I love casual, almost hippie like clothes and this is my favourite outfit, if I’m out for a coffee in one of the funky areas of town. A mid calf-length floppy skirt in bright pink with orange splodges and a double layer tee-shirt in orange and white. On my feet, I’d have my everyday-wear orange Birkenstock sandals and my Raban sunglasses would be pushed back over my short spiky hair.
But today, I am being my twin sister. We look exactly alike so we can get away with standing in for each other if tricky situations demand a less passionate position. According to Amanda, she’s had a stand up argument with her garage mechanic who is trying to rip her off on the repairs to her Porsche. I’m off to sort it out.
Amanda has dressed me in her “off to combat the men” gear. She thinks I’m dressed to do battle whereas I feel a complete burke. But let’s see what you think.
Naturally I am in trousers. It’s a cream trouser suit with tight creases and narrow legs and a very fitted jacket that slightly flares from the waist. The trousers narrow to my thickening ankles to reveal strappy, amazingly high heeled, black leather sandals. My short hair is flattened with moose so I look almost bald.
Well here goes. I’m walking, or trying to walk, down to the garage.
I take tiny steps as the trousers refuse to bend at the knee or crease at the groin and the shoes create blisters on the outside of my little toes. In fact my toes feel like squashed tomatoes. It takes half an hour to walk the 500 metres and by the time I get there I am hot, sweaty and sore. I glance at myself as I pass the deli at the corner. Oh my god. My face is like a beetroot, the hair has gone spiky and stiff and my feet look like lumps of puffy dough. The crisply ironed trouser suit looks the same as it did hanging in the wardrobe.
I take a few deep breathes and think of Amanda’s $3000 bill and her beautiful silver Porsche that the garage has refused to let out of its sight. I’m inspired to do battle.
“Hey you. You’re Jones aren’t you?”
“You slimy, good for nothing. I’ll teach you to try and rip me off.”
“Now. Let’s get down to business”.
Poor Mr Jones hasn’t been able to get a word in. I’m on a roll, and I’m on a mission.
“Right, I booked in my Porsche for a 180 km service. You took a week. God what where you doing? Anyway at the end of the week you dish out a bill for $3000. Where the hell did that come from? What? Do you think I’m made of money?”
Mr Jones is trying to speak. His mouth is opening like a sleepy goldfish and is tongue is wobbling up and down. Barely a squeak escapes his narrow mean looking lips.
“I uuum, I don’t ......”
”What do you mean, you don’t know. If you don’t who does? Anyhow I don’t really care about the hows, the whys and the wherefores. Just give me the keys to my car.
Now”
“Now. Do you hear me?”
Vaguely I hear a door slam. Then I hear the familiar roar of the V8 Porsche. There’s a flash of silver. There’s a raucous roar of laughter from Amanda as she and the Porsche disappear down the road. She must have found her spare keys after all.
Friday, 13 August 2010
Sunday, 8 August 2010
The tracks (by Heather)
Write a story using the phrase, “The earth shook”.
Phoebe balanced on the rail of the train track, still panting from her wild climb up the hill. The rail felt smooth and warm on her battered feet. She lifted one foot and glanced at the sole - it was torn, scratched and bleeding. Typical of her to be so stupid as to come here with bare feet.
She intended to kill herself but she hadn’t intended to do herself so much damage on the way.
She reviewed her decision. She thought about the kid from her school who’d been killed on the tracks last year. Lester. Lester Yellowfeather who’d lived on the reservation. Nobody knew if he’d done it on purpose or not, but the accepted wisdom was that it had been quick and painless. Well, painless? - who knew, but quick, anyway. Quick was the important thing.
The 11:35 freight would be along in a few minutes and that would be that.
She stepped on a tie between the two rails, then bent to put a hand to the rail. Did she feel a faint murmur in the rail? She put an ear to the silver track, as she’d done many times near here in the past. Yes, the familiar hum was definitely stirring the rail. In a few moments, the train would round the bend a half mile away.
So, this was it. She straightened, standing tall between the rails. She closed her eyes and stilled her breathing, just as she had when she’d imagined this happening. For an instant, she could feel the summer sun drying the grasses around her, then she put her senses away so that the sound of the train racing toward her dissolved into her own heartbeat.
Suddenly the wail of the train’s whistle rent the air. Get off! it shouted.
Phoebe’s eyes flew open. Get off the tracks. Get off NOW, the whistle screamed at her with ferocious intensity. From somewhere, she collided back into her body. Her muscles clenched beneath her and she flew off the tracks, coiling into a rolling ball almost exactly as the train sliced through the space where she had been. Where she not quite still was.
She landed against a grassy tuffet at the foot of the little gravelled incline. She lay there, curled into a cocoon. The earth beneath her shook as the mighty engines and heavy boxcars flew by. The whistle sounded its furious reprimand over and over, Don’t ever do that again! Never EVER do that again. Never ever EVER.
