can't get no

a lot of what makes life exciting is seeing the old reinvented or reformed in such a way as to make it both comfortably familiar and then also tweaked or tickled enough to make it unfamiliar. and so “new” enough to excite interest in itself. people can do this sometimes in ways more powerful than cosmetic surgery.
the comic books that i read as a child and traded with my friends drifted off the radar of most kids and certainly most adults but have made a miraculous return that must have publishers and artists rubbing their hands as the graphic novel genre appears to be taking off. i have bought a few graphic novels - mostly remakes of classic novels like crane’s “red badge of courage”. nothing special really but engaging in their visualization of an otherwise occasionally tedious text.
more recently i have been coming across artists releasing their own graphic novels that function side-by-side as powerful graphic and textual statements while also digging deep beneath the skin of popular culture and baring societies' soul. i recently purchased rick veitch’s novel “can’t get no”.
open “can’t get no” to the first three pages and here’s what you’ll read:

“even as it opens . . .
the eye might recoil
fearing the temptation of all that low-hanging fruit ...
on the Tree of Knowledge.
Better to stare straight ahead...
and affect the chiselled grimace
that goes with one’s prescribed position...
on the totem pole of life.”

not your standard comic book fare. but this is not standard comic book fare. prior to the release of “can’t get no”, veitch was known for his clever but much closer to the mainstream work in comic books and graphic books featuring superheros. i wouldn’t have bothered with them myself. the days i read comic books are behind me now - or so i thought. i came across this book on the basis of a recommendation by author neil gaiman who is one of those amazing people who cranks out quality material without exception and so i took his high praise for this work by veitch as an unquestionable recommendation and got myself a copy. here’s what i saw when i opened the book.

page one

page two

page three

i was hooked right off the bat and read it in two sittings . . . . occasionally returning to view images more carefully because i have found with graphic novels that i tend to to be text oriented and don’t slow down enough to fill the words with the graphic associations that the author / illustrator intended. it’s a learned skill.

“can't get no”, is a stream-of-consciousness 'road' narrative about a failed businessman finding himself after the world trade center attacks. the story is told without the usual word balloons using free verse poetry that is jampacked with seemingly random and yet carefully interwoven thoughts and observations.

loosely retold the story goes as follows: corporate exec chad roe had the "perfect" turn-of-the-millenium urban life. however, the trophy wife, the prestigious job and the pills threaten to overwhelm him, and things go from bad to ugly when his company (a permanent marker manufacturer) faces a crippling lawsuit charging it with shouldering the fiscal responsibility for cleaning up all the tags its products have been responsible for throughout the city of new york.

reeling from the financial collapse of his business, chad descends into a night of wild, craziness, only to wake up a "marked" man - literally - his body covered in a permanent tattoo. the ironic twist of the tattooing is that it is his failed company’s product that is used in the tattooing process! then, instead of picking up the pieces of the wreck of his life, he hits the road.

cover image and excerpt at: http://www.dccomics.com/media/excerpts/5267_x.pdf

can’t get no.

true to street model railway

among the many “wish i may wish i might” things on my life’s list is building a model railway system. i’ve always fancied heading down into the basement, turning on the lights and then flicking a switch tucked away under an enormous collection of chipboard tables and listening to the satisfying whirring of little electric motors. sadly, and probably not so sadly when i really think of it, i’ve never got closer to it than reading books and magazines and visiting other people’s set-ups.
what appeals to me is the chance to create something in detail that comes from endless research and then even more endless work. sounds like fun doesn’t it!

there used to be a little shop in peterborough called cosburns. actually, it still exists but it moved from its first location and in so doing lost all of its charm. the first location was a cramped little room essentially functioning as a hobby shop. to get down an aisle already occupied by another person was impossible. when the proprietor asked if you wanted help, well, what was he going to do . . . he couldn’t be in the aisle at the same time as you, so you were on your own to haul down the scale model of the cutty sark, or grab the teeny tiny box of one thirty second scale hydro poles or whatever else you found amongst the piles of jammed together boxes and bags.

what was most cool at this shop was that they had a model train setup that was probably no more than eight feet in total running length but the train crossed a trestle with a roaring torrent below, passed mountain sides, and looked for all intents and purposes like a scene out of the interior of the rocky mountains. when they moved to the new location, the train setup was still there but in a brightly lit aisle that you could share with another person or even two or three other people and somehow, in making the setup better lit and more easily accessible, it lost its magic.

the magic of model railways is still there inside me though and today i’d like to share the work of a guy who has taken that passion - and that’s what it is - and taken it to the nth degree, reproducing urban squallor and decay in an extraordinary feat of realism that will leave those of you who appreciate hobbies suited only to the obsessive compulsive absolutely gobsmacked.

peter feigenbaum is a student at yale university. how he finds the time for this and his other work and hobbies is almost beyond my comprehension. but there are people like peter who somehow make time bend in their favour.

here’s an image of most of his setup taken from a standing position.


here’s an image of a little part of his setup taken from street-level.


here’s a link that will allow you to view the rest of peter’s amazing set up:
http://www.vestaldesign.com/projects/modelrr/
it’s really stunning isn’t it! little tiny street dreams and street nightmares and street art and street life brought to our lives by the imagination and labour and passion of one person.

susanne abbuehl: compass

this morning’s listening comes courtesy of swiss singer susanne abbuehl. her disc “compass” is breathtaking in its ability to take complex text and place it in a very listenable and yet challenging musical frame. the music is typically sparse and economical, an aural pique assiette, giving susanne’s voice the opportunity to slip in and around, through and under the assemblage.
i was drawn to this disc out of curiousity, being attracted in particular to track three (where flamingos fly) which remains my favourite tune as penned by canadian composer gil evans, most famous for his work with miles davis and yet an extraordinary composer and musician in his own right. i first heard this piece of music as a high school student on gil’s album “out of the cool.” i signed this album out of the local branch of the public library over and over, struck by the colour of the music as much as by its difference from anything i had heard to that point. that it was created and pressed in 1960 was of little consequence to me. it was out of the box.

the treatment of this wistful almost mournful tune is exquisite; gentle without the breathy obsequiousness so many female singers resort to instead of delivering true emotion through their voices.
track seven (as well as several other tracks) comes from a similarly sterling pedigree, having been penned originally by james joyce. the words are chosen from a collection of joyce's work released some 100 years ago. go here to read james joyce’s work entitled “chamber music” published in 1907:
http://whitewolf.newcastle.edu.au/words/authors/J/JoyceJames/
verse/chambermusic/index.html

here are the words to two of my favourite pieces:

The twilight turns from amethyst
    To deep and deeper blue,
The lamp fills with a pale green glow
    The trees of the avenue.
The old piano plays an air,
    Sedate and slow and gay;
She bends upon the yellow keys,
    Her head inclines this way.
Shy thought and grave wide eyes and hands
    That wander as they list—
The twilight turns to darker blue
    With lights of amethyst.
james joyce

similarly, “bright cap and streamers” finds its origins in the mind of james joyce:

Bright cap and streamers,
    He sings in the hollow:
    Come follow, come follow,
        All you that love.
Leave dreams to the dreamers
    That will not after,
    That song and laughter
        Do nothing move.
With ribbons streaming
    He sings the bolder;
    In troop at his shoulder
        The wild bees hum.
And the time of dreaming
    Dreams is over—
    As lover to lover,
        Sweetheart, I come.

the ubiquitous “black is the colour of my true loves hair” makes an appearance here and (with some gender adjustments e.g., “him” replaces “her”) is performed against a musical backdrop that owes as much to aaron copland’s lush minimalism as it does to its roots. the song by the way is often attributed to ireland but it is believed to have originated in the appalachian mountains.

here are the words:

Black is the color of my true love's hair
Her lips are like some roses fair
She has the sweetest smile and the gentlest hands.
I love the ground whereon she stands
I love my love and well she knows
I love the ground whereon she goes.
And I wish the day, it soon will come
That she and I will be as one
I'll go to the Clyde and I'll mourn and weep
Where satisfied I never shall be
I'll write her a letter, just a few short lines
And suffer death ten thousand times.



compass: an album of music that is as mind-engaging and beautiful as i have heard in some time.

Track listing: 1. Bathyal; 2. Black Is The Colour; 3. Where Flamingos Fly; 4. Lo Fiolaire; 5. Sea, Sea!; 6. Don't Set Sail; 7. The Twilight Turns From Amethyst; 8. Primrose; 9. Bright Cap And Streamers; 10. A Call For All Demons; 11. Children's Song #1; 12. In The Dark Pine-Wood.
Personnel: Susanne Abbuehl: vocals; Wolfert Brederode: piano, harmonium; Christof May: clarinet; Lucas Niggli: percussion; Michel Portal: clarinet (2,4).

to see and hear a sample of susanne’s work go here: http://www.jazzland.nl/Susanne%20Abbuehl.html

this is the garden

i came across a couple of e.e. cummings poems yesterday morning while digging through some boxes of books. the first . . . “this is the garden” . . . seems timely in its literal connection to the changing state of gardens in the northern hemisphere as the sun casts less heat and leaves the sky earlier each day. allow yourself to leave the literal for the time it takes to read these words. settle inside the images and allow them to reform in your self as a pure insight.

this is the garden

this is the garden: colours come and go,
frail azures fluttering from night’s outer wing
strong, silent greens serenely lingering,
absolute lights like baths of golden snow.
this is the garden: pursed lips do blow
upon cool flutes within wide glooms, and sing
(of harps celestial to the quivering string)
invisible faces hauntingly and slow.
e.e. cummings

cummings was one of those few and far between writers who managed to effortlessly bridge the space that exists between the avant garde of the time and popular accessibility. his form and content while obviously distinct, somehow inform each other and draw the reader to consider the import of each word and image.
my english readers might be astonished to note that the image below was taken in stretford, manchester!

here’s the source for the image if you’d like to see more:
http://www.chorleygardeningsociety.co.uk/8701.html?*session*id*key*=*session*id*val*

here’s another poem by cummings just for the sheer joy of allowing myself to be transported away from the reality of a monday morning - awwwww it’s not that bad actually!

i thank You God for most this amazing

i thank You God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a true blue dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday; this is the birth
day of life and love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any-lifted from the no
of all nothing-human merely being
doubt unimaginably You?

(now the ears of my eyes awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)
e.e. cummings

enjoy this gift of a poem inside the gift of another day on this earth with you.

the fish and the ring

it’s a cold beginning to the day here in peterborough. the morning temperatures are dropping steadily each day. today is sunday and sunday often means a story. today’s story is from one of my favourite areas of the world - the north of england. the city of york remains one of my favourite cities to visit and certainly i have difficulty thinking of a more awe inspiring structure than york minster. the stained glass of that building is among the most beautiful i have ever seen. one evening i had the privilege of hearing evensong sung there. however, i’ll tell that story another time. in this story, the role of the fish is somewhat minor but the story might not have a happy ending without the fish, so here you go.

The Fish and the Ring

Once upon a time, there was a mighty baron in the North Country who was a great magician that knew everything that would come to pass. So one day, when his little boy was four years old, he looked into the Book of Fate to see what would happen to him. And to his dismay, he found that his son would wed a lowly maid that had just been born in a house under the shadow of York Minster. Now the Baron knew the father of the little girl was very, very poor, and he had five children already. So he called for his horse, and rode into York; and passed by the father’s house, and saw him sitting by the door, sad and doleful. So he dismounted and went up to him and said: “What is the matter, my good man?” And the man said: “Well, your honour, the fact is, I’ve five children already, and now a sixth’s come, a little lass, and where to get the bread from to fill their mouths, that’s more than I can say.”
“Don’t be downhearted, my man,” said the Baron. “If that’s your trouble, I can help you. I’ll take away the last little one, and you wont have to bother about her.”
“Thank you kindly, sir,” said the man; and he went in and brought out the lass and gave her to the Baron, who mounted his horse and rode away with her. And when he got by the bank of the river Ouse, he threw the little, thing into the river, and rode off to his castle.
But the little lass didn’t sink; her clothes kept her up for a time, and she floated, and she floated, till she was cast ashore just in front of a fisherman’s hut. There the fisherman found her, and took pity on the poor little thing and took her into his house, and she lived there till she was fifteen years old, and a fine handsome girl.
One day it happened that the Baron went out hunting with some companions along the banks of the River Ouse, and stopped at the fisherman’s hut to get a drink, and the girl came out to give it to them. They all noticed her beauty, and one of them said to the Baron: "You can read fates, Baron, whom will she marry, d’ye think?”
“Oh! that’s easy to guess,” said the Baron; “some yokel or other. But I’ll cast her horoscope. Come here girl, and tell me on what day you were born?”
“I don’t know, sir,” said the girl, “I was picked up just here after having been brought down by the river about fifteen years ago.”
Then the Baron knew who she was, and when they went away, he rode back and said to the girl: “Hark ye, girl, I will make your fortune. Take this letter to my brother in Scarborough, and you will be settled for life.” And the girl took the letter and said she would go. Now this was what he had written in the letter:
“Dear Brother,–Take the bearer and put her to death immediately.
“Yours affectionately,
“Albert.”
So soon after the girl set out for Scarborough, and slept for the night at a little inn. Now that very night a band of robbers broke into the inn, and searched the girl, who had no money, and only the letter. So they opened this and read it, and thought it a shame. The captain of the robbers took a pen and paper and wrote this letter:
“Dear Brother,–Take the bearer and marry her to my son immediately.
“Yours affectionately,
“Albert.”
And then he gave it to the girl, bidding her begone. So she went on to the Baron’s brother at Scarborough, a noble knight, with whom the Baron’s son was staying. When she gave the letter to his brother, he gave orders for the wedding to be prepared at once, and they were married that very day.
Soon after, the Baron himself came to his brother’s castle, and what was his surprise to find that the very thing he had plotted against had come to pass. But he was not to be put off that way; and he took out the girl for a walk, as he said, along the cliffs. And when he got her all alone, he took her by the arms, and was going to throw her over. But she begged hard for her life. “I have not done anything," she said: “if you will only spare me, I will do whatever you wish. I will never see you or your son again till you desire it.” Then the Baron took off his gold ring and threw it into the sea, saying: “Never let me see your face till you can show me that ring;” and he let her go.
The poor girl wandered on and on, till at last she came to a great noble’s castle, and she asked to have some work given to her; and they made her the scullion girl of the castle, for she had been used to such work in the fisherman’s hut.
Now one day, who should she see coming up to the noble’s house but the Baron and his brother and his son, her husband. She didn’t know what to do; but thought they would not see her in the castle kitchen. So she went back to her work with a sigh, and set to cleaning a huge big fish that was to be boiled for their dinner. And, as she was cleaning it, she saw something shine inside it, and what do you think she found? Why, there was the Baron’s ring, the very one he had thrown over the cliff at Scarborough. She was right glad to see it, you may be sure. Then she cooked the fish as nicely as she could, and served it up.
Well, when the fish came on the table, the guests liked it so well that they asked the noble who cooked it. He said he didn’t know, but called to his servants: “Ho, there, send up the cook that cooked that fine fish.” So they went down to the kitchen and told the girl she was wanted in the hall. Then she washed and tidied herself and put the Baron’s gold ring on her thumb and went up into the hall.
When the banqueters saw such a young and beautiful cook they were surprised. But the Baron was in a tower of a temper, and started up as if he would do her some violence. So the girl went up to him with her hand before her with the ring on it; and she put it down before him on the table. Then at last the Baron saw that no one could fight against Fate, and he handed her to a seat and announced to all the company that this was his son’s true wife; and he took her and his son home to his castle; and they all lived as happy as could be ever afterwards.

here’s an image of the coat of arms of glasgow, scotland.
if you look carefully you’ll see that the fish have rings in their mouths. it might interest you to know that this is why they are there: - “The coat of arms always shows the fish with a ring held in its mouth. This is because a King of Strathclyde had given his wife a ring as a present. But the Queen gave it to a knight who promptly lost it. Some versions of the story say that the King took the ring while the knight was asleep and threw it in the river. The King then demanded to see the ring - threatening death to the Queen if she could not do so. The knight confessed to St Mungo who sent a monk to catch a fish in the river Clyde. When this was brought back (presumably catching salmon in the Clyde in those days was a lot easier then!) St Mungo cut open the fish and found the ring. When the Bishop of Glasgow was designing his own seal around 1271, he used the illustration of a salmon with a ring in its mouth and this has come down to us in today's coat of arms.” check out the original reference at: http://www.rampantscotland.com/know/blknow_flourish.htm

if you enjoyed this story, then go here where you will find an entire book of lovely old english fairy tales uploaded and best of all - it is in the public domain!
http://www.authorama.com/book/english-fairy-tales.html

hawkeye and the last of the mohicans

rain. an evening of rain. the sound of rain gurgling in the drainpipes. neighbours chatting with my children. asking about school. i value these moments. inconsequential as they are when judged by the span of a lifetime. each carries colour and form and weight of a kind not easily measured. reassuring in their familiarity. comforting in the inner security they carry.

speaking of comfort, last night i watched the last chapter in an old tv series now available on three dvds, each containing four chapters. i last saw this program as a boy new to canada from england. the series was entitled, “hawkeye and the last of the mohicans”.

