Archive for April, 2013

worse

April 30, 2013

The parents are worse than the children.

(Wellington, Thur. 31 Dec., 2009)

like vampires

April 30, 2013

These new television sets are subject to damage from illumination, like vampires.

(Wairarapa train, Thur. 31 Dec, 2009)

Is your melancholy so frail?

April 30, 2013

Is your melancholy so frail that it cannot withstand a day by the seaside?

(between WLG & SYD, Sat. 2 Jan., 2010)

Hurrah for metrobuses

April 20, 2013

Did I really see the Australia Quartet at the Independent Theatre at 5 p.m. (Ross Edwards’s Emerald Crossing and the first piano quartets of Martinů and Saint-Saens) and still make it to the Parade Theatre by 7.30 for Climbing toward Midnight? Yes: M20 from the Pacific Highway to Park St and M10 to Anzac Parade.
   The violist was the same in both shows too; didn’t see him on the buses though.

On Park St, Saturday evening

April 20, 2013

“It’s beyond a joke now.
“What is that book called, anyway?”

“It’s called Probability.”

“Would you feed a glass of water to a pigeon? Well there’s what you wouldn’t be wearing if you did: shoes with laces.”

inénarrable

April 15, 2013

inénarrable (adj.) indescribable

«N’est-ce pas, Elsie, que c’est là une fête inénarrable, et que toutes les autres créatures sont laides, monstrueuses et méchantes en comparaison de celles-ci ?» (Sand, «La Fée aux yeux gros»)

faîte

April 10, 2013

faîte (nom masculin) top
«Une échelle, dont je ne pouvais apercevoir ni la base ni le faîte, se présentait en effet devant nous.»(Sand, «La Fée poussière»)

air-literature

April 8, 2013

Yesterday afternoon I was flicking through the paperbacks at the Record Crate with C. W. before a gig at the Rock’n’Roll Club.  He picked out a thriller from the seventies with a lurid cover and told me that he’d once tried to write a bad airport novel but failed.  “You mean it came out good, then?”
 “No, it was bad-bad, crap, shit.”
 “Ah.”

I wondered what the idea was, whether passengers wanted to be entertained or rather put to sleep.  Assuming the latter, I figured that a certain slow steady rhythm might be in order.  

I recalled what F. Y. N. had told me about how to cure insomnia, when she was eighteen and I twenty. She had studied psychology at New South Wales.  She noted that the early stages of sleep were often marked by strange illogical lucid thoughts which seemed the introductions to dreams, and then reasoning by analogy either the ability to induce happiness by forcing oneself to smile, recommended fooling insomnia by deliberately imagining surrealistic scenes and scenarios.  I’d forgotten about this in the ensuing decades, but I do remember having some success with it at the time.