For some unimaginable amount of time the train pounded by. Phoebe lay unmoving, palms pressed into the jagged gravel. Finally the last car passed. Her heart slowly resumed its regular rhythm as she heard the train disappear into the distance.
She pushed herself up with trembling arms til she was sitting. She lifted her head and inhaled, allowing her senses to begin talking with her again. She could smell barnyard smells from the livestock cars that had so recently passed through. The trees soughed behind her; a little brown bird flickered by. The sun beat down on her with its summer intensity.
She looked at her arms and legs stretched in front of her.
They could have been broken, but they weren’t. She thought about the baby taking shape inside her. It could have been broken, but it wasn’t.
She could have been dead, but she wasn’t.
She got up, scrambled up the little incline and carefully crossed the tracks. No, she wasn’t dead at all.
Phoebe set off down the hill.
Phoebe balanced on the rail of the train track, still panting from her wild climb up the hill. The rail felt smooth and warm on her battered feet. She lifted one foot and glanced at the sole - it was torn, scratched and bleeding. Typical of her to be so stupid as to come here with bare feet.
She intended to kill herself but she hadn’t intended to do herself so much damage on the way.
She reviewed her decision. She thought about the kid from her school who’d been killed on the tracks last year. Lester. Lester Yellowfeather who’d lived on the reservation. Nobody knew if he’d done it on purpose or not, but the accepted wisdom was that it had been quick and painless. Well, painless? - who knew, but quick, anyway. Quick was the important thing.
The 11:35 freight would be along in a few minutes and that would be that.
She stepped on a tie between the two rails, then bent to put a hand to the rail. Did she feel a faint murmur in the rail? She put an ear to the silver track, as she’d done many times near here in the past. Yes, the familiar hum was definitely stirring the rail. In a few moments, the train would round the bend a half mile away.
So, this was it. She straightened, standing tall between the rails. She closed her eyes and stilled her breathing, just as she had when she’d imagined this happening. For an instant, she could feel the summer sun drying the grasses around her, then she put her senses away so that the sound of the train racing toward her dissolved into her own heartbeat.
Suddenly the wail of the train’s whistle rent the air. Get off! it shouted.
Phoebe’s eyes flew open. Get off the tracks. Get off NOW, the whistle screamed at her with ferocious intensity. From somewhere, she collided back into her body. Her muscles clenched beneath her and she flew off the tracks, coiling into a rolling ball almost exactly as the train sliced through the space where she had been. Where she not quite still was.
She landed against a grassy tuffet at the foot of the little gravelled incline. She lay there, curled into a cocoon. The earth beneath her shook as the mighty engines and heavy boxcars flew by. The whistle sounded its furious reprimand over and over, Don’t ever do that again! Never EVER do that again. Never ever EVER.
For some unimaginable amount of time the train pounded by. Phoebe lay unmoving, palms pressed into the jagged gravel. Finally the last car passed. Her heart slowly resumed its regular rhythm as she heard the train disappear into the distance.
She pushed herself up with trembling arms til she was sitting. She lifted her head and inhaled, allowing her senses to begin talking with her again. She could smell barnyard smells from the livestock cars that had so recently passed through. The trees soughed behind her; a little brown bird flickered by. The sun beat down on her with its summer intensity.
She looked at her arms and legs stretched in front of her.
They could have been broken, but they weren’t. She thought about the baby taking shape inside her. It could have been broken, but it wasn’t.
She could have been dead, but she wasn’t.
She got up, scrambled up the little incline and carefully crossed the tracks. No, she wasn’t dead at all.
Phoebe set off down the hill.
Chapter 7 Alternative Model Formulations--Gordon
Introduction (Section edited and 3rd para added for this post)
This chapter is about some of the recent practical and theoretical developments in spatial equilibrium modelling which are aids to practitioners in applying such models to real world policy problems. Consideration will be given to a variety of formulations of the models that take into account economic policy mechanisms such as subsidies, taxes, exchange rates, and fixed and ad valorem tariffs and price pooling. Finally, some formulations that are non-competitive in character will be developed along with more sophisticated nonlinear models which include balance of payment type constraints and dynamic formulations.
The work of Takayama and Judge (1971) provides the substantive starting point and has extensive documentation of various spatial equilibrium models. However, work by Enke (1951) and also Samuelson (1952) laid the early foundation for these models. In modern usage, the most important and distinctive feature of spatial equilibrium models is that the direction of trade is not pre-determined and that there is an intermediate position for which no trade takes place between the two regions. These two characteristics provide the basic reason why such models are likely to be useful. When these issues are not important then other, and possibly simpler, techniques may be more appropriate. However, the spatial equilibrium model, in the form presented in Chapter 4, is very efficient in terms of data and therefore can be built quite rapidly and easily.