Based on the writings of James Fenimore Cooper, this exciting frontier adventure series was filmed almost entirely in Canada from 1957 to 1958 utilizing authentic outdoor settings and carefully observed period detail. the scenery was rugged and for an english boy unused to forests and wilderness, breathtaking and realistic. even the canoes themselves are beautiful to look at.

The plots were somewhat similar in that the co lead character Nat Cutler, known as Hawkeye, with his faithful Indian companion Chingachgook, the last of the Mohican tribe, fights to protect settlers against the raiding Huron Indians or more often against any native group with an upstart warrior who rebels against the chief of that tribe.

interestingly it isn’t quite as politically incorrect as i had anticipated but by the same token, there is not one native person in the cast - even among the extras!
while not entirely accurate historically, the series showed a white man working with respect alongside a native person whose insights and woodlore and wisdom were respected and often served to solve problems in the stories.

it’s nice to go back and revisit little pieces of your childhood, if only to determine the effect they had on you then, compared to the effect they have you on you as an adult. i know that we are often disappointed when we see or revisit something that at the time seemed extraordinary or much bigger or more special. in this case, i was rewarded with a good tv series that has stood most of the test of time.

the box

a foggy friday morning. foggy inside and outside my head. a few thoughts rolling through me today along the lines of "the box of my existence is being rebuilt". i'd better put up a bit of a fight to make sure that the box suits me.

here's a poem, about a box. the poem is by thomas jardine.

The Wooden Box

The wooden box stands on its end,
The open side against the wind.
High amber grass rolls in waves
And laps against the knotted boards,
Long unused except for spider caves,
And now one of the many hoards
The wind puts leaves and petals in.
I watch nearby while a low dark sky
Shoves heavy clouds with lighter wind.
The roaring trees know I am shy.
A spirit in the box soon stirs;
It tilts backward then leans forward,
The grass rage and all prefers
Not to have the box remain;
It lifts light, as if to fly,
And falls on back without a strain,
Up and open to the starting rain.
Each droplet makes a blushing stain.
The grass it pressed is yellow-brown,
Which springs up more as rain falls down.
Completely drenched I look around
And turn the open side to ground.



by Thomas Jardine

shantaram

i read an absolutely phenomenal book this summer entitled shantaram. here’s the link to the author’s website: http://www.shantaram.com/
the author - Gregory David Roberts, based elements of the book on his own incredible life story. i’d like to share a little bit of his life story with you here.

* Born June, 1952, Melbourne, Australia
* Founder member, Anarchist People’s Liberation Army, 1969
* Union activist, Builders Labourers Federation, 1972
* Founder member, Australian Independence Movement, United Front Against Fascism, 1973
* Student Leader, Melbourne University, occupation of university Council Chambers, 1974
* Student Leader, Black Week Aboriginal Activism Movement, 1975
* Marriage break-up, loss of daughter in custody dispute, beginning of heroin addiction, 1976
* Armed robberies with toy pistol to support heroin habit, end year 1977
* Capture and imprisonment, 1978; Escape from Maximum Security Pentridge prison, 1980
* Helped by motorcycle gang, BLF Union, & revolutionaries to escape to New Zealand, 1980
* Fight conservation campaign to save sacred Maori mountain, Mount Maungahiha, 1981
* Escape from custody (twice) in New Zealand, end 1981
* Arrive in India, beginning 1982

so after reading that, i wonder if you, like me, are amazed that a man who could commit armed robbery, deal, and engage in countless other illegal and dangerous activities could also be such an accomplished and powerful writer?
i’ve often wondered how many people have slipped through the cracks of our society through their own poor judgement or through society having standards or expectations that somehow pre-empted them from receiving the support, attention, and veneration they deserved. perhaps they didn’t fit the mold of author, writer, poet, or painter and so were not given the opportunity to share their insights and expressions with the world.

i wonder how many incredible artists, musicians, writers, actors, thinkers lived their lives unnoticed because perhaps they didn’t have the means or ability to make themselves known to the larger world?

what if (okay, let’s move beyond “what if”). we know, that the famous people who grace the pages of magazines, line the walls of galleries with their work, or play their music to appreciative audiences, are very much just the tip of an enormous creative iceberg. what if the people who achieve “success” aren’t even the best artists, musicians, writers and actors? what if in the great unknown unrecognized mass of humanity there are people who could truly transform the world through their creative insights but . . . . through some quirk of fate we will be denied the richer, more beautiful future that would be welcomed into this world on the calling card of their creativity because they were a criminal, lived in poverty, or didn’t have the personal wherewithal to promote themselves.

reading this book reminded me that i often judge people through their choices and of course our society compels us to judge people by their actions. but forgiveness - a virtue subscribed to and promoted by all the world’s religions but rarely acted upon - is a powerful force that needs to be welcomed back to its rightful place so that we can see beyond the mistakes inherent in our choices and those of others, and look on our lives as an endless learning process - the emphasis being on learning - from our successes and our failings and from the successes and failings of others around us. perhaps inside that ordinary rock resides a diamond. perhaps inside that oyster lies a pearl.
the image below is of a petal that fell off an easter lily. it curled naturally and so i placed it on this sand dollar which was itself a gift. i like the large curl of the petal and small feather-like fronds of the sandshell. the textures are fine and granular on both the petal and the sand dollar. i also love the shades of beige in combination.

The Red Fish

it’s time for another fish story. today’s comes from turkey. again, this one features a grumpy, greedy king and a nice fisherman who comes across a magic fish. there’s a more grownup and possibly better written version of this that i might post another time. same story, just closer to its original roots.
the image i’ve picked to go with this story is from a very cool site run by artist jim pallas. jim creates work that is largely kinetic and interactive or, as in this instance, made out of “trash”. it’s funny how an object passes from valued and sometimes lovely to trash based on its utility to the owner. jim grabs things like wires, bottle caps, tickets or whatever else he can get his hands and mind on and creates amazing, beautiful, brilliant pieces of art. please spend time at his website - it’s huge and filled with his creations. here’s a fish he made out of tickets.

