handkerchief round the face of an urchin even more tiny than himself. It was Fred and Jerry Savine. 'What are you doing to him?' I asked Fred. 'Please, Sir', said the child solemnly. 'Please, Sir, we'm gwine to play at blindman's buff.' The two children were quite alone. The strip of dusky meadow was like a marsh, and every footstep trod the water out of the soaked land, but the two little images went solemnly on with their game as if they were in a magnificent playground with a hundred children to play with.

Saturday, 23 January 1875

When I went to bed last night I fancied that something ran in at my bedroom door after me from the gallery. It seemed to be a skeleton. It ran with a dancing step and I thought it aimed a blow at me from behind. This was shortly before midnight.

Sunday, 24 January 1875

Last night I dreamt I saw a great whale caught in Weymouth Bay. I watched the huge bulk heave and tumble in the sea.

Thursday, 4 March 1875

Old William Halliday . . . told the story of how Squire Sadler Gale of Bulwich House at Allington made himself wings and flew off the garden wall. 'Watch I vlee!' he cried to the people. Then he dashed down into the horsepond.

There stands the awful home of murky Night wrapped in dark clouds. In front of it the son of Iapetus stands immovably upholding the wide heaven upon his head and unwearying hands, where Night and Day draw near and greet one another as they pass the great threshold of bronze: and while the one is about to go down into the house, the other comes out at the door. And the house never holds them both within; but always one is without the house passing over the earth, while the other stays at home and waits until the time for her journeying come; and the one holds all-seeing light for them on earth, but the other holds in her arms Sleep the brother of Death . . . and there the children of dark Night have their dwellings, Sleep and Death, awful gods.
Hesiod, Theogony

Sleep was Death's little brother, and used to be devoted to him, following him everywhere around the house, although some of Death's worst excesses sent him scurrying behind the skirts of his mother, Night.
At school one day, the children in Sleep's class were being asked what they wanted to be when they grew up: when it came to Sleep's turn, he said, I want to be Dream. Everyone was surprised: all the other children and the teacher were expecting Sleep to say that he wanted to be like his brother, Death. The teacher asked him why he would like to be Dream rather than Death, and Sleep said, 'Because the pictures are better.' The teacher asked him what he meant, and Sleep explained: 'My brother's pictures are always dark and sad, and sometimes Dream's are like that, but they can be all kinds of other things as well.' And he showed the teacher something he had drawn in his exercise book, and the teacher laughed until tears came to her eyes, and she told all the children they could have the rest of the afternoon off.

You were wearing your Geegaw t-shirt
And I was wearing my Raccoon cap.
Your hair was blonde and you were cute.
We were in the diner drinking Calamondin orange juice.
We were reading the Saturday edition of the Bellona Times, sharing out the sections.
We had just finished eating our Eeksy Peeksy cereal, and the waitress was bringing our orders of Tensegrity waffles.
You were listening to Caterina on your walkman.
And so the day passed.
The sun set, and we strolled down the hill to the Late Night Pool.
We leaned over the rail and looked down.
Hung on a post next to us was an Alamut life preserver.

A very curious thing happened to me at half-past four, yesterday. Three visitors came knocking at my door, begging me to let them in. And when I opened the door, who do you think they were?
You'll never guess. (more . . .)

Double your amusement by reading this to yourself in Eliot's own voice (should you have heard him do his stuff).

Chard Whitlow

(Mr. Eliot's Sunday Evening Postscript)

As we get older we do not get any younger.
Seasons return, and to-day I am fifty-five,
And this time last year I was fifty-four
And this time next year I shall be sixty-two.
And I cannot say I should like (to speak for myself)
To see my time over again - if you can call it time:
Fidgeting uneasily under a draughty stair,
Or counting sleepless nights in the crowded tube.

There are certain precautions - though none of them very reliable -
Against the blast from bombs and the flying splinter,
But not against the blast from heaven, vento dei venti,
The wind within a wind unable to speak for wind;
And the frigid burnings of purgatory will not be touched
By any emollient.

I think you will find this put,
Better than I could ever hope to express it,
In the words of Kharma: 'It is, we believe,
Idle to hope that the simple stirrup-pump
Will extinguish hell.'

Oh, listeners,
And you especially who have turned off the wireless,
And sit in Stoke or Basingstoke listening appreciatively to the silence,
(Which is also the silence of hell) pray, not for your skins, but for your souls.

And pray for me also under the draughty stair.
As we get older we do not get any younger.
And pray for Kharma under the holy mountain.

- Henry Reed