There is one further feature of spatial equilibrium models in what is known as the primal-dual forms. In a primal-dual structure there is a price or shadow price associated with each constraint. This provides a very clear picture of the economic structure, in both price and quantity terms, of complex trading systems. Particularly is this the case when there are nonlinear constraints, say, in the physical domain, that must have an equivalent in the price domain. The direct incorporation of the Lagrangian variables (prices) into the structure of a maximisation problem allows for the combining into one model relationships between both price and quantity variables. This opens up a whole array of new model forms that can be modelled with a greater richness and directed toward defining a more useful but still abstract representation of the real world. Such models will always rely on a degree of abstraction so as to deal with the essence of a problem rather than with the impossibility of representing the detail of the whole world.
This chapter is about some of the recent practical and theoretical developments in spatial equilibrium modelling which are aids to practitioners in applying such models to real world policy problems. Consideration will be given to a variety of formulations of the models that take into account economic policy mechanisms such as subsidies, taxes, exchange rates, and fixed and ad valorem tariffs and price pooling. Finally, some formulations that are non-competitive in character will be developed along with more sophisticated nonlinear models which include balance of payment type constraints and dynamic formulations.
The work of Takayama and Judge (1971) provides the substantive starting point and has extensive documentation of various spatial equilibrium models. However, work by Enke (1951) and also Samuelson (1952) laid the early foundation for these models. In modern usage, the most important and distinctive feature of spatial equilibrium models is that the direction of trade is not pre-determined and that there is an intermediate position for which no trade takes place between the two regions. These two characteristics provide the basic reason why such models are likely to be useful. When these issues are not important then other, and possibly simpler, techniques may be more appropriate. However, the spatial equilibrium model, in the form presented in Chapter 4, is very efficient in terms of data and therefore can be built quite rapidly and easily.
There is one further feature of spatial equilibrium models in what is known as the primal-dual forms. In a primal-dual structure there is a price or shadow price associated with each constraint. This provides a very clear picture of the economic structure, in both price and quantity terms, of complex trading systems. Particularly is this the case when there are nonlinear constraints, say, in the physical domain, that must have an equivalent in the price domain. The direct incorporation of the Lagrangian variables (prices) into the structure of a maximisation problem allows for the combining into one model relationships between both price and quantity variables. This opens up a whole array of new model forms that can be modelled with a greater richness and directed toward defining a more useful but still abstract representation of the real world. Such models will always rely on a degree of abstraction so as to deal with the essence of a problem rather than with the impossibility of representing the detail of the whole world.
Saturday, 7 August 2010
Thoughts on Collaborative Artwork (Kerry)
Art is intrinsically a collaborative process. A collaboration takes place between the artist and the artwork through the process of creating the work; there is a responsive relationship between the two. However, in order to take on a wider collaboration involving more than one artist, each artist is required to step back from their unique ownership of the work, to allow the creativity and inventiveness of others to be heard, and to contribute to the work in a spirit of co-operation. Inevitably the distinctions between the individual artists will become blurred as a result of the discourse that takes place between them and their materials, as the creative process progresses.
Over the last twenty years, Australian author and artist, Paul Carter, has undertaken a series of collaborations as a writer interacting, variously, with dancers, artists, museologists and film-makers. His observations on the collaborative process in his book, Material Thinking, are pertinent to my investigation into the role of art in imagining sustainable futures. He states that his aim is “to show how the process of material thinking enables us to think differently about our human situation, and…to demonstrate the great role works of art can play in the ethical project of becoming (collectively and individually) oneself in a particular place.” He suggests that material thinking is what takes place as a result of artists daring to ask ‘what matters?’ and ‘what is the material of thought?’ when embarking on a work of art. Carter claims that the decisions that are made in the artistic process are inevitably material ones. He sees these decisions as part of creative research.
He asserts that societies are “mythopoetic inventions” and that it is necessary for us to understand how identities form and “how relationships with others are actively invented (and therefore susceptible to reinvention)” if our societies are to sustain themselves. It is one function of the artist to rematerialise these metaphysical myths through the creative process and to show how more sustainable artificial myths can come into circulation. Artists can do this by “displacing those myths that are no longer sustainable and brokering a new relationship with degraded environments, displaced others and…an impoverished imaginary.” By undertaking creative research in a collaborative environment, the artist can hope to broaden a community’s understanding of itself and of the society and the environment of which it is part.
Carter concludes the prologue to his book by declaring that “in the end, collaboration is not simply a pragmatic response to increasingly complex work conditions; it is what happens wherever artists talk about what they are doing, in that simple but enigmatic step, joining hand, eye and mind in the process of material thinking.”