http://www.jpallas.com/

The Red Fish
A Tale from Turkey
Adapted by Laura Simms ©2001
A kind fisherman once caught a bright shining red fish. It was so lovely, he took pity on it and instead of cooking it or selling it, he decided to take the fish home as a pet. He dug a hole in the floor of his house, filled it with water, and put the fish safely within it. From that day onwards, the fisherman had very good luck.
One day, he came home early, and discovered the source of his good fortune. It was the fish. He saw it leap from the hole, shed its’ fish skin and turn into a beautiful young woman. She was a fish fairy and she promised to live with him.
Soon, the King, who was a greedy man, heard about the fish fairy and wanted to marry her himself. The fisherman begged the King to let him keep the fish fairy. The clever King said, "Build me a gold palace in the sea in four days and you can keep her!" When the fisherman returned home, there was a gold palace on an island in the sea. The fish fairy had called upon the fish to build it.
The King called for the fisherman again and demanded, "If you want to keep the fish fairy then make me a crystal bridge that stretches from the shore to the palace in two days!" Again when the fisherman returned home, the crystal bridge had been built.
The King grew angry. "If you and your fish fairy are so clever, then bring me an egg with a flying donkey inside by tomorrow morning. When the fisherman told the fish fairy, she gave him an ordinary egg and told him to throw it into the sea. He did and a huge white egg flew out of the waves into his arms. He took it to the King. Out jumped a flying donkey. It leapt onto the King’s back and rode him around the palace screeching, "Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw!" The King screamed, "Get this donkey off my back."
Then the King threatened the fisherman, "If you do not bring me a one-hour-old baby that is wiser than the wisest person in the world in two hours, I will cut off your head and take the fish fairy."
Hardly was the fisherman back in the door of his house, when the fish fairy said, "My sister has just given birth to a baby. Go to the sea and call for him." The fisherman went to the sea where the waves churned and up rose a one-minute-old baby. The baby stamped its little feet on the ground and demanded to be taken to the King.
Once in the palace, the baby jumped on the King’s knees and smacked the King again and again saying, "How dare you have a baby taken away from its mother before it is two minutes old. And how dare you ask for impossible and greedy things." The baby smacked the king again and again saying, "I am wiser than the wisest person and I know you are a fool." Finally, the King begged the fisherman to keep the fish fairy. So the baby returned to the sea and the fisherman married the fish fairy and they lived happily ever after.

so it seems to me that a simplistic learning from the stories i’ve posted so far is to be humble. to avoid the trappings of power and wealth unless they come to you through magic or in the form of a serendipitous windfall. and to listen very carefully to fish. hmmmmm.

this evening is

i am writing this during a grey cloudy early beginning evening time. bill frisell the amazing american guitarist - i hesitate to ascribe a genre to him - but you’ll likely find him in the jazz section of your cd store - is picking and pouring his guitar signal through loops and delays and genre, styles, forms, and techniques.
i am drawn to musicians, artists and people who move beyond the raw gift of the sound their instrument (be it vocal or instrumental) makes into that realm where processing or even technical skill transforms the sound into voice. voice. a place where there is nothing commonplace about your statement, about your presence, about your being who and what and why and when and how you are. unique, and possibly beyond anything but mimicry . . . . mimicry being something that falls far short of duplication. it’s in art and writing and music and architecture and dance that i find the most stunning voices.
miles davis had a voice, robert fripp has a voice, nina simone had voice, bill bruford has voice, nick drake had voice, picasso had voice, mies van de rohe had voice, samuel delaney had voice, laurie anderson has voice . . . .it’s a (very happily) long list!
i love that each of us is utterly unique and that the first battle of our lives and sometimes the longest and most hard fought is the battle between the many forces bent on providing us with compelling rationales to deny who we are, versus ourselves.
i see many people losing this fight both in the short and long term through being defeated by chance events or through social pressure or through recognizing that it is a safer and easier way out to deny their own innate beautiful selves. i know through my own experiences, it can even provide modicoms of success to homogonize your self, if you are inclined towards business or some sort of mediated success - the mediation coming in the form of a product that can be measured. however.
the person through whom the creative life force flows is condemned to fight this good fight. and it is good. it is life affirming. it leads to greater work. redemption even.
robert fripp writes: “ The centre of gravity of the act of redemption is love. How easily said, how easily typed. What can this mean? I don't know, and I don't believe it is possible to know redemption on its "own" terms. Creativity is a "foundation" for the redemptive act. This is also beyond what we can know, but we may get glimpses, or a sense, or a feel, of this. It also puts a very different spin on the nature of "art". There are different "qualities" and "intensities" of art, and each "world" has a kind of art that is proper to it. Objective art" belongs to the creative world, the world of the genius. "Objective" art represents the truth of what is true. It has no concern with "beauty" per se, which is a by-product of "true". This is hard for those of an "aesthetic" disposition to grasp. "True" or "real" may not represent what we find personally beautiful, or we have been taught is "great art". "Objective art" may not be anything like we recognise as Art at all. Aesthetics are a "by-product" of real art, useful to describe symptoms and effects, the history of art in sequential time, originating causes in historical society, but not creative origination. Aesthetics, as a study, belongs to the world of the craft; and while we may recognise the power or "authenticity" of a work of art - we may sympathetically "resonate" with what is "real" - we won't get to understand through aesthetics alone.”

deep breath. re read the whole piece again. remember that real work isn’t necessarily easy!
hmmmmm. this was supposed to be a peaceful easy evening and look where it’s gone!
just to place us gently on earth after this cerebral excursion, here’s a picture of the evening sky.

managing the morning's beginning

one piece of my life that i take care of is the morning 'cause it's usually so short through the week and i want it to be as good as i can make it and there's a lot of sensory pieces that make or break a morning which makes it a fragile time........ music - well some people'd say i should play quiet soft music to start my day off positively and kindly and with consideration, but that doesn't always work and so i can just as easily find myself messing with music ranging from king crimson at one end of the spectrum to blast me into the loud cerebral world i sometimes belong in and then other times to vetiver at the other end for its careful carelessness . . . . . . . . . . . . . it’s hard to plan ahead for what kind of music will begin the beginning of my day.
the weekends are the best because the long waves of me can stretch out more fully where in the week i have to be very compressed. i figure on a weekday i have about an hour or less from waking and leaving the bed, to shower and cleanup and dress and get my stuff for school and if i'm biking, time to psyche myself for the ride and then also the e-mail thingy which sees me surf from the bbc news http://news.bbc.co.uk/ to know about the world from an english perspective, to “dgm live” (which you can find at http://www.dgmlive.com/) to know about my favourite part of the music world from an english perspective, to sid smith's blog which is over at http://sidsmith.blogspot.com/ to know about sid and all that he sees and knows, to “lost at e minor” to know about the creative world - well fashion, art, music from an australian perspective http://www.lostateminor.com/. i like to pay a daily visit to electronic dance music group underworld's homepage http://www.underworldlive.com/index/home.html and not only because i think they're the most wickedgood dance band in the world but also 'cause every day they link to an artist or a musician who i can learn about and then i kind of float around audio blogs and see what i can see.
then there's food - i usually settle for toast or bagels but in my heart i'd rather make a really lovely breakfast every day and i guess that's a dream that's way out there 'cause it's never happened. . . . . . . . well no that’s not true actually, i’ve made a few but i’d like one more often than not . . . . . it's not a lot important in the big scheme of things . . . . . . but it'd sure be nice to have tasty yummies every day . . . . ha greedy me . . . . and then there's picking clothes that suit the day and a coffee mug that suits my mood or the one i'm, creating: here’s my coffee mug collection -

all of these were handmade at the blackdog pottery in kingston whih i get to about every two years (http://www.blackdogpottery.ca/) well, all except the blueglass one which i bought at starbucks - i like the blueglass one lots but it has starbucks actually written on it and that’s not a crime or anything but it makes the process one where i have to look to be sure to only drink out of the none written on side!!! not that i have any special enmity towards starbucks - i’ll drink their coffee perhaps half a dozen times a year and my oldest boy makes a living as a barista for them so i really ought to be kinder.
talking in the morning . . . . i know people i can wake up to or with . . . . .i can talk with them laugh with them grog and blob and shuffle aimlessly ‘round with them but there are others who i just want to stay in their own space . . . . don’t even come near me, let alone talk to me.......... harsh, selfish - yeah maybe, probably . . . . but honestly as i get older i find it’s harder and harder to hide or cover for the little unnecessary silliness and irritations and intrusions of daily life!!! there, i’ve said it!!!
there's so much detail to allowing the morning to roll out and away . . . . . . and why? i wonder if i'd be less crazy if i just didn't care about any of this . . . . . . . or if i'm not as crazy as i might be because i do care about all of this . . . . . . . . .

the old man and the golden fish

hey! what do you know? it’s sunday morning, there’s a light rain and i have done half of my schoolwork and so - i can share another story about a golden fish. oh yummmmm!!!!!
the last one was from russia. this one comes from china. there are some pretty substantial differences between the two so you can jump back to the earlier one (go to the archives at the right) and not be bored by two slight variations on the same theme. no sirree, these are both cool stories and very different. this one’s not quite as warm (and i was going to say fuzzy but the last one wasn’t that fuzzy in places, what with the mean old lady and the kids asking at the end if the old man could smack his wife - ouch!!! - that’s not alright - but overall a good story) “the old man and the golden fish” has more of the feel of a moralistic fable about it, but it still reads well all the same. here y’are. your sunday morning story.



this is an example of zhou dynasty fish money. wouldn't it be cool if instead of having pictures on our money. the money was a beautiful object of art like this.

