Farewell To All That (3)

FAREWELL TO ALL THAT (3)

I stared at the Priestess in horror:

'You're missing the point; I'm packing it in. The mores of society drive me insane. Where's the gain in a system that lies through its teeth; that thrives on bad faith and on misplaced belief?'

'There's no need to bellow,' boomed the Priestess.

I continued (this time, in verse),

'I will not come and live here.
I really can't stand
The role of devotion;
To jump on demand.
The faithful companion;
It's not in my blood.
I have no loving instinct.
(Perhaps, I'm a dud?)
But, I'm sure I'm not willing
To give up my life.
I could've got married,
Become a good wife.
No, it's not in my nature
To nurture and care. . . '

'You will die sad and lonely. Of that, please, beware.'

Nescio (14)

NESCIO (14)

The priestess cracked open some more duty-free.

She washed it down with a super-sized tea: of penne and goats' cheese, some mushrooms and peas. (It has to be said the priestess was pleased with the combination of flavours and tastes. The woman hated good food to go to waste. It was pure serendipity that the ingredients necessary for the feast on her plate were still in the fridge after she returned home quite late.)

The priestess turned her attention to the mother. Things hadn't worked after she'd taken a lover. The man was a psychopath, an idiot brute. (They all gave a cheer when she gave him the boot.)

But, the mother was left feeling lonely and scared. She returned her affections to those for whom she cared most: the sister and brother (once so close to each other).

It broke her heart to see them so sad. (Indeed, it ultimately drove her mad.) And, though the mother was exemplary in terms of love and generosity, she was quite incapable - currently - of providing what was needed when her children learned that their father was dead.

Tweeting: That's Barking, Surely? (Animal Farm)

'So, we've now been told we have to get tweeting; the powers that be are tired of our bleating. We have to twitter our every success, but I hate all this crowing;  prefer mooing and lowing. After all, I'm a cow, and HE is a mess.'

'Really? (She's alluded to her bovine status previously, I believe.)'

'Yes.'

'Well, I own that I'm prone to carping and braying but I confess that these days my nerves are just fraying.'

'Bless. . .  (He's definitely repeating himself.)

'There are those that chit-chat and those that cluck, but it's the latter who always pass the buck. You've spotted, I'm sure, it's the ones with the trotters who turn out to be the absolute rotters? It's the ones with their snouts dug deep in the dirt who manage to get you just where it hurts.'

'Meow. . . 

'I say, something's really got your goat. You've only been asked to boast some, and gloat. If you don't, be careful, you may miss the boat.  There are plenty more fish in the sea.'

'So I see. But, really, don't you think we ought to warn the small-fry they're just lambs to the slaughter? In the meantime, don't count your chickens before they're hatched. Remember your tweets will need to be matched by proof that what you've done has had significant (REF) impact.'

From The Series: 'Some Very Short Photo-Essays'

The American Road-Trip

(Or, Don't Wait For The Hearse To Take You To Church, with thanks to Robert Frank, Ed Ruscha, Stephen Shore, Michael Omerod and Mitch Epstein)

And, for D, born 20.04.64

The Point of 0.6 (2)

The Cow Is Over The Moon

'Hey diddle diddle,' she murmured to herself as she savoured her humus and harissa pitta, sitting at her desk in front of her computer. 

Well, so far so good. The horse still wasn't running and the barking was all but done.  Just some samples to moderate and some late submissions; the latter could wait, after all they were ... late. They'd be later still by the time she got round to looking at them. 

Her first 0.6 payslip had momentarily fazed her; but she was used to frugality and that was the answer. She would spend all her free time outside; pecuniary matters mattered little in the countryside.

'The cat and the fiddle,' she sang out loud.

'I've heard of that place,' he said.

'What place?' she enquired. She'd forgotten he was there.  On reflection she decided he looked decidedly tired. 'You should get out more,' she suggested.  'Nothing like a good walk to ensure you feel relaxed and rested.'

'The Cat and the Fiddle,' he repeated.  'It's a pub. People walk from there.'

'Walk where?'

'That I don't know.  It's miles from anywhere. You like to walk. You should try it.  Though I've never seen the point.  Especially the circular walk. I really don't buy it.'

'Well, inadvertently (of that, of course, I'm convinced) you've just hit the nail on the head. Today's society is all about consuming, about purchasing, about buying. The great thing about walking is that it actually costs nothing. Better still, I see it as a form of subversion. The primary drive behind late-capitalist culture is productivity. The great thing about walking is that you expend lots of energy and produce nothing of measurable value at all. Except, of course, muscular power and increased lung capacity. Something some of us could benefit from, non?'

'Why are you looking at me like that?' he asked accusingly.

'Moi?' she responded, hopefully, amusingly.

'Has it ever occurred to you that you're a cow?'

'Funny you should say that. Ha. The next line of my ditty is perfectly bovary, pertinently bovine: 'the cow jumps over the moon'.  But I, too, prefer Bob Dylan's line. To the point as ever, some may even say blunt: 'you're a cow'. (Ballad of a Thin Man, in case you were trying to locate the lyric.)'

'And your point is?' he responded, pointedly. 'Are you saying I'm fat?'

'Au contraire . . .'

'Speak English, you bitch.'

'You are so prescient in your anticipation of the next stanza of my rhyme: 'The little dog laughed to see such fun.'

'Great. And the relevance of the dish and the spoon? Got you there, I'll bet, even if you are over the moon.'

'Well, no actually. I have found the most adorable dish, and I believe he's found his spoon.'