Appendix:
Sydney Art Exchange collaboration
In July 2010, the seven artists making up the not-for-profit artist organization, Sydney Art Exchange, hung their collaborative work Girt By Sea in the Bondi Pavilion as part of a joint exhibition by the same name. The artists involved were Anya Pesce, Kerry MacAulay, Christina Puth, Elke Wohlfahrt, David Jones, Eleanor Er and Corinne Brittain.
The forty-nine pieces making up the work stretched the whole length of one wall of the gallery and extended around the corner onto the adjacent wall. Each A5 (20cm x 15cm) piece was framed separately. The individual pieces had been created over the previous seven months according to a set of guidelines created by Sydney Art Exchange artist, Elke Wohlfahrt. Seven blank mdf boards were distributed to each of the seven artists with instructions to create a painting including some motif on the theme ‘girt by sea’, which is a phrase from the Australian national anthem (as in ‘our home is girt by sea’). These motifs were not verbally divulged to the other artists. On the appointed day the artists sent their completed works by mail to the next artist designated on their roster. Over the following month the artists created a new work incorporating their own motif as before and including some element from the work they had received in the mail. Each of the second paintings was again posted to the next artist on their roster. The process continued over the next seven months until each artist had completed seven paintings.
Frames had previously been constructed and lime washed by the participating artists. The group gathered to frame the collection of paintings before the July exhibition; each artist bringing the seven works which they had collected over the time of the collaboration. It was a revelation to finally view the entire collection of the collaborative works and to begin to identify the interweaving of the various motifs that the artists had used.
The artists explained their ideas about ‘girt by sea’ in relation to the motifs they had chosen. Pesce’s concept of a vertebra shape referred to life and existence on this planet – past, present and future. She placed the shape on paintings of golden sand, blue water and sky. Puth’s works were inspired by the relationship of the sea and sky and the constant change in colour and shape of these two elements. Particular words from the national anthem were placed in Brittain’s works to convey concerns about climate change, border protection policies and indigenous issues. Jones saw the colours of golden sand, blue sea and white surf as defining the Australian way of life and expressed a desire to see these incorporated in an ‘independent Australia’ flag design. Er overlaid the letters spelling out AUSTRALIA on her paintings depicting where land meets sea. The shape of the Australian continent was repeated in all of Wohlfahrt’s works and references to weather told of climate and climate change in the Southern Hemisphere. MacAulay’s Girt By Sea pieces were concerned with the idea of Australians surveying the sea from the beaches. She used the stylised surf lifesaver’s chair to represent the perceived need for vigilance; recognising the dangers posed by the sea itself from sharks, rips and tidal waves; and referencing political concerns such as watching for boat people, and dealing with quarantine issues and the importation of drugs and illegal products.
There was no restriction on the materials that could be used in the collaborative work. This allowed the artists to consider for themselves the most appropriate material to convey their ideas. All artists used paint in some form but other materials ranged from glitter, sponge, found manufactured objects, photographs, newspaper cuttings, and shells. Artists also chose whether to make any one of the works as portrait or landscape format. In the end, eleven of the works were in portrait format. This introduced some variety in the hanging at the gallery.
The hanging of the work was the final challenge in the collaborative process as the artists discussed the most appropriate way to show the pieces. At that point there was no individual ownership of the separate pieces. It was clearly a single work by a group of artists in collaboration. Any decisions made about the hanging were from a curatorial point of view.
As the artists were required to envigilate the exhibition, there were many opportunities to talk to visitors about the collaborative work. The experience of speaking to visitors about each other’s work deepened their own appreciation for, and enjoyment of, the work as a whole. The artists agreed that individual pieces of the work should be sold separately and all proceeds were directed to the Sydney Art Exchange rather than to the individual artists.
Over the last twenty years, Australian author and artist, Paul Carter, has undertaken a series of collaborations as a writer interacting, variously, with dancers, artists, museologists and film-makers. His observations on the collaborative process in his book, Material Thinking, are pertinent to my investigation into the role of art in imagining sustainable futures. He states that his aim is “to show how the process of material thinking enables us to think differently about our human situation, and…to demonstrate the great role works of art can play in the ethical project of becoming (collectively and individually) oneself in a particular place.” He suggests that material thinking is what takes place as a result of artists daring to ask ‘what matters?’ and ‘what is the material of thought?’ when embarking on a work of art. Carter claims that the decisions that are made in the artistic process are inevitably material ones. He sees these decisions as part of creative research.
