Moving right along from moss to grass

I would make a good badge

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;
It may be you are from old people and from women, and from
offspring taken soon out of their mother's laps,
And here you are the mothers' laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken
soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
What do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere;
The smallest sprouts show there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end
to arrest it,
And ceased the moment life appeared.

All goes onward and outward. . . .and nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

Man v Cat

Discussing Death with George Clooney

My cat had to be put down recently. She went to sleep on my lap after having green liquid injected into her front right paw. She was 11, had FIV all of her life and finally succumbed to cancer of the liver. She now lies buried in my garden under a quite grand rock.

My grandfather died the following day. He was 92, suffered from chronic pomposity and finally succumbed to something along the lines of old age. He hadn't recognised me since 1976 and should've been given the option of the green liquid some time ago. He remains on ice as everyone waits for his oldest son to return from an overseas trip which he ain't planning on cutting short.

Frankly, I'm much more upset about the cat.

RIP Mark Linkous

Mark Linkous, the guy behind lo-fi band Sparklehorse, a band I have followed since the release of their debut album in 1995 has, sadly, committed suicide.

He collaborated with such luminaries as Tom Waits and PJ Harvey and was responsible for some brilliant songwriting and eccentric albums.

The following 2 songs represent each end of his distorted, fuzzy spectrum:

Rowland S Howard

Vale.

Road Rules in Real Life

Last week, my sister's husband died. The funeral was yesterday. There were so many events in and around the death that one blog post won't cut it. I figure, in a few months, when it's not all so raw, I'll serialise the story here. The story has a lot of twists... gangsters, death-threats, drugs, families fighting, a bizarre 21st in Canberra, and a eulogy speech from my Mum that rivals Marc Antony's 'Brutus is an honourable man' from Shakespeare.

In amongst the emotional carnage, there was a small event that made me smile.

My brother-in-law was a biker. Harleys. He was somewhat an expert in the field of Harley reconstruction, and he was popular amongst Harley riders - particularly hardcore gang members (the types of gangs you read about in the news) and many of these bikers came to the funeral.

When it came time to travel from the church to the cemetary, the order of the procession was supposed to be the hearse at the front, then my nephew (on his motorbike), then my car with me driving my sister (the bereaved), then behind us, my other nephew (in his car), then everyone else. But the bikers saw that my nephew was alone on his bike behind the hearse and decided to join him. So, the order ended up being the hearse, then about 30 scary biker dudes on Harleys, then me and my sister. Nothing was going to stop them from taking up this position, and besides, my sister pointed out that he would've been proud of having the Harleys behind the hearse.

Because we were driving through the suburbs, there were lots of red lights to navigate, and naturally, the hearse drivers were driving very slowly waiting for the long procession to catch up. The bikers helped. Two of them in particular kept driving in front of oncoming traffic, ignoring lights, and waving through the procession, then riding back up to the front.

When we hit the freeway, the hearse took a position in the left lane and was doing about 50km p/h, allowing everyone to catchup, but one man, not involved in the procession, cut in front of my car so he was between me and the bikers. My sister said, "It's okay, he probably wants to take the next exit," but when the next exit came, he didn't take it; he just stayed in our lane, at the front of the procession.

Then, he did a stupid thing. He tooted. And gesticulated. He wanted to go faster. He couldn't get out of the lane because all other lanes were doing 100km p/h, so he was stuck in ours. Tooting bikies in a funeral procession is not a good idea. He should've just pulled up in the emergency lane and waited, but no, he wanted to go faster so he was tooting the bikers. A couple of bikers dropped back to be beside him and they gesticulated back. In no uncertain terms, using hands, legs and frightening bearded facial expressions, the driver was urged to remove himself from the procession. But he had his back up. He was enraged that we were going so slow. Maybe he had a meeting to go to? Maybe he was hungry and wanted some cake?

And so, in order to end this farce, the bikers, somewhat symbiotically, all slowed down even more, and like a gang of lions in a BBC documentary, surrounded the hapless driver and quite literally ran him out of the lane and into the fast lane, nearly causing a massive crash with the fast traffic bearing down on him. And he still tooted at the bikers as he drove away!

I saw one scary biker take a good look at his number plate.

Oh dear.

I don't know anything about motorbikes or bikie gangs, but it is surely a VicRoads approved rule (and if it isn't, it should be in the driving license test), that when confronted by a mob of them on the roads, all existing road rules are out the window and they have right of way, whether they are on your right, on your left, on the wrong side of the road or in your driveway. Just pull over and let them ride, and maybe use the free time to check your hair in the mirror and see who is on 'The Conversation Hour' with Jon Faine.

When we got to the cemetary, the bikers set up a guard of honour into the property by blocking all oncoming cars (allowing the entire procession to turn right against the traffic and into the cemetary). At least 30 cars were made to stop. None of them tooted. They knew the real road rules.

Hold the Onions

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall
All the King's horses and all the King's men
Couldn't put Humpty together again

Ok, I was tempted to blog about the suggested alteration to this classic nursery rhyme from 1810 but, as you can see, it's already been done and, anyway, it's probably just a beat up and, anyway, I really don't care that much because we've been down this road before and we've all got annoyed about it - perhaps even angry - and we're probably mostly over the ridiculousness of these acts of stupidity and the ludicrousness of these crimes of absurdity.

After all, are kids really going to be offended, scared or saddened by some dimwit (and clearly fictional and largely comical if we can make a judgement from the picture above) egg taking a tumble off a wall and smashing his protective shell into smithereens, and thereafter dying a horrible death while being picked over by the King's four and twenty blackbirds (ok, that's a different nursery rhyme but I'm imagining a Tarantino or Altman-esque screenplay where nursery rhyme characters' lives intersect)?

I mean, there's even a moral here: kids, don't climb shit cos it's dangerous. Eggs are, after all, things to be eaten (and that's apart from their very important role of providing a cosy, gestational home for foetuses). I personally like mine fried with a side of bacon and mushrooms and liberally seasoned with pepper. Eggs, not foetuses. Preferably on thick, heavy, European style toast if it's available. And I'll sip a flat white while I'm about it thanks very much waitress and do that walk as you head back to the kitchen that's the girl.

But it got me thinking about nursery rhymes in general. Many of them revolve around death, injury or violence. Let's look at Jack n Jill. Two stupid kids climbing shit, falling over and cracking their skulls open. Ring a Ring a Rosy is about dying horrifically from the Black Death. Goosey Goosey Gander? A guy gets thrown down the stairs for not saying his prayers. I suspect Perseus and Boogey could entertain us with a grandiloquent discussion about the merits of this one. A baby crashes to its presumed death in Rockabye Baby. And then there are the sudden beheadings in Oranges and Lemons.

This all occurred to me as I recited nursery rhymes to my son in attempt to get him to sleep last night. No wonder he has nightmares.

How Long Have I Got?

I was in my roof recently. It's not something I do for pleasure, in fact it was one of the worst experiences of my life. I was laying insulation batts and let me say this: it's very bad for your health.

Firstly there's the dust. The dust that had been lying there since the house was built in 1935. The dust that was laced with mercury, ammonia and other popular carcinogens of a bygone era. Who could forget the famous Windsor paraquat scare of '39? It wormed its way deep into my lungs despite the mask and laid itself down quietly in the dark recesses of my retinas. It was black and foul and surely deadly. It had me coughing, spluttering and spitting before the first batt was in place.

During a particularly crippling attack of gasping, I spotted a misshapen lump in the feeble light of my 25 watt bulb. I picked it up, held it close to my face, shook it and finally, still unsure, tasted it. Of course! It was lead! A roof isn't a roof without a generous smattering of lead. Moving further into the darkness I found several broken pieces of our old friend asbestos. Lovely. This project was really going well.

Upon entering the roof I'd been more worried about the fibreglass particles from the batts which I knew would enter my bloodstream via the numerous scratches and splinters I'd surely receive from the ageing joists, and which would undoubtedly lodge themselves into my bronchioles and alveoli via my heavy, panicky breathing. It was all this and more. After 20 minutes my forearms were covered in angry welts of allergic reaction. My scratching, although somewhat satisfying at the time, appears to have left me severely scarred. And the large, painful red spot on the back of my neck could only be caused by the bite of a redback.

So I've enjoyed my time here at TSFKA, almost as much as my time on this earth. Nice knowing you all. I'm going for a whisky now and then a little lie down from which I probably won't wake up. The lesson: avoid manual labour at all costs. It'll kill you.

And yes, Perseus, you can have my matchbox cars.

I'm Betting Drugs

He may have been an awful human, but back when he was still black the kid could dance.

Vale, sort of.