Fish

Somehow I seem to have gotten myself into a bit of a fish theme lately. Not sure why but there you have it. 

What I wanted to say cryptically about fish this week was, that no matter its depicted size or relative position any fish is always to scale. That's it.

By the way, ever notice how it’s called fishing and not catching fish? Simply because we don’t always catch anything. Often, in fact.

Hey!

Fishing Day!

A very short play about the time I caught something.

The Setting

Here I stand on a long, wind-swept jetty holding a fishing rod over the choppy ocean. Patches of frothy foam meander with the sea’s whimsical movements – occasionally slapping up against the jetty’s steadfast poles. Some jellyfish bob along trying to find their niche in life – or perhaps looking for somewhere to just sit and rest and untangle their tentacles for a change. Squashed, sun-dried green prawns lie scattered around my feet. The rest of the jetty is a giant join-the-dots marked out by the splatterings of seagulls. Two kids run up and down the length of the jetty, yelling out to each other and plotting simple games. A couple strolls by.  

To my right, closer towards the elusive horizon stands an eastern European man with a concentrated look and grey scraggly hair, probably in his late 60s or a little older. He assiduously fishes while a half-smoked cigarette dangles precariously from his thin lips. He’s bow-legged with light brown baggy shorts hanging from his waist. The sun beats down on his bare upper torso, but his skin is not burnt one bit. It is tough and olive. Before when I was establishing my fishing spot, our eyes had met. He had looked at me with a squinting eye and reviewed my presence through a slightly frowning forehead.

Act 1, Scene 1

Nothing happens.

Act 1, Scene 2

Nothing happens.

Act 1, Scene 3

I scratch my balls. Nothing else happens.

Act 2, Scene 1

Nothing happens.

Act 2, Scene 2

Nothing happens.

Act 2, Scene 3

I wriggle a bit as the itch returns. Nothing else happens.

Final Act, Scene 1

I re-scratch my balls. Nothing else happens. But my face is displaying a degree of relief.

Final Act, Scene 2

Nothing happens.

Final Act, Scene 3

As the itch persists I reel my line in. I prepare to head off home. Uh-oh. Seems I’ve caught crabs and can’t stop scratching.

What do you think?

I need your opinion. Or, condemnation as you see fit.

I'm working on a memoir about me and my wife. It covers from when we first met, and continues recounting how our first seven years together were actually spent living apart in separate countries. Crazy, I know - SEVEN years. But, true. Anyway, so far I've given this story the title Together 7 Years Apart. It's possible I might also go with 2555 Days Is Up (i.e. 365 days a year multiplied by 7 years) or 364 Weeks (you guessed it - 52 weeks a year multiplied by 7 years. 2555 Days Is Up could be too lengthy as a title).

Your mission - should you be arsed thinking about it - is to report back to me with your valuable opinion of the above titles. You could just leave me a comment at the end of this post. You could broadcast your thoughts via any of Rupert Murdoch's reliable media outlets (sorry about that noise, a bunch of people suddenly burst out laughing - some are actually sobbing). So, thanks if you do! And, of course, no worries if you don't (I'll simply ignore you at the book signing).

Here's a little snippet of the story...

Russian Caravan tea

Some weeks ago I explained that I would stop posting snippets of my own work - fearing it counted against any efforts of mine to become seriously published anywhere. Well, things do change don't they? And we change our minds. At the moment I don't exactly find myself with  a huge following. So, to hell with it - I'm posting a snippet here. This one is taken from the memoir Together 7 Years Apart, a story about me and my wife. Do you have any similar stories as this one below?:

Erin and I did not get on like a house on fire. No. We got on like a whole row of houses up in flames. The fire burnt for a good two or so hours, abundantly fueled with relaxed conversation. I told Erin some boring story about how Russian Caravan tea had traditionally been taken with the addition of strawberry jam mixed in for sweetness. I shouldn’t have bothered but the words had irrevocably sprung forward from inside of me, and it would have appeared even lamer to have stopped myself mid-way. I was drinking Russian Caravan tea at the time and, with the jam, so at least I had the aid of distracting props. Some nights later Erin told me that she had actually found the little story quite endearing. She was putting me at ease so early in our relationship. Either that or I had a remarkable talent for utilizing table-sized props.