He asserts that societies are “mythopoetic inventions” and that it is necessary for us to understand how identities form and “how relationships with others are actively invented (and therefore susceptible to reinvention)” if our societies are to sustain themselves. It is one function of the artist to rematerialise these metaphysical myths through the creative process and to show how more sustainable artificial myths can come into circulation. Artists can do this by “displacing those myths that are no longer sustainable and brokering a new relationship with degraded environments, displaced others and…an impoverished imaginary.” By undertaking creative research in a collaborative environment, the artist can hope to broaden a community’s understanding of itself and of the society and the environment of which it is part.
Carter concludes the prologue to his book by declaring that “in the end, collaboration is not simply a pragmatic response to increasingly complex work conditions; it is what happens wherever artists talk about what they are doing, in that simple but enigmatic step, joining hand, eye and mind in the process of material thinking.”
Appendix:
Sydney Art Exchange collaboration
In July 2010, the seven artists making up the not-for-profit artist organization, Sydney Art Exchange, hung their collaborative work Girt By Sea in the Bondi Pavilion as part of a joint exhibition by the same name. The artists involved were Anya Pesce, Kerry MacAulay, Christina Puth, Elke Wohlfahrt, David Jones, Eleanor Er and Corinne Brittain.
The forty-nine pieces making up the work stretched the whole length of one wall of the gallery and extended around the corner onto the adjacent wall. Each A5 (20cm x 15cm) piece was framed separately. The individual pieces had been created over the previous seven months according to a set of guidelines created by Sydney Art Exchange artist, Elke Wohlfahrt. Seven blank mdf boards were distributed to each of the seven artists with instructions to create a painting including some motif on the theme ‘girt by sea’, which is a phrase from the Australian national anthem (as in ‘our home is girt by sea’). These motifs were not verbally divulged to the other artists. On the appointed day the artists sent their completed works by mail to the next artist designated on their roster. Over the following month the artists created a new work incorporating their own motif as before and including some element from the work they had received in the mail. Each of the second paintings was again posted to the next artist on their roster. The process continued over the next seven months until each artist had completed seven paintings.
Frames had previously been constructed and lime washed by the participating artists. The group gathered to frame the collection of paintings before the July exhibition; each artist bringing the seven works which they had collected over the time of the collaboration. It was a revelation to finally view the entire collection of the collaborative works and to begin to identify the interweaving of the various motifs that the artists had used.
The artists explained their ideas about ‘girt by sea’ in relation to the motifs they had chosen. Pesce’s concept of a vertebra shape referred to life and existence on this planet – past, present and future. She placed the shape on paintings of golden sand, blue water and sky. Puth’s works were inspired by the relationship of the sea and sky and the constant change in colour and shape of these two elements. Particular words from the national anthem were placed in Brittain’s works to convey concerns about climate change, border protection policies and indigenous issues. Jones saw the colours of golden sand, blue sea and white surf as defining the Australian way of life and expressed a desire to see these incorporated in an ‘independent Australia’ flag design. Er overlaid the letters spelling out AUSTRALIA on her paintings depicting where land meets sea. The shape of the Australian continent was repeated in all of Wohlfahrt’s works and references to weather told of climate and climate change in the Southern Hemisphere. MacAulay’s Girt By Sea pieces were concerned with the idea of Australians surveying the sea from the beaches. She used the stylised surf lifesaver’s chair to represent the perceived need for vigilance; recognising the dangers posed by the sea itself from sharks, rips and tidal waves; and referencing political concerns such as watching for boat people, and dealing with quarantine issues and the importation of drugs and illegal products.
There was no restriction on the materials that could be used in the collaborative work. This allowed the artists to consider for themselves the most appropriate material to convey their ideas. All artists used paint in some form but other materials ranged from glitter, sponge, found manufactured objects, photographs, newspaper cuttings, and shells. Artists also chose whether to make any one of the works as portrait or landscape format. In the end, eleven of the works were in portrait format. This introduced some variety in the hanging at the gallery.
The hanging of the work was the final challenge in the collaborative process as the artists discussed the most appropriate way to show the pieces. At that point there was no individual ownership of the separate pieces. It was clearly a single work by a group of artists in collaboration. Any decisions made about the hanging were from a curatorial point of view.
As the artists were required to envigilate the exhibition, there were many opportunities to talk to visitors about the collaborative work. The experience of speaking to visitors about each other’s work deepened their own appreciation for, and enjoyment of, the work as a whole. The artists agreed that individual pieces of the work should be sold separately and all proceeds were directed to the Sydney Art Exchange rather than to the individual artists.
The Earth Shook - by Rick
“Mr. Brown I know you asked not to be disturbed but the caller says it’s urgent. Will you take his call or should I take a message?”
I sighed before answering. Here I am on my 65th birthday and packing up my belongings after 44 years with IBM. Can’t a man have a few minutes to himself before he’s celebrated twice over?
“Put him through Mary. I won’t be returning any messages after today.”
“Gary Brown. What can I do for you?”, I snorted into the phone, trying to be gruff and businesslike at the same time.
