Frazzled yellow shivers in simplified tall trees. Great earth-hold white trees glisten. Solar-panelled metal roofs shine a moody blue. Lichen-shaded tile roofs, proofs of perpendicular, glow. Three coated humans struggle down hillside footpath. Contracted umbrellas flap, at the ready, comic encumbrances. Coincidentally above the fray, an arc emerges. Hard purple, red bend. Reflector yellow like a road sign. It’s the full 180-degrees. A second arc forces up from out of thin air. Soon though day will darken again. Rain will arrive in unstoppables. There’ll be blips and dribbles first. April shower turns to inclement weather. Sprinkle turns to bucketing down.
Wednesday, 26 April 2017
Ambulating in one’s mind with the letter A. Amen: not closure but confirmation. Answer: Yes. Ant: destroyer and restorer. Argentina: a nightmare from which Borges awoke. Auden: “His thoughts pottered/ from verses to sex to God/ without punctuation.” Avenue: leaves April for dead. Awesome: overused, overrated, over it. Aardvark: not a rodent, or a pig, some kind of elephant. Acrobat: how do they do it? Activate: that part of the brain that was leaning on its spade. A-Lister: often Alister, implies Z-Listers, the ones in the gutter with the face of Christ. Allusion: a grammatical illusion. Alternative: the new mainstream.
Tuesday, 25 April 2017
The Reverend Sydney Buckley is a familiar name on plaques in Ivanhoe. He was vicar of St. James and founder of its parish school (1915), later Ivanhoe Grammar. Mention of this name prompted a story from my mother, whose father (Charles Hulme, born April 1897) lived in that parish. When he met Buckley, now an army chaplain, in France Charlie said to Sydney that when they got back home he was going to marry Evelyn McKeown and that Sydney was to officiate. Evelyn, a woman of strong Irish mind, declared later, well at least he could have asked me first.