God's diary: The early bits

Eternity past 1: Well, here I am.

Eternity past 2: This is rather boring.

Eternity past 3: Dull. Dull. Dull.

Eternity past 4: A hobby, that's what I need, a hobby. I'd collect stamps but I haven't created them yet.

Tuesday, half past three: I know, I'll make something, sort of a DIY project. I'll start next week. What's a 'week'? I'll have to make that first.

Sunday, beginning of time: Dawn is early, isn't it. I should have made it about half past ten, that's a more civilised time for it. Next time. Made matter and energy today. They made a satisfying sound when they exploded. I should read the instructions on the box.

Wednesday, beginning of time: I've been busy. I created fish and moons and jam and zebras and asteroids and newspapers and stars and toast and newts. Lots of stuff. Once you start, you can't stop, a new idea pops into your head and, bang, it's six legs, no legs, wings, four legs, eyes and teeth everywhere. I may need to send out for more pieces.

Friday, beginning of time: Worked in the garden all week. Frankly I'm sick of it. Got tired and did things in a hurry. Painted everything green. Who'll care? Back sore. I have blisters from weeding. I should have paid more for turf.

Saturday, beginning of time: Took up sculpting today. Break from the damn garden. Nice. He looked quite good. Forgot urinary tract and reproductive system. Had to stick it on the outside as an afterthought. Will create pants to cover up shoddy work. Too tired today. Fig leaves will do. Hands dirty.

Sunday, beginning of time: I'm buggered. Should have joined union. Slept in late. Mum brought breakfast in. She's sweet. Will take day off. I deserve it.

6000BC : Just had a look in. Christ, they've messed the place up! And there's so many of them! They are very hairy. Oh well, no harm done really. Shake the old etch-o-sketch and start again. I like the geography though. The mountains and valleys look quite nice. I'll keep them. Just get the exterminators in to fumigate the place. Damn. Can't come until next Thursday. I'll just cover the whole thing with water. That'll fix them. Well, except the ducks. And the fish. And the whales. And seagulls. And so on.

Talked to some old guy. Told him to build a boat. Delegate. You have to do it.

250BC: Just told some prophet to wear a radish on his head for twenty years to symbolise poor town planning. These nuts will do anything. Bit of a laugh really.

The Orchestra

The modern orchestra owes its origins to our distant ancestors. Small groups of hunter gatherers scouring the shoreline for meagre food sources would occasionally come across the enormous skeleton of a stranded whale picked clean by sea birds. Fascinated, they would climb all over the bones, rapping here and there with their clubs. The cacophony thus produced was oddly pleasing to their ears. (It is a little known fact that whale skeletons are tuned in F sharp.) In their primitive tongue 'Orca' (for 'whale') gave rise to our 'orchestra', for a group of people engaged in making noise in a co-operative manner.

Since those times, of course, whales have almost completely disappeared from the orchestra having found more lucrative employ in the opera as baritones. Distant echoes of that time can still be seen in the xylophone with its clear resemblance to rib bones.The orchestra is divided into sections, each of which pays its own cab fare. There is the wing section, home of the ducks and geese. In winter entire pieces must be struck from the repertoire as this section tends to migrate. The wind section is so named for obvious reasons. First and second baboon are particularly prone to punctuating Strauss waltzes with noisy blasts owing to their all fruit diet. The smell dissipates slowly, but not before rendering patrons in the stalls unconscious. The percussion section bears closest resemblance to our ancestors on that distant shore. Often clothed in animal skins, they continue in a tradition often handed down from father to dog of striking anything stationary with a stick, or possibly two.

At the forefront of the orchestra stands the conductor. He wants to make sure that they have all paid their fare and to assign sleeping compartments. He sweeps the air majestically with his baton but none of the orchestra see him. They are too busy reading their music or making bets. The music swells. The conductor swells. He had seafood and regrets it now. Small fires break out amidst the violins. Bravely the orchestra pushes on. The horns sound. There is a traffic jam and they don't want to be late for the ending of the piece. The music is climbing to a crescendo where it can get a better look. The triumphant final chord rings out. It sends for a pizza. The concert is over. The conductor bows. The orchestra bows. The audience bows. Everyone is so polite here.

As the patrons file out, they know they have participated in a cultural practice as old as time, or at least Uncle Phillip. Their duty to society paid, they can once again face the light unashamed. They have been to the orchestra.

Waves

The smallest wave upon the shore

Is still the ocean - nothing more

And so it is with you and me

Waves on an eternal sea

Tarzan

Deep in darkest Africa

Within its Congo heart

Tarzan grew to be a man

From a rather shaky start

Bereft of dear old Mum and Dad

And in a dreadful scrape

Tarzan was raised to manhood

By a tender hearted ape

Just as well that apes are not

Like humans, you and me

They would have left him die for sure

Another refugee

Napoleon's Hat

Napoleon's hat lies wilting

On a dusty shelf somewhere

Between Marconi's underpants

And a lock of Shakespeare's hair,

But savage dreams of empire

Still linger in its brim

And it mourns its former owner

And keenly misses him,

For Napoleon grew downwards

From his hat down to the ground,

And served as locomotion

For his hat to get around.

Emily Bronte

Emily Bronte wrote a book

(It's rather good,

Worth a look.)

Passion filled

With love insane,

It makes me think 

About her brain,

And what it was

That lead her to

Write such a 

Fascinating stew

Of madness, sex

And tragedy?

What dwelt inside?

What could it be?

What jungl'd heart

Beat within

That placid breast

Victorian?

Folk Surgery

All over the country they are springing up. Folk surgery clubs are being formed by enthusiastic amateurs keen on maintaining their link with the grand living traditions of surgery as handed down father to son to dog for generations, free from the pollution of professionalism and the cold clinical eye of modern science.

Like all folk traditions, many threads make up the fabric of folk surgery. Some conservative traditionalists will commit to nothing more than what was known to Galen from 100 CE. Admittedly their clubs are few in number, but their rigorous adherence to ancient surgery more than makes up for their rapidly declining numbers.

Some people prefer to dwell in those halcyon Victorian days with bright steel instruments unfettered by blind compliance with the upstart Pasteur. Such meetings do tend to be characterised by cheerful screams and noxious odours, but enthusiasts quickly become immune to such minor unpleasantness.

On special Fair days, different surgery clubs will set up their brightly coloured tents and practise their own favourite historical techniques on each other and the unwary passer-by. A wonderful afternoon can be had by the whole family for the trifle of a few minor amputations. How the children laugh to see father hobble so. Jolly times! Teeth extractions can be arranged for the squeamish who merely wish to dabble in this most delightful pastime.

God discussions

In discussions about God

I find it rather odd

That evidence demands such small attention,

Some accept uncritically

What from others they would see

As nothing more than obvious invention.

Darwin and the basset.

The story of Charles Darwin and the Beagle has been well documented. There have been books, documentaries, films and even a set of collector cards which were never a big seller. Now, after much research, the relationship between Darwin and another breed, the basset, can be told.

Late in 2009, a Scottish professor of linguine living in Johannesburg  was reviewing his private collection of limpet pornography when he discovered a cache of private letters that Darwin wrote to a Lady Breathless of Aberdeen. The contents have shocked the academic world and can at last be revealed.

Several letters are specifically related to Bassets and Darwin's  fascination with the breed.

Early in the correspondence Darwin writes: 'When I was but a child our family pet was a basset, Ralph. How fondly I remember the long idle hours we spent together on the wild moors, discussing philosophy. Ralph favoured Spinoza.'

He speaks candidly of his crisis of faith on Ralph's death: 'How could this saintly creature die? In what divine plan does Ralph's demise by melon make any kind of sense?'

At times, Darwin's relationship with bassets borders on the obsessional: 'I must have more bassets! Please send me more money to rescue another six hounds from the workhouse. With just six more my theories will be complete. Have you seen my hat?' 

Darwin first book, 'The Origin of Species' was originally dedicated to his dear Ralph. Later editions removed the dedication for its unwholesome undertones. At last the truth can be revealed.

Hard Boiled

I leaned back in my chair with my feet on the desk and poured myself another scotch. It was a little early in the day for the breakfast of champions but I needed all the help I could get. My one man detective agency wasn't faring too well. In the last three weeks the only cases I had were the cases of scotch whose last inhabitant was sitting on the desk in front of me. It was half empty. I'm that kind of guy.

The intercom twerped. It used to buzz but we couldn't afford it and had to send the buzz back by registered mail. My secretary, Miss Dulcet, spoke. As usual the sound of her voice rearranged my pants.

'Sam, you have a new client waiting to see you.' That was a sentence I wasn't expecting to hear, but then again 'Your camel has stolen my watch' was another sentence I wasn't expecting to hear and I didn't. So much for philosophy.

'Shoo them in, Angel, shoo them in.'

A vision stepped into the room. It was followed by the most beautiful woman I had ever seen swathed in a heady cloud of  blossoms and spice. That fragrance told a story. I think it was the one about two Jewish tailors and a lion. She moved sinuously up to my desk, her hips telegraphing an invitation in sign language that would have seen her jailed in five states. She sat. I wished she'd used the chair. She showed a shapely expanse of thigh. It was a shame it wasn't hers.

'Where did you find that?' I asked her.

'It came by post just this morning,' she said. Her voice sounded like angels eating roast beef. 'I'm just so frightened, oh I do hope you can help me, Mr Shakespeare.' She started to cry.

'Now, now, Angel,' I calmed her, 'We'll sort it out. You'd better start in the middle, I bore easily.'

The Heavy Night

Brian Heliotrope was woken from a deep sleep by the gentle sound of rain falling on a tin roof. He was momentarily confused since he knew he was sleeping out side. Opening his eyes, he saw the stars in the clear night sky shining down unblinking, uncaring and merciless, like galactic tax auditors. Once again he contemplated the viscitudes of life. He thought about steak too. How far could his fall from grace take him? Would he need to change trains? Where was his hat?

He turned towards the sound that had awakened him. It was just another wino on fire, the cheery blaze making flickering shadows on the brick wall behind him. Look, a rabbit, now a duck. What talent!

Brian despaired. His talents had deserted him along with his second pair of pants. Now he could only shuffle along the hard streets, occassionally breaking into a soft shoe routine, the stares of passers-by squeezing his spleen.

All hope was gone. It took the 3:19 to Central and made him pay for the ticket. It wanted a window seat.

The first grey streaks of dawn appeared in the sky, which was nice, because the day before they had appeared in a paper bag blwing carelessly down the street. Brian climbed clumsily to his feet, or perhaps someone else's feet, and stumbled off to face another day.

The dead have no names

The dead have no names.

For a single generation their name lingers

And slowly fades like a photograph exposed to the sun.

For a single generation their interest in the earth

Holds them,

But the kite string that binds them to us turns to smoke

And they drift away.

God talk

My metaphysics are in a mess. I've been going through a practical atheist phase now for some time. I've read the books, considered the arguments, examined the evidence, and for the most part I have to say the atheists make a great deal of sense. Religion of any sort often makes little sense. The Buddhists do pretty well by mostly ignoring the whole thing.

Perhaps they're on to something.


When ever we want to talk about something, even if it's with ourselves we use language. Our language started as labels for things. The words we used were non-material symbols for very real things. What makes language work is that, for the most part, we agree on what words signify. If I say 'apple' you have a pretty clear idea what I'm talking about. We can agree (and have a reasonable conversation about) apples because we agree on their properties.

But what does the word 'God' mean? For a start, no two people seem to agree on the nature and properties of God. Furthermore, a label distinguishes an object from its background, for example, 'apple' splits the world into two bits, that which is an apple, and that which is not. But God, if it is any sort of God at all, is not just another object in the universe, and we simply can't point to bits and say THAT is God, but THIS is not God.

That's why some modern theologians say things like God is not A being, but God IS being. God does not exist, but God is existence. Some people find this kind of talk unintelligible. Atheists can rightly point out it sounds like nonsense. But any talk of God is going to sound like nonsense because God is beyond language.

So what then should we do? I say, let's give up God talk. We all know what we have to do: be kind and compassionate. How hard can it be?