“How do you do Mr. Brown. My name is Arthur Bromley and I have something to say to you that, how shall I say it, is of a rather delicate nature. I was wondering if I could come by your offices in a few moments to talk to you about it?”
“Well Arthur, judging by your Pommy accent, I expected it to be of a delicate nature. What is it? You want to sell me some life insurance?”
“No, no. Nothing like that at all.”, Arthur chuckled. “Although I’m sure you will find what I know to be a bit life-altering. I know it was for me.”
“Is this Amway? My friend Lois already tried to get me in on Amway. I’m retiring in about 15 minutes and don’t need any extra money thanks. Look I’m busy. I’ve got to clean up here and then go to a party. I was in a good mood or would never have agreed to this call in the first place. If you can’t just tell me what this call is about, we’ll have to call it a day.”
“No I’m not from Amway either. All right I’ll give it a try. Oh dear, this is rather awkward. Last month I received a letter from my mother telling me that a Fredrick Brown had died. Does that name mean anything to you?”
“Could be Arthur. Fred Brown was my father and he did pass away last year. But it’s a common enough name. Go on.”
“Well what was in the letter was the real shocker. She said that she was to upset to tell me in person or even over the phone. It appears that this Fredrick Brown was my father, which upset me also as she had always maintained that father died during the Battle of Britain. Not so and I’ll condense my story to say that I have followed up on this realization to ascertain that indeed, your father Fredrick Brown and my father are one and the same. So I’m calling to see if you would like to meet your brother.”
The city never seemed so silent as it did at that moment. The only noise came from my desk as it rattled while the earth shook. I caught my breath.
“Arthur come over to my office and we’ll take it from there. It ooks like I might be thrice celebrated today.”
I sighed before answering. Here I am on my 65th birthday and packing up my belongings after 44 years with IBM. Can’t a man have a few minutes to himself before he’s celebrated twice over?
“Put him through Mary. I won’t be returning any messages after today.”
“Gary Brown. What can I do for you?”, I snorted into the phone, trying to be gruff and businesslike at the same time.
“How do you do Mr. Brown. My name is Arthur Bromley and I have something to say to you that, how shall I say it, is of a rather delicate nature. I was wondering if I could come by your offices in a few moments to talk to you about it?”
“Well Arthur, judging by your Pommy accent, I expected it to be of a delicate nature. What is it? You want to sell me some life insurance?”
“No, no. Nothing like that at all.”, Arthur chuckled. “Although I’m sure you will find what I know to be a bit life-altering. I know it was for me.”
“Is this Amway? My friend Lois already tried to get me in on Amway. I’m retiring in about 15 minutes and don’t need any extra money thanks. Look I’m busy. I’ve got to clean up here and then go to a party. I was in a good mood or would never have agreed to this call in the first place. If you can’t just tell me what this call is about, we’ll have to call it a day.”
“No I’m not from Amway either. All right I’ll give it a try. Oh dear, this is rather awkward. Last month I received a letter from my mother telling me that a Fredrick Brown had died. Does that name mean anything to you?”
“Could be Arthur. Fred Brown was my father and he did pass away last year. But it’s a common enough name. Go on.”
“Well what was in the letter was the real shocker. She said that she was to upset to tell me in person or even over the phone. It appears that this Fredrick Brown was my father, which upset me also as she had always maintained that father died during the Battle of Britain. Not so and I’ll condense my story to say that I have followed up on this realization to ascertain that indeed, your father Fredrick Brown and my father are one and the same. So I’m calling to see if you would like to meet your brother.”
The city never seemed so silent as it did at that moment. The only noise came from my desk as it rattled while the earth shook. I caught my breath.
“Arthur come over to my office and we’ll take it from there. It ooks like I might be thrice celebrated today.”
Wednesday, 4 August 2010
Sues - The Earth Shakes
The earth shakes. The fragile double storey timber house rocks on its stilts. The dining room table, which is more like a card table, wobbles on its spindly legs. The egg cup rattles on the plastic plate and the bread and butter soldiers fall off onto the tablecloth. Even the high chair, supposedly ergonomic and sturdy in design, slips and slides on the wooden floor.
And Billy is having a wonderful time. There he is in his high chair, whooping and yelling, throwing his little arms around in the air and beating his legs against the legs of the chair.
Mary is hanging onto the kitchen island with one hand. With the other she is trying to gather, into a little pile, the loose utensils and ingredient packets for the jam sponge she’s making. It’s pretty difficult with one hand and now the egg carton has just flown across the granite surface. She sighs with relief that Billy is OK and not scared as she’s not sure how she could negotiate the distance between the kitchen and the high chair. She relaxes a second and glances outside.