The Old Man and the Golden Fish
(A Chinese Folk Tale)
Retold by Hoh Chee Bin

“There was once an old man who liked fishing. He always fished in a lake, which was near his house. One day, the old man brought his fishing rod and fishing tackle and went out to the lake to fish after he had eaten his dinner. When he reached the lake, the sky was becoming dark.
There was a boat beside the lake. The old man used the boat and rowed to the center of the lake. He began fishing in the center of the lake. After a while, the old man fell asleep. Suddenly, the old man woke up as his fishing rod was shaking.
The old man pulled up the fishing rod and caught a fish. To his surprise, the fish's body was covered with golden scales. Even more surprising, it could talk to the old man. "Can you let me go, please?" The fish begged the old man. "No, I am going to eat you," The old man said. "Please! Let me go. If you let me go, I will give a golden rope," the fish said. "Golden rope? Is that true? How can I trust you?" the old man asked. "You can put your fishing rod into the lake and a few minutes after, you are going to get the golden rope, " said the fish.
The old man listened to the fish and put the fishing rod in to the lake. After he pulled up the fishing rod, he saw a golden rope attached to the fishing line. The golden rope must be very long the old man thought because he could not see the end of the golden rope. The man was very happy and he continued to pull up the golden rope. "Let me go now that you have gotten the golden rope," said the fish . "No, I won't let you go. I am going to sell you. I think someone will pay a very high price to get you." The old man said.
The man then put the fish into a container, which was full of water. As the man was pulling up the golden rope, his boat was sinking into the lake but he was too greedy and still wanted to get all of the golden rope. Finally, his boat sank completely into the lake, and the old man died.”

a very tough break for the old man but then he wasn’t fair and he was very greedy and so . . . .

all the tiny vulnerabilities

this image - of a person carrying an immense weight on their back whilst protecting a tiny, fragile, vulnerable object in their hand carries such resonance for me that i thought it would be worth sharing here. the artist, balint zsako, can be found here:
http://www.balintzsako.com/

and learned about here: http://www.myartspace.com/blog/2007/03/art-space-talk-balint-zsako.html

obviously balint is very talented and possesses access to insights we can learn from.

inside each of us hovers, floats, winds, and weaves tiny vulnerabilities that collectively form an ecology of mutually sustaining anxieties or precious knowings. some of these form into stories, the stories that we share when we reach a point of trust with a person or wish to reach a point of trust with a person. we share our vulnerabilities through our stories. we share our stories through our vulnerabilities.

in making ourselves open we make ourselves available in the same way that a doorway, when opened, invites others into the room we occupy. they have the option of entering or simply walking by.



the picture above shows a person with the weight of the world on their back. the shapes look like stones, but could also be clouds. clouds of unknowing, clouds of anxiety, clouds of knowing, clouds of sorrow, clouds of joy, clouds of responsibility, clouds of perception - the list is endless. in his hand nestles something tiny, fragile, vulnerable. what might that be? something to be protected; perhaps something to be protected from the collective weight of the person’s life experiences. perhaps, it metaphorically describes the place we all hold safe from even the most trustworthy of relationships. that place, that most intimate knowing of self that informs all that we are but which is ultimately cupped in our hands safe from everything but ourselves.

safe from everything but ourselves. now there's a place to stop and reflect.

i think that people carry many of these tiny little protected whatever-they-ares’ with them, protecting them from the harsh realities of their existence or maybe more properly, protecting them from their perception of the harsh realities of their existence. i wonder why we do this? i wonder how much energy is taken up in doing this? i wonder, if we let this habit go (because that’s often what it is - a learned behaviour) what would happen to us and more importantly and maybe even more interesting . . . . what would happen to the tiny little protected thing?

passing moment

words from robert fripp: “The end: always bitter-sweetness. This moment has gone: it will never be here again. In these moments, we are practising our dying.”

imagine if you will, well, maybe you won’t even need to imagine this - perhaps you'll be able to recall a single mind-blowing or world-shattering memory or a whole series of memories in which case... lucky you!
so -
a moment filled, surrounded, and infused with intensity that elevates itself in your experiencing beyond anything similar passes by like a sudden gust. here, and just as quickly gone and then you vainly struggle to recognize what it was that just happened. what was that? why now? why wasn’t i more inside that moment?

and then comes the more or less inevitable, the grasping for a reexperiencing of the moment because, especially if it was good or lovely or magical in any way, you (like me) want to know that moment over and over again, like putting a cd on the player and pushing the loop button so that you can reexperience the joy and beauty of it over and over until you’re sick of it. or not!

but of course, you know it doesn’t come back, not quickly, not cleanly, not gloriously as before. so then you carry on with life knowing that you had an experience that stepped out of the ordinary, an experience that cannot be duplicated, an experience that - like all experiences - has gone and will never come back again in the same form. in this way we refine wistfulness. in this way we refine romance.

and then the mourning of its passing or the acceptance of its being one of the many pearls on the string of your life, begins.

this picture is of some flowers that were in my home for a period of six weeks. they have very obviously passed their prime and yet as i collected them and placed them in juxtaposition, something very lovely emerged that had no referents to their previous life as flowers. so here they are in a new moment, very much dead and yet alive in ways they couldn’t otherwise be.

and perhaps that is how it is with experiences. they die naturally. they pass. they become a piece that in the context of time has been left behind. and yet with each revisiting they become alive again in a way that is distinct from their first becoming being. their beauty is perhaps less direct, coloured by our experience of the passing of time, and yet also complemented by subtleties that were previously overlooked in the raw beauty of the moment.

brian eno and the innocence of the moment

musician brian eno wrote this about one-time collaborator peter schmidt with whom eno developed the “oblique strategies” cards. a deck of over one hundred cards, each with a phrase to provide a direction to help move the creative process onwards.

“His work was very much a personal inquiry, a continuous questioning of deeper and deeper assumptions, a delight in finding himself in new territory without answers, and thus innocent. We are always innocent, unless, from laziness or for convenience, we decide to overlook the novelty of the moment, this particular now. It seemed to me that Peter was more capable than anybody else I have ever known of following that understanding through in his actions. He was always alert to those little byways of thought that might open out onto whole new vistas,and he followed them with a quiet kind of courage.”
these grainy pics are copies of images that came with my first copy of “before and after science”, a beautiful assemblage of words and music ranging from the sound poems of dadaist kurt schwitters to the pseudo punk homage to the talking heads in the form of the anagrammatically titled 'king's lead hat', through to the spacy and beautiful romantic tone poem 'spider and i'..




the images were directly connected to the creation of the music on this disc.
these lyrics are from one of the finer songs on this disc entitled “by this river”. the lyrics are evocative of a time for me and then with each listening and rereading, provide a colour and a sense of emotions connected to a scene in my mind somewhat like this:


BY THIS RIVER

Here we are
Stuck by this river,
You and I
Underneath a sky that's ever falling down, down, down
Ever falling down.
Through the day
As if on an ocean
Waiting here,
Always failing to remember why we came, came, came:
I wonder why we came.
You talk to me
as if from a distance
And I reply
With impressions chosen from another time, time, time,
From another time.

the most powerful and meaningful experiences reach deeply into a moment that lasts through eternity. expressing those moments in words or paint or music is the gift of the very fortunate who either through their innate skill or the serendipity of being available to the pure flow of creativity that rushes through and around us constantly (but of which we are painfully almost entirely unaware) can channel the deep mapped insights into the human experience of this world.