Slow down and hurry up about it

The bus pulled into its stop at the QueenVictoria Building like a pebble is pulled down a giant shoreline under the sucking force of the ocean. Modern life itself was the force dragging the bus toward the tyre-blackened kerb. The busy people with their schedules and their tasks, the complicit bus schedule pushing to deliver loads of shoppers and workers, the monotonous traffic lights blindly and unwittingly winking two and four-wheeled machines across overcrowded asphalt pathways and the blurry black and white buildings are all symptomatic of today’s everyday pace. The blurry black and white monuments – like Queen Victoria sitting quietly and perseveringly as if no one has remembered her reign. These buildings and monuments are blurry and black and white because everyone is much too rushed and tunnel-visioned to discern them. All that money and all those advertising ideas and the time spent to place all these signs scattered all over the cityscape, only to become merely a blur as well, rushing past and escaping our senses in a single streak. Look up in the sky! It’s a catchy slogan! It’s a distracting image! It’s a…sorry, you’ve lost me. I’m too busy to read your sign. 

I slow down and take it all in. I purposely slow down and observe the details in the buildings, this window arch here and that appealing detail there. Hello, Queen Victoria. I am looking at her and acknowledge her expression and the staff she is holding, the tilt of her head and cold expression in her fixed eyes. What are you pondering? Is it sadness for what has become? I slow it all down. I saw her move. I have turned the slow cooker dial to the on position, I’ve jettisoned the Big Mac and now properly seep in the details of life and actually absorb all that is around me. I am in notice-mode now, but you are too hastened to notice my notice-mode. Nature skips out from its lonely corners to greet me with a smile – the sun’s golden hues, an infiltrating breeze and the newly painted sky embrace me and I’m at one with this trio in a brief moment of worship, the bus seat my pew. 

I slow it all down.  

I should slow it all down quickly, though, as I have to get off at the next bus stop and hurry to work or risk arriving late.

Where are you?

Steve: Hello, are you there?

Steph: No, I’m here. How about you? Are you there?

Steve: No, I’m here, too.

Steph: Well, someone has to be there. We can’t both be here, because that would mean both of us are at the same place at the same time – and clearly we are not. Why can’t your here be there and my here still be here?

Steve: Because my here is not there, it’s here. If I was there I wouldn’t be here. But, I am here so it has to be here. Why can’t your here be there?

Steph: Because I’m still here, too. So, I can’t be there either.

Steve: What about if I combined my here with your here? Then we could both be here at the same time – we could have a sort of shared super here.

Steph: But, how would you get here to join your here with mine?

Steve: I wasn’t going to. I thought you could come here.

Steph: Okay. But if I leave here what will become of my here? What should I call it, what will it be?

Steve: Well, we could call it past here, somewhere else, previous here or not here.

Steph: No, those suggestions don’t sound too good to me. Somewhere else is not bad, but… I don’t know… a little vague perhaps?

Steve: Hang on a minute – I know! What about everywhere? If here is everywhere then we wouldn’t need to combine your here with mine. We could both be here at the same time because here would be everywhere.

Steph: If I was everywhere, I know I’d still be here but how would I know if you’re here, too, if I can’t see you? And you couldn’t see me?

Steve: It’s an abstract everywhere. You know. Like social media. Everyone is here together, they are everywhere. But no one is really there with anyone else.

Steph: Oh… 

Come back 'forenoon'

Whatever happened to the word forenoon? Where has it gone? Why don't we use it? Why did it go?

I think it's sad that this lovely word seems to have disappeared. We still use the word afternoon all the time, so why is forenoon not good enough now? I think afternoon is a bit lonely and overburdened. I think its head is spinning.

I know all languages change - and should change for their own good, for their own survival - still, what does forenoon's disappearance say about us? About how we live our lives? Have we all lost half our day, has it been consumed by modernity's sucking whirlpool and cracking pace and complexity? Is the time between dawn and midday, noon, twelve post meridiem just a blur these days, a haze of unrecognizable minutes? Is this first half of the day worthless and predetermined so by our fantastic culture and advanced civilization?

I might be a distant and feeble voice in the back of the room, but I miss you forenoon. I believe in you and wish you were back with us. And afternoon misses you, too, it misses its other half. The afternoon can only come if the forenoon precedes it. And the forenoon can only exist when the afternoon has once again passed. They need each other and offer us balance.

Here's one of my favorite quotes with a mention of the word forenoon. It's by Henry Thoreau, and I have a feeling he thought of and wrote down this quote some time between the sun rising and midday...in the forenoon you could say...

“If I should sell my forenoons and afternoons to society, as most appear to do, I am sure that for me there would be nothing left worth living for.”