The view is unbelievable. The sky has turned jet black and has become a moving fury of rolling cloud, interspersed with wild zig zags of terrifying looking fork lightening. The clouds vibrate and echo with roars of thunder so loud that the room, the house and the earth shake. Branches, big and small, fly past the windows, trailed by a flurry of leaves, bits of twig and the odd birds nest. Next, Mary tries to imagine what is going on down in the street. She’s six floors up and suspended, or that’s what it feels like, off the ground.
Umbrellas are either, well and truly inside out or else have been furiously wrenched from their owner’s hands to join the debris of stuff flying around in the sky. Their frames all buckled and bent, their waterproof covers in shreds. Plastic dustbins are probably rolling around the pavements like a load of fallen ten pin bowling pins, lids are doing cartwheels along the gutters. Anyone with any sense is taking cover in the local cafe.
Wow. Mary’s white knuckles grip the granite tighter and she braces her feet against the cupboard door. A sheet of blinding white lightening coincides with such a loud rumble of thunder that she’s positive the house bends right over to the left. Billy yells with joy and he bashes the egg spoon on his tray like a set of bong bong drums.
Phew. It’s gone eerily quiet. Nothing flies past the rain sodden window. The sky lightens amazingly fast. Billy’s egg cup settles back onto the plate, his high chair stands so still, it’s as if it is never moved. The house is once more grounded on its foundations. Now the next drama starts. Billy is crying, not just softly and steadily but in bucket loads. A sea of tears cascade down his cheeks and furious gulps of air whistle through his wheezy chest. He keeps pointing at the bread and butter soldiers, now lying in a muddle on the floor.
And Billy is having a wonderful time. There he is in his high chair, whooping and yelling, throwing his little arms around in the air and beating his legs against the legs of the chair.
Mary is hanging onto the kitchen island with one hand. With the other she is trying to gather, into a little pile, the loose utensils and ingredient packets for the jam sponge she’s making. It’s pretty difficult with one hand and now the egg carton has just flown across the granite surface. She sighs with relief that Billy is OK and not scared as she’s not sure how she could negotiate the distance between the kitchen and the high chair. She relaxes a second and glances outside.
The view is unbelievable. The sky has turned jet black and has become a moving fury of rolling cloud, interspersed with wild zig zags of terrifying looking fork lightening. The clouds vibrate and echo with roars of thunder so loud that the room, the house and the earth shake. Branches, big and small, fly past the windows, trailed by a flurry of leaves, bits of twig and the odd birds nest. Next, Mary tries to imagine what is going on down in the street. She’s six floors up and suspended, or that’s what it feels like, off the ground.
Umbrellas are either, well and truly inside out or else have been furiously wrenched from their owner’s hands to join the debris of stuff flying around in the sky. Their frames all buckled and bent, their waterproof covers in shreds. Plastic dustbins are probably rolling around the pavements like a load of fallen ten pin bowling pins, lids are doing cartwheels along the gutters. Anyone with any sense is taking cover in the local cafe.
Wow. Mary’s white knuckles grip the granite tighter and she braces her feet against the cupboard door. A sheet of blinding white lightening coincides with such a loud rumble of thunder that she’s positive the house bends right over to the left. Billy yells with joy and he bashes the egg spoon on his tray like a set of bong bong drums.
Phew. It’s gone eerily quiet. Nothing flies past the rain sodden window. The sky lightens amazingly fast. Billy’s egg cup settles back onto the plate, his high chair stands so still, it’s as if it is never moved. The house is once more grounded on its foundations. Now the next drama starts. Billy is crying, not just softly and steadily but in bucket loads. A sea of tears cascade down his cheeks and furious gulps of air whistle through his wheezy chest. He keeps pointing at the bread and butter soldiers, now lying in a muddle on the floor.
Sunday, 1 August 2010
The Late Letter--Gordon
The Late Letter
One week after attending the funeral of a close friend, you receive a postcard in your letter box with the words, "I'm not dead. Meet me Friday at Guido's Pizzeria. Tell no one."
I ran to the mailbox in a great hurry. It was a cold and freezing day so I grabbed the letters, and as always seems to happen, dropped one. Bending down to pick it up it was covered in mud. It was late and I needed to prepare dinner so put the letters on the side table. It had been a difficult week, and we both felt tired and exhausted. Mike was in a reflective mood, and said, I can’t believe that Mark is dead. My thoughts raced back to the funeral, I had not been to many funerals. It was an unnerving experience feeling emotions out of control. I cried, and left in a state of disbelief. I was not complete, even though the funeral was a week ago.
Dinner was over, and Mike said: “What was in the mail?” So we sat and opened the mail. I looked at the muddy letter and thought I recognized the writing–it was from Mark. Tears came to my eyes again, as I thought of Mark, he was so alive, and such good fun. He was only 43 and seemed to have much in his future.
I opened the letter and inside was a postcard, and scrawled across the back of it was “I’m not dead. Meet me Friday at Guido’s Pizzeria. Tell no one.” I could not believe what I was reading. My thoughts raced. Do I tell Mike? I thought quickly: I can’t tell Mike. Holding the card away from me, I rapidly made up a story. “Mike, before he died, he sent me a letter, saying why don’t we meet for lunch.” In a laconic tone Mike said: “Better than the dead letter box.” That was a close escape I thought to myself, putting the card in my handbag.
I don’t like pizza, but I was early arriving at Guido’s just as it opened. In the back corner of the restaurant was a table with two chairs. Ideal for a clandestine meeting, so I sat down at the table and waited. Soon the waiter came and asked “Would you like a cup of coffee?” Slowly, I drank my coffee and every few minutes looked out to the street to see if I could see Mark coming. Deep down, I knew Mark was dead, yet there was always a glimmer of hope that he still may be alive. I waited, and I waited. “Another coffee, please”, I asked.
It was two hours and four coffees, so I got up and walked away from the table. In that moment, Mark walked through the door. I ran and hugged him–very tightly. “Mark, I thought you were dead.” He said: “Sssh, don’t say anything.” Lets go over to the park where we can talk. We walked silently.
Secluded by trees we sat on a park bench and Mark explained. “I was kidnapped but escaped two days ago. I must be very careful. I need your help. You see, I owed a million to Featherstone Associates. They kidnapped me and were going to send me to Nigeria to work as a slave till I had paid the money back. They paid the undertaker to set up a funeral and told you and Mark and a few others I was dead. They are looking for me and I need to go underground.” “Mark”, I said, “this is really risky, let’s go to the police.” “No, I think the local copper was in on the deal” he said. I stood up to think and turned around. Suddenly, a shot rang out. Mark was slumped on the bench.
Gordon MacAulay
1 August 2009
One week after attending the funeral of a close friend, you receive a postcard in your letter box with the words, "I'm not dead. Meet me Friday at Guido's Pizzeria. Tell no one."
I ran to the mailbox in a great hurry. It was a cold and freezing day so I grabbed the letters, and as always seems to happen, dropped one. Bending down to pick it up it was covered in mud. It was late and I needed to prepare dinner so put the letters on the side table. It had been a difficult week, and we both felt tired and exhausted. Mike was in a reflective mood, and said, I can’t believe that Mark is dead. My thoughts raced back to the funeral, I had not been to many funerals. It was an unnerving experience feeling emotions out of control. I cried, and left in a state of disbelief. I was not complete, even though the funeral was a week ago.
Dinner was over, and Mike said: “What was in the mail?” So we sat and opened the mail. I looked at the muddy letter and thought I recognized the writing–it was from Mark. Tears came to my eyes again, as I thought of Mark, he was so alive, and such good fun. He was only 43 and seemed to have much in his future.
I opened the letter and inside was a postcard, and scrawled across the back of it was “I’m not dead. Meet me Friday at Guido’s Pizzeria. Tell no one.” I could not believe what I was reading. My thoughts raced. Do I tell Mike? I thought quickly: I can’t tell Mike. Holding the card away from me, I rapidly made up a story. “Mike, before he died, he sent me a letter, saying why don’t we meet for lunch.” In a laconic tone Mike said: “Better than the dead letter box.” That was a close escape I thought to myself, putting the card in my handbag.
I don’t like pizza, but I was early arriving at Guido’s just as it opened. In the back corner of the restaurant was a table with two chairs. Ideal for a clandestine meeting, so I sat down at the table and waited. Soon the waiter came and asked “Would you like a cup of coffee?” Slowly, I drank my coffee and every few minutes looked out to the street to see if I could see Mark coming. Deep down, I knew Mark was dead, yet there was always a glimmer of hope that he still may be alive. I waited, and I waited. “Another coffee, please”, I asked.
It was two hours and four coffees, so I got up and walked away from the table. In that moment, Mark walked through the door. I ran and hugged him–very tightly. “Mark, I thought you were dead.” He said: “Sssh, don’t say anything.” Lets go over to the park where we can talk. We walked silently.
Secluded by trees we sat on a park bench and Mark explained. “I was kidnapped but escaped two days ago. I must be very careful. I need your help. You see, I owed a million to Featherstone Associates. They kidnapped me and were going to send me to Nigeria to work as a slave till I had paid the money back. They paid the undertaker to set up a funeral and told you and Mark and a few others I was dead. They are looking for me and I need to go underground.” “Mark”, I said, “this is really risky, let’s go to the police.” “No, I think the local copper was in on the deal” he said. I stood up to think and turned around. Suddenly, a shot rang out. Mark was slumped on the bench.
Gordon MacAulay
1 August 2009
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