a very old poem

i came across a poem i wrote in 1979 - february 25th to be exact - and so let’s do the math. hmmmm. that makes it 28 and a half years old. and it’s not especially good writing but . . . . but it does have something about it that rings true.
here goes:

the upper hand
you hold
like a sword
is slowly sliding
its blunt point
through my skull
and
out of my mouth
pinning me
like a brooch to your body.

ouch and double ouch! poor steven has suffered so. and then been so blessed.


summer is very obviously leaving. cool evenings. cool mornings. early dark evenings. school started. and changing colours in the landscape. here’s a picture i took in my back yard. long ago this region was covered in trees and prairie grasses. these are prairie grasses late in the season. i love the variety in their colour.

light falls down

i came across this poem today and i wanted to share it because i received an unexpected, welcome communication that brough the light down as it were. the poem is by ahmet hasim and it’s entitled “promised land”. hasim was a turkish poet who wrote in the french symbolist style so nothing is exactly as it seems. the visual and sensory images that will fill your mind as you read can be stepped backwards from and in so doing, reveal the intricate symbolic architecture of the poem, which in turn reveals something of the reader and the writer also. hasim’s poems carry themselves with strength and courage and grace even when read literally. here’s an excerpt to warm you up:


Slowly you will ascend these stairs,
A bundle of sun-colored leaves on your skirts,
And once you will look, crying, at the skies...
The waters blanch.. as your face pales curtain-like,
As evening comes—observe the reddened air...

now that’s wickedgood writing! oh my! as i read “promised land”, i got to thinking of istanbul and especially of the blue mosque which would surely be on my list of places i would love to visit. here’s an image of a detail from the ceiling.


thanks to traveladventures.org for the sweet pic.

here’s the poem.

PROMISED LAND

Let it play with your hair, this gentle breeze
Blowing from the seven seas.
If only you knew
How lovely you are the way you gaze at the edge of the night
Steeped in the grief of exile and longing, in sorrow.

Neither you
Nor I
Nor the dusk that gathers in your beauty
Nor the blue sea.
That safe harbour for the distress that assaults the brain-
We spurn the generation which knows nothing of the soul's pain.

Mankind today
Brands you merely a fresh slender woman
And me just an old fool.
That wretched appetite, that filthy sight
Can find no meaning in you or me
Nor a tender grief in the night
Nor the sullen tremor of secrecy and disdain
On the calm sea.

You and I
And the sea
And the night that seems to gather silently,
Without trembling, the fragrance of your soul,
Far away
Torn asunder from the land where blue shadows hold sway,
We are forever doomed to this exile here.

That land?
Stretches along the chaste regions of imagination, and
A blue nightfall
Reposes there for all;
At its outer edges, the sea
Pours the calm of sleep on each soul...

There, women are lovely, tender, nocturnal, pure.
Over their eyes your sadness hovers,
They are all sisters or lovers:
The tearful kisses on their lips can cure,
And the indigo quiet of their inquiring eyes
Can soothe the heart's suffering.
Their souls are violets
Distilled from the night of despair,
In a ceaseless search for silence and repose.
The dim glare from the moon's sorrows
Finds haven in their immaculate hands.

Ah, they are so frail-
The mute anguish they share,
The night deep in thought, the ailing sea ...
They all resemble each other there.

That land
Is on which imaginary continent, and
Dimmed by what distant river?
Is it a land of illusions- or real,
A utopia bound to remain unknown forever?

I do not know ... All I know is
You and I and the blue sea
And the dusk that vibrates in me
The strings of inspiration and agony,
Far away
Torn asunder from the land where blue shadows hold sway
We are forever doomed to this exile here.

Ahmet Hasim (1884-1933)
Translated by Talat Sait Halman

the tiniest of nothing and everything

before beginning my morning, i considered the purpose and value of writing and maintaining a blog. there isn’t a lot of time involved, and the writing - for the first time in all the times i’ve thought i’d write a blog - has been effortless, truly without effort and so i traced that back to the simple consideration that i don’t mind who reads whatever i write. it will reach the right person eventually. and yet. and yet without that affirmation it feels like so much self aggrandizement.
self-aggrandizing~adjective
1 boastful, braggart, bragging, braggy, big, cock-a-hoop, crowing, self-aggrandizing, self-aggrandising: exhibiting self-importance; "big talk"
2 self-aggrandizing, self-aggrandising of or relating to or characteristic of self-aggrandizement
“cock-a-hoop” - now how good is that!!!! mannn you’re all cock’a-hoop about yourself. lighten up bro!!! i hope i can find a time and a place to try that one out!!
and with that in mind, i looked over my whole blog and wondered “who cares about a thing i’m saying here?” and then came back to the initial consideration in this whole venture of sharing the process of myself publicly. to share my inner self with all its "synchronicities and discombobulations colliding and colluding into the roiling cloud of wheels within wheels, pipes and wires, sparks flying every which way universe unto itself that i know as "my self" and so, i’m going to continue writing and posting pictures and letting whatever will be to be.



this is a picture of a flower that grew in my garden this summer. it’s about the size of a thumbnail - honestly. it’s so beautiful. it’s like a crown. a fairy princess crown. it also makes me think of those dances in the old t.v. variety shows, where the camera shoots down into a circle of women sitting or lying on their backs moving their arms and legs and heads so that they make human mandalas. i remember as a boy thinking how beautiful and clever that was.

flowers amaze me. nothing of what they do or are is an accident. it all has a purpose - selfish maybe - but it is all pointing to one single goal - or so scientists / botanists would have us believe. reproduction. i see more than that. i see beauty and i also see a singular act of love in freely sharing that beauty. beauty that comes at great expense to the plant as it devotes so much energy to the creation of the necessary chemicals that cause the colours, the scents, the textures, and the shapes to take form. i remember as a child, my grandad grew tea roses and he would encourage me to sniff each one and look closely inside the petals to see the shades and forms of the petals. the overwhelming richness of the many different scents still captures me now such that when i walk by any flowering tree or bush or plant i have to stop and hold it in my palm and feel the softness of its petals and then gently inhale its fragrance with my eyes closed. lost in the tiniest of nothing and everything.

sunday hush

i took this picture sometime late last year down near cobourg. a friend suggested it was phallic - i can see that, but it’s not what i was thinking. i remember seeing the colour of the metal against the colour of the water and thinking how i liked those colours and the way the metal curved against the flatness of the sea. i also liked the line of the horizon carrying on out of the picture while the rail curves back and sends you to the beginning - the left of the picture and then back out again. it does that for me anyway.



sunday’s a strange day - i mean each day has its own unique flavour but sunday comes replete with associations that go back to when i was little and spent a lot of time in church (because i had a grandad who was a full minister in the methodist church and a grandfather who was a lay preacher). I was often connected to church social events like fetes and women’s auxilliary gatherings and i vividly recall the ‘gotta be quiet and circumspect’ feeling of reverence throughout the manse if we were visiting when my grandad was writing his sermons in his study. when i got older and was going to church in canada - see i was originally from england - it was a presbyterian church and that was very different to the methodist church. looser in some respects, i started to see more deeply the division between who i was and what i was becoming to begin to think, and comparing it to the set of ideas and expectations and beliefs that were being presented to me at church.

i think that the sense of self that develops in people is (at least at first) deeply underwritten by division. we find out who we are as unique individuals initially through separating ourselves from the world. we rebel and try to be in such a way as to push the box we suddenly recognize as constraining us, as far away from us as possible. by recognizing the difference between the emerging who and what we are and the who and what we are that the world around us says they see in and of us we begin to recognize ourselves, but sometimes at the expense of our true self. i found in my own life that i had to push people's expectations of me so far away over such a long period of time, that i actually created a self that overlaid my true self. it seems that much of our life then becomes a matter of making ourselves whole again, while fighting to some degree the call of the world to become what the world initially saw of us. parents and family can have an especially powerful role in this hanging on to expectations of who we are. then friends and colleagues. then our selves.

anyhow sunday’s a hushed day. i love the silence, the quiet, the restraint of the day. my favourite sundays are those when i hear rain falling outside. or in the wintertime, snow. somehow it fills me with something indefinable but it makes me feel the security of my home more than at any other time. i make my way downstairs and turn on the coffee and then wait patiently for it to finish brewing before i make up a mug and then curl up with a book or a newspaper or a magazine and slowly savour my coffee. sounds like an advertisement for something but really it’s just an expression of the benevolence that is available to people through the small acts of kindness we do for ourselves. as i get older and have more time to devote to caring for my self and especially for those parts of my life that i have come to cherish, i find that i am able to take equal pleasure in providing these small acts of kindness to myself and in providing them for others.

