Book V: Chapter 5: The Grand Inquisitor
(The Brothers Karamazov, pg 283)
I am one page away from the much lauded "The Grand Inquisitor" chapter of Karamazov. My spleen is tingling with excitement, which is odd as it's usually other parts of my body that tingle when I'm excited...I didn't mean for that to sound quite so dirty.
In the past "The Grand Inquisitor" is a section I've tried (& failed) a few times to read. THIS time however, I understand what's going on (mostly), and the pages leading up to this chapter have set the tone. The "Grand Inquisitor" will continue the philosophic D&M*, begun in the preceeding chapters, between the 2 younger Karamazov brothers, Ivan and Alyosha - though it would be more correct to say it's the continuation of Ivan's moody ramblings, with the occasional comment from Alyosha.
*D&M: Deep and Meaningful conversation - when I was at high school the D&M was a highly revered occurrence, one which I experienced only infrequently due to my shallowness.
Monday 27 July 2009
Wednesday 22 July 2009
A chocolate milkshake and a piece of fruitcake in exchange for 470ml of my blood
(This is the barter on offer at the Blood Bank)
I thought this was a fair exchange. And I'd been meaning to offload some of my blood for awhile - and the blood bank seemed as good a place as any to do this, with their trained nurses and sterile equipment and ability to put my blood to good use.
So I took up the offer. And my blood was certainly keen to be free. During the haemoglobin finger pick test (to check my iron levels - which were very healthy - which was good to know as I'm no longer eating meat) my blood jumped out of my finger and flew across the desk. It's never done that before. Then, during the actual donation, just as the last of my blood was being extracted, the needle fell out of my arm and my blood started escaping down my arm and onto the chair. Go blood! It didn't get far though, the nurses were onto it in a flash, with their gauze and cotton.
Still, it was a good attempt, by my blood, to free itself from this constraining flesh existence I've been forcing it to live in all these years. However, since I need my blood to keep me functioning, I can't allow too much of it to escape. I'll have to keep an eye on it, make sure it doesn't surreptitiously start leaking from my person, now that it's had a taste of freedom.
Haemoglobin:
Pretty!
I thought this was a fair exchange. And I'd been meaning to offload some of my blood for awhile - and the blood bank seemed as good a place as any to do this, with their trained nurses and sterile equipment and ability to put my blood to good use.
So I took up the offer. And my blood was certainly keen to be free. During the haemoglobin finger pick test (to check my iron levels - which were very healthy - which was good to know as I'm no longer eating meat) my blood jumped out of my finger and flew across the desk. It's never done that before. Then, during the actual donation, just as the last of my blood was being extracted, the needle fell out of my arm and my blood started escaping down my arm and onto the chair. Go blood! It didn't get far though, the nurses were onto it in a flash, with their gauze and cotton.
Still, it was a good attempt, by my blood, to free itself from this constraining flesh existence I've been forcing it to live in all these years. However, since I need my blood to keep me functioning, I can't allow too much of it to escape. I'll have to keep an eye on it, make sure it doesn't surreptitiously start leaking from my person, now that it's had a taste of freedom.
Haemoglobin:
Pretty!
Thursday 16 July 2009
Magic Mountain
From beneath the distracted city the magic mountain rises,
in its shadow, the creeping fever;
seeping, scouring, soothing.
Within the ephemeral structure are the caves of belief and illusion,
made from turquoise and sapphire;
a blazing celestial spectrum.
Etched into the walls are the hands of grace,
the mysterious indigo reflection;
translucent and immense, pervasive and infinite.
To some the mountain is an angel, come to offer comfort.
To others it is justice, a warrior, forged by righteous fury.
And those who know the truth,
who live in isolation and on the verge of sanity.
in its shadow, the creeping fever;
seeping, scouring, soothing.
Within the ephemeral structure are the caves of belief and illusion,
made from turquoise and sapphire;
a blazing celestial spectrum.
Etched into the walls are the hands of grace,
the mysterious indigo reflection;
translucent and immense, pervasive and infinite.
To some the mountain is an angel, come to offer comfort.
To others it is justice, a warrior, forged by righteous fury.
And those who know the truth,
who live in isolation and on the verge of sanity.