Get over yourself

Get over yourself

You're not very bright

It's plain accidental

If ever you're right

Your slim grasp on logic

Gives philosophers fright

Get over yourself

You're not very bright

Get over yourself

You're not very smart

You think you're so precious

With your terrible art

But you're less a Picasso

And more of a tart

Get over yourself

You're not very smart

Get over yourself

You're simply absurd

And not just to me

From what I have heard

Your view of realty's

Constantly blurred

Get over yourself

You're simply absurd

Get over yourself

You're not very sweet

You're not in the kitchen

'Cause you can't stand the heat

As for duplicity

You can't be beat

Get over yourself

You're not very sweet

Get over yourself

You're not very wise

You say that you love me

But we all know that's lies

And when you get caught out

It's such a surprise

Get over yourself

You're not very wise

Get over yourself

You're not very dear

Your plain self absorption's

Abundantly clear

Whenever you're needed

You just disappear

Get over yourself

You're not very dear

Get over yourself

You're so self obsessed

You don't have a thought

That goes unexpressed

Perhaps a psychiatrist

Could say it best

Get over yourself

You're so self obsessed

Get over yourself

You don't run this town

You think you're so open

But your brain has shut down

I simply don't care

If you gossip or frown

Get over yourself

You don't run this town

Ukuleles

I, too, used to be a mocker. 'Ukuleles! Pfft!' I thought. 'A toy, only fit for children and blue rinse ladies.' But, dear readers, there is a phenomenon sweeping the globe. Suddenly, ukes are COOL! And I understand why.

Musicians are prone to taking themselves oh, so seriously. Young women play endless angsty songs in quavery little voices while young men parade their alienation and hurt (and implicit superiority) for the world. And woe unto you if you do not appreciate their art and their pain. 

Guess what? Nobody particularly cares about your interior landscape. Get over yourself.

Music is medicine, but it need not taste awful. Instead, wouldn't it be nice to live in a world where music and laughter went together, where the musician was closer to a clown than a dentist? That world is here, and your passport is a ukulele. You can play anything on a ukulele. You can be enthusiastic, but you will never be serious. 

Check out Jake. Then pick your jaw up off the floor and go buy yourself a uke.

Worry

Sometimes I lie in bed and worry
I think about the things I said that day
I think about regrets and unkept promise
I guess I am a knucklehead that way

Sometimes I lie in bed and worry
I feel concern for all the human race
I worry that if gravity should fail
We'd all go spinning off in outer space

Sometimes I lie in bed and worry
Wicked people really cause me fright
What if Hitler should rise up from his grave
And come to cause me problems in the night

Sometimes I lie in bed and worry
I'm concerned as all the galaxies inflate
That countless trillion years into the future
Heat death will become our common fate

Sometimes I lie in bed and worry
I think perhaps I am a worry wart
Which of course is just another reason
To worry I don't worry as I ought

Archie

Archie was an ugly man
Of quite unpleasant face
His nose looked rather ill at ease
And slightly out of place

In fact his nose was quite depressed
And feeling out of sorts
And though it never said too much
Had suicidal thoughts

Archie never had a clue
Of his nose's mental state
But sometimes wondered why it had
Become so quiet of late

It was late on Tuesday evening
When the fire was burning low
That Archie's nose decided
That it was time to go

So striking out upon its own
It started a new life
Finding happiness at last
With an earlobe for a wife

My Bed

My bed, it is a safe place
It's where I like to be
I'm pretty sure that nothing bad
Will happen there to me


To curl up with a good book
My wife beside me there
I can safely put away my fears
My worries and my care

And if it's gently raining
It's even better then
I find it difficult to think
Of getting out again

Sp given that I feel this way
I think it's safely said
There is no problem big enough
That can't be solved in bed

So let's all take the generals
And tuck them tightly in
Tiptoe out, turn off the light
And let the peace begin

Sing for yourself

I love music. Music has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. The greatest connection I had with my father was his nurturing of me as a singer and guitar player.

I remember as a young man I burned with musical ambition. I craved applause and the opportunity to perform. I was certain I wanted to be famous, to make music my life, to be ... a star! Of course that didn't happen. Just as well, really. I'm not cut out for public life, or travel, or criticism, or pressure, or dealing with shifty business types.

Nope, I've had a luxurious musical life, doing what I wanted. It's only recently I've realized it was luxurious. I've always in the back of mind thought of music as a 'means to end', to make money. Now while I've had a little success, in those terms my musical life could only be considered a failure. Too often I've thought of it this way. But that's wrong. 

I was standing paying a bill at a medical practitioner's desk humming to myself and she looked up and said 'Singing is good for the heart.' That thought struck me. She was right, in all kinds of ways. The best reason to sing is for yourself.

Singing is good for the heart.

Tree

Tree, originally uploaded by ordinary-art.