Old Peter’s Russian Tales: The Golden Fish

a saturday morning - time to drink coffee more slowly, read newspapers and magazines, sit in my Big Soft Chair by the window and let the barred sunlight spread in long butter yellow lines over my bathrobe. the image beneath is of the base of a vase that sees irregular use around here. i like the way that heavy glass objects capture ripples and waves almost like water frozen as it rushes past. i also like the effect that the captured air bubbles have on light and colour.



today , because i am hoping that you have more time than you usually might in a morning i am being indulgent and i am going to share a story by one of my favourite childhood writers Arthur Ransome. Ransome wrote some very english books about the the adventures of two children and their summer friends in the lake district in the north of england. he also put together a collection of short stories and fables entitled “Old Peter’s Russian Tales”. supposedly, ransome wrote this while escaping an unhappy marriage and so “fled to st petersburg”. while he was there he was accused of spying for the bolsheviks and for britain, oh and he married trotsky’s secretary! not bad. this morning’s story comes from that book. if after reading the story you are curious to read more, then a free version of the entire book can be downloaded here: http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/16981 if you’d like to know more about arthur ransome then go here:
http://arthur-ransome.org/ar/

The Golden Fish

"THIS," said old Peter, "is a story against wanting more than enough."
Long ago, near the shore of the blue sea, an old man lived with his old woman in a little old hut made of earth and moss and logs. They never had a rouble to spend. A rouble! they never had a kopeck. They just lived there in the little hut, and the old man caught fish out of the sea in his old net, and the old woman cooked the fish; and so they lived, poorly enough in summer and worse in winter. Sometimes they had a few fish to sell, but not often. In the summer evenings they sat outside their hut on a broken old bench, and the old man mended the holes in his ragged old net. There were holes in it a hare could jump through with his ears standing, let alone one of those little fishes that live in the sea. The old woman sat on the bench beside him, and patched his trousers and complained.
Well, one day the old man went fishing, as he always did. All day long he fished, and caught nothing. And then in the evening, when he was thinking he might as well give up and go home, he threw his net for the last time, and when he came to pull it in he began to think he had caught an island instead of a haul of fish, and a strong and lively island at that - the net was so heavy and pulled so hard against his feeble old arms.
"This time," says he, "I have caught a hundred fish at least." Not a bit of it. The net came in as heavy as if it were full of fighting fish, but empty -
"Empty?" said Maroosia.
"Well, not quite empty," said old Peter, and went on with his tale.
Not quite empty, for when the last of the net came ashore there was something glittering in it - a golden fish, not very big and not very little, caught in the meshes. And it was this single golden fish which had made the net so heavy.
The old fisherman took the golden fish in his hands.
"At least it will be enough for supper," said he.
But the golden fish lay still in his hands, and looked at him with eyes, and spoke - yes, my dears, it spoke, just as if it were you or I.
"Old man," says the fish, "do not kill me. I beg you throw me back into the blue waters. Some day I may be able to be of use to you."
"What?" says the old fisherman; "and do you talk with a human voice?"
"I do," says the fish. "And my fish's heart feels pain like yours. It would be as bitter to me to die as it would be to yourself."
"And is that so?" says the old fisherman. "Well, you shall not die this time." And he threw the golden fish back into the sea.
You would have thought the golden fish would have splashed with his tail, and turned head downwards, and swum away into the blue depths of the sea. Not a bit of it. It stayed there with its tail slowly flapping in the water so as to keep its head up, and it looked at the fisherman with its wise eyes, and it spoke again.
"You have given me my life," says the golden fish. "Now ask anything you wish from me, and you shall have it."
The old fisherman stood there on the shore, combing his beard with his old fingers, and thinking. Think as he would, he could not call to mind a single thing he wanted.
"No, fish," he said at last; "I think I have everything I need."
"Well, if ever you do want anything, come and ask for it," says the fish, and turns over, flashing gold, and goes down into the blue sea.
The old fisherman went back to his hut, where his wife was waiting for him.
"What!" she screamed out; "you haven't caught so much as one little fish for our supper?"
"I caught one fish, mother," says the old man: "a golden fish it was, and it spoke to me; and I let it go, and it told me to ask for anything I wanted."
"And what did you ask for? Show me."
"I couldn't think of anything to ask for; so I did not ask for anything at all."
"Fool," says his wife, "and dolt, and us with no food to put in our mouths. Go back at once, and ask for some bread."
Well, the poor old fisherman got down his net, and tramped back to the seashore. And he stood on the shore of the wide blue sea, and he called out,-
"Head in air and tail in sea,
Fish, fish, listen to me."
And in a moment there was the golden fish with his head out of the water, flapping his tail below him in the water, and looking at the fisherman with his wise eyes.
"What is it?" said the fish.
"Be so kind," says the fisherman, "be so kind. We have no bread in the house."
"Go home," says the fish, and turned over and went down into the sea.
"God be good to me," says the old fisherman, "but what shall I say to my wife, going home like this without the bread?" And he went home very wretchedly, and slower than he came.
As soon as he came within sight of his hut he saw his wife, and she was waving her arms and shouting.
"Stir your old bones," she screamed out. "It's as fine a loaf as ever I've seen."
And he hurried along, and found his old wife cutting up a huge loaf of white bread, mind you, not black - a huge loaf of white bread, nearly as big as Maroosia.
"You did not do so badly after all," said his old wife as they sat there with the samovar on the table between them, dipping their bread in the hot tea.
But that night, as they lay sleeping on the stove, the old woman poked the old man in the ribs with her bony elbow. He groaned and woke up.
"I've been thinking," says his wife, "your fish might have given us a trough to keep the bread in while he was about it. There is a lot left over, and without a trough it will go bad, and not be fit for anything. And our old trough is broken; besides, it's too small. First thing in the morning off you go, and ask your fish to give us a new trough to put the bread in."
Early in the morning she woke the old man again, and he had to get up and go down to the seashore. He was very much afraid, because he thought the fish would not take it kindly. But at dawn, just as the red sun was rising out of the sea, he stood on the shore, and called out in his windy old voice,-
"Head in air and tail in sea,
Fish, fish, listen to me."
And there in the morning sunlight was the golden fish, looking at him with its wise eyes.
"I beg your pardon," says the old man, "but could you, just to oblige my wife, give us some sort of trough to put the bread in?"
"Go home," says the fish; and down it goes into the blue sea.
The old man went home, and there, outside the hut, was the old woman, looking at the handsomest bread trough that ever was seen on earth. Painted it was, with little flowers, in three colours, and there were strips of gilding about its handles.
"Look at this," grumbled the old woman. "This is far too fine a trough for a tumble-down hut like ours. Why, there is scarcely a place in the roof where the rain does not come through. If we were to keep this trough in such a hut, it would be spoiled in a month. You must go back to your fish and ask it for a new hut."
"I hardly like to do that," says the old man.
"Get along with you," says his wife. "If the fish can make a trough like this, a hut will be no trouble to him. And, after all, you must not forget he owes his life to you."
"I suppose that is true," says the old man; but he went back to the shore with a heavy heart. He stood on the edge of the sea and called out, doubtfully,-
"Head in air and tail in sea,
Fish, fish, listen to me."
Instantly there was a ripple in the water, and the golden fish was looking at him with its wise eyes.
"Well?" says the fish.
"My old woman is so pleased with the trough that she wants a new hut to keep it in, because ours, if you could only see it, is really falling to pieces, and the rain comes in and -"
"Go home," says the fish.
The old fisherman went home, but he could not find his old hut at all. At first he thought he had lost his way. But then he saw his wife. And she was walking about, first one way and then the other, looking at the finest hut that God ever gave a poor moujik to keep him from the rain and the cold, and the too great heat of the sun. It was built of sound logs, neatly finished at the ends and carved. And the overhanging of the roof was cut in patterns, so neat, so pretty, you could never think how they had been done. The old woman looked at it from all sides. And the old man stood, wondering. Then they went in together. And everything within the hut was new and clean. There were a fine big stove, and strong wooden benches, and a good table, and a fire lit in the stove, and logs ready to put in, and a samovar already on the boil - a fine new samovar of glittering brass.
You would have thought the old woman would have been satisfied with that. Not a bit of it.
"You don't know how to lift your eyes from the ground," says she. "You don't know what to ask. I am tired of being a peasant woman and a moujik's wife. I was made for some thing better. I want to be a lady, and have good people to do the work, and see folk bow and curtsy to me when I meet them walking abroad. Go back at once to the fish, you old fool, and ask him for that, instead of bothering him for little trifles like bread troughs and moujiks' huts. Off with you."
The old fisherman went back to the shore with a sad heart; but he was afraid of his wife, and he dared not disobey her. He stood on the shore, and called out in his windy old voice,-
"Head in air and tail in sea,
Fish, fish, listen to me."
Instantly there was the golden fish looking at him with its wise eyes.
"Well?" says the fish.
"My old woman won't give me a moment's peace," says the old man, "and since she has the new hut - which is a fine one, I must say; as good a hut as ever I saw - she won't be content at all. She is tired of being a peasant's wife, and wants to be a lady with a house and servants, and to see the good folk curtsy to her when she meets them walking abroad."
"Go home," says the fish.
The old man went home, thinking about the hut, and how pleasant it would be to live in it, even if his wife were a lady.
But when he got home the hut had gone, and in its place there was a fine brick house, three stories high. There were servants running this way and that in the courtyard. There was a cook in the kitchen, and there was his old woman, in a dress of rich brocade, sitting idle in a tall carved chair, and giving orders right and left.
"Good health to you, wife," says the old man.
"Ah, you clown that you are, how dare you call me your wife! Can't you see that I'm a lady? Here! Off with this fellow to the stables, and see that he gets a beating he won't forget in a hurry."
Instantly the servants seized the old man by the collar and lugged him along to the stables. There the grooms treated him to such a whipping that he could hardly stand on his feet. After that the old woman made him doorkeeper. She ordered that a besom should be given him to clean up the courtyard, and said that he was to have his meals in the kitchen. A wretched life the old man lived. All day long he was sweeping up the court yard, and if there was a speck of dirt to be seen in it anywhere, he paid for it at once in the stable under the whips of the grooms.
Time went on, and the old woman grew tired of being only a lady. And at last there came a day when she sent into the yard to tell the old man to come before her. The poor old man combed his hair and cleaned his boots, and came into the house, and bowed low before the old woman.
"Be off with you, you old good-for-nothing!" says she. "Go and find your golden fish, and tell him from me that I am tired of being a lady. I want to be Tzaritza, with generals and courtiers and men of state to do whatever I tell them."
The old man went along to the seashore, glad enough to be out of the courtyard and out of reach of the stablemen with their whips. He came to the shore, and cried out in his windy old voice,-
"Head in air and tail in sea,
Fish, fish, listen to me."
And there was the golden fish looking at him with its wise eyes.
"What's the matter now, old man?" says the fish.
"My old woman is going on worse than ever," says the old fisherman. "My back is sore with the whips of her grooms. And now she says it isn't enough for her to be a lady; she wants to be a Tzaritza."
"Never you worry about it," says the fish. "Go home and praise God"; and with that the fish turned over and went down into the sea.
The old man went home slowly, for he did not know what his wife would do to him if the golden fish did not make her into a Tzaritza.
But as soon as he came near he heard the noise of trumpets and the beating of drums, and there where the fine stone house had been was now a great palace with a golden roof. Behind it was a big garden of flowers, that are fair to look at but have no fruit, and before it was a meadow of fine green grass. And on the meadow was an army of soldiers drawn up in squares and all dressed alike. And suddenly the fisherman saw his old woman in the gold and silver dress of a Tzaritza come stalking out on the balcony with her generals and boyars to hold a review of her troops. And the drums beat and the trumpets sounded, and the soldiers cried "Hurrah!" And the poor old fisherman found a dark corner in one of the barns, and lay down in the straw.
Time went on, and at last the old woman was tired of being Tzaritza. She thought she was made for something better. And one day she said to her chamberlain,-
"Find me that ragged old beggar who is always hanging about in the courtyard. Find him, and bring him here."
The chamberlain told his officers, and the officers told the servants, and the servants looked for the old man, and found him at last asleep on the straw in the corner of one of the barns. They took some of the dirt off him, and brought him before the Tzaritza, sitting proudly on her golden throne.
"Listen, old fool!" says she. "Be off to your golden fish, and tell it I am tired of being Tzaritza. Anybody can be Tzaritza. I want to be the ruler of the seas, so that all the waters shall obey me, and all the fishes shall be my servants."
"I don't like to ask that," said the old man, trembling.
"What's that?" she screamed at him. "Do you dare to answer the Tzaritza? If you do not set off this minute, I'll have your head cut off and your body thrown to the dogs."
Unwillingly the old man hobbled off. He came to the shore, and cried out with a windy, quavering old voice,-
"Head in air and tail in sea,
Fish, fish, listen to me."
Nothing happened.
The old man thought of his wife, and what would happen to him if she were still Tzaritza when he came home. Again he called out,-
"Head in air and tail in sea,
Fish, fish, listen to me."
Nothing happened, nothing at all.
A third time, with the tears running down his face, he called out in his windy, creaky, quavering old voice,-
"Head in air and tail in sea,
Fish, fish, listen to me."
Suddenly there was a loud noise, louder and louder over the sea. The sun hid itself. The sea broke into waves, and the waves piled themselves one upon another. The sky and the sea turned black, and there was a great roaring wind that lifted the white crests of the waves and tossed them abroad over the waters. The golden fish came up out of the storm and spoke out of the sea.
"What is it now?" says he, in a voice more terrible than the voice of the storm itself.
"O fish," says the old man, trembling like a reed shaken by the storm, "my old woman is worse than before. She is tired of being Tzaritza. She wants to be the ruler of the seas, so that all the waters shall obey her and all the fishes be her servants."
The golden fish said nothing, nothing at all. He turned over and went down into the deep seas. And the wind from the sea was so strong that the old man could hardly stand against it. For a long time he waited, afraid to go home; but at last the storm calmed, and it grew towards evening, and he hobbled back, thinking to creep in and hide amongst the straw.
As he came near, he listened for the trumpets and the drums. He heard nothing except the wind from the sea rustling the little leaves of birch trees. He looked for the palace. It was gone, and where it had been was a little tumble-down hut of earth and logs. It seemed to the old fisherman that he knew the little hut, and he looked at it with joy. And he went to the door of the hut, and there was sitting his old woman in a ragged dress, cleaning out a saucepan, and singing in a creaky old voice. And this time she was glad to see him, and they sat down together on the bench and drank tea without sugar, because they had not any money.
They began to live again as they used to live, and the old man grew happier every day. He fished and fished, and many were the fish that he caught, and of many kinds; but never again did he catch another golden fish that could talk like a human being. I doubt whether he would have said anything to his wife about it, even if he had caught one every day.
* * * * * * * * * *
"What a horrid old woman!" said Maroosia.
"I wonder the old fisherman forgave her," said Vanya.
"I think he might have beaten her a little," said Maroosia. "She deserved it."
"Well," said old Peter, "supposing we could have every thing we wanted for the asking, I wonder how it would be. Perhaps God knew what He was doing when He made those golden fishes rare."
"Are there really any of them?" asked Vanya.
"Well, there was once one, anyhow," said old Peter; and then he rolled his nets neatly together, hung them on the fence, and went into the hut to make the dinner. And Vanya and Maroosia went in with him to help him as much as they could; though Vanya was wondering all the time whether he could make a net, and throw it in the little river where old Peter fished, and perhaps pull out a golden fish that would speak to him with the voice of a human being.
The text came from:
Ransome, Arthur. Old Peter's Russian Tales. London and Edinburgh: T. C. & E. C. Jack, Ltd., 1916.