Every now and again I read the Bible from the lectern at my local church. Invariably I have people telling me afterwards how well I did. I tell you this not so you know what a fine fellow I am, but because I wondered last time whether it might be related to my interest in vintage radio. As a member of the last pre-television generation, I have always been a fan of "the wireless" and I wonder if my mind is more strongly focussed on the human voice and what it can do. I'm not saying I think "I'll read this in William Conrad's voice" or "What would Orson Welles do with this?". But maybe I'm a little more open to reading a piece of text and deciding where to put the emphasis and how to mould the text into more effective vocal pieces.
And I enjoy it.
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February 22nd was a Tuesday, so for me that means croquet and quizzes. The first game at the Croquet Club I started off mediocre then improved. After the coffee break, my second game was ... not good. (How do you spell abysmal?) At one stage I couldn't hit the ball straight, even after my fellow players gave me a second and then a third try at it!
Rested for an hour before I went out to the quiz night and it seemed to help a bit. Everybody was baffled by the puzzle question this week and round after round went by with nobody identifying the who-am-I person. Finally, something rang a bell in the clue about having a pet ocelot and my wife being his manager. "Salvador Dali," I wrote down. "Correct!" said the quiz master, handing me a bottle of wine for being the first person to solve the puzzle.
We came in at second place with 75 points. The winners, as usual, were the folk at the next table who sail under the name Jambag.
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I knew this was going to happen. I went out to check the mail box and there were a dozen copies of the weekly magazine THE NEW YORKER from last year. Had been wondering when they were going to turn up.
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Haiku for a pussycat:
Eyes shut, body still;
The true meaning of "cat nap"
Plain for all to see.
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Pleased to notice I seem to be regaining control of my handwriting. At the end of last year, I noticed that it was getting pretty bad. I debated whether it was due to old age, lack of practice or the first signs of some degenerative disease. Not that I'm a hypochondriac, you understand!
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Haiku for an organist:
Racing finger work
and flying feet producing
the thunder of pipes.
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Saturday was a truly autumnal day (the end of February in Australia signals the transition from Summer to Autumn); dark and damp most of the day. I woke up early, and had my morning coffee listening to the morning news show on ABC radio -- half devoted to the Queensland floods, the other half to the war in Ukraine. Not a cheery start to the day.
After venturing out into the mud to feed the animals, I made lunch and listened to the podcast of last week's This American Life, which interviewed three people personally affected by climate change. By this time I was feeling so pessimistic I sent money to the first two charities I saw who were sending aid to Ukraine and felt a tad better.
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Haiku for a nuclear test 03 October 1952:
Earth moves and skies split.
The planet groans and shudders
at Monte Bello.
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Maybe after 2022 things will get better. I hope so.