Wednesday 8 July 2009
Poo-Patrol
(Warning: probably too much information)
Today I went on poo-patrol. This is an exhilarating event, occurring about every 3 months, whereby I collect cat-poo deposited by Ms Willow Pussycat, from my shared garden. Since cat-poo degrades at a very slow pace and there is a limited amount of dirt in the garden, the poo builds up. Willow usually does her pooing in the dirt just outside my flat but when this area fills up, she moves to the dirt outside my neighbours flats, which they might not be happy about - so I need to be vigilant.
An ideal poo-patrol occurs during autumn or spring, the weather isn't too hot or cold, and the poo is a good consistency - not too wet or dry. An added bonus is when none of my neighbours come outside to chat; for it is very difficult to maintain neighbourly affability carrying a bag full of stinky poo. The worst (or possibly best) case scenario would be if the nice fellow from flat number 1 (who I have hot-pants for but who is married) came outside. I might panic and have to run back inside, accidentally dropping my poo bag, which he would pick up and return to me. And then we'd fall in love. (And, as all this falling in love across the poo bag was happening, it would be revealed that his wife was having an affair and was going to leave him - I don't like to be a home wrecker in my romantic fantasies, although I don't mind being a bunny-boiler).
During today's poo-patrol, the people from the next-door flat came outside while I was cleaning off the poo from my boot (one of the poos had snuck up behind me while I wasn't paying attention). They all stared at me (the people, not the poo). I wasn't in the mood to explain what I was doing so I ignored them and kept scraping. I hoped they weren't offended. I hoped they'd figure it out since I'd just been in front of their flat, in the dirt, with a pooper-scooper, and they know I have a cat. But what if they didn't work it out. They're recently from India - maybe they don't have pooper-scooper's in India. They probably think I'm peculiar and unsociable (which I am, but I try hard to hide this from people). I guess the main thing is that they no longer have cat-poo in their garden and won't have to experience the horror of scraping Willow's most foul excretion from their boots (what the hell have I been feeding her! - usually I can cope with her poo but some of the poo today was hideous).
Today I went on poo-patrol. This is an exhilarating event, occurring about every 3 months, whereby I collect cat-poo deposited by Ms Willow Pussycat, from my shared garden. Since cat-poo degrades at a very slow pace and there is a limited amount of dirt in the garden, the poo builds up. Willow usually does her pooing in the dirt just outside my flat but when this area fills up, she moves to the dirt outside my neighbours flats, which they might not be happy about - so I need to be vigilant.
An ideal poo-patrol occurs during autumn or spring, the weather isn't too hot or cold, and the poo is a good consistency - not too wet or dry. An added bonus is when none of my neighbours come outside to chat; for it is very difficult to maintain neighbourly affability carrying a bag full of stinky poo. The worst (or possibly best) case scenario would be if the nice fellow from flat number 1 (who I have hot-pants for but who is married) came outside. I might panic and have to run back inside, accidentally dropping my poo bag, which he would pick up and return to me. And then we'd fall in love. (And, as all this falling in love across the poo bag was happening, it would be revealed that his wife was having an affair and was going to leave him - I don't like to be a home wrecker in my romantic fantasies, although I don't mind being a bunny-boiler).
During today's poo-patrol, the people from the next-door flat came outside while I was cleaning off the poo from my boot (one of the poos had snuck up behind me while I wasn't paying attention). They all stared at me (the people, not the poo). I wasn't in the mood to explain what I was doing so I ignored them and kept scraping. I hoped they weren't offended. I hoped they'd figure it out since I'd just been in front of their flat, in the dirt, with a pooper-scooper, and they know I have a cat. But what if they didn't work it out. They're recently from India - maybe they don't have pooper-scooper's in India. They probably think I'm peculiar and unsociable (which I am, but I try hard to hide this from people). I guess the main thing is that they no longer have cat-poo in their garden and won't have to experience the horror of scraping Willow's most foul excretion from their boots (what the hell have I been feeding her! - usually I can cope with her poo but some of the poo today was hideous).
Saturday 4 July 2009
Pinball Wizard
As sung by Pete Townshend during Amnesty International's "Secret Policeman's Ball":
(here are some of the lyrics - Pete Townshend didn't sing one of the verses and sang the last verse twice, I don't know if this was on purpose - I think I read somewhere that he was very nervous during this performance)
He stands like a statue
Becomes part of the machine
Feeling all the bumpers
Always playing clean
He plays by intuition
The digit counters fall
That deaf, dumb and blind kid
Sure plays a mean pinball
He's a pinball wizard
There's got to be a twist
A pinball wizard
He's got such a supple wrist
He ain't got no distractions
Can't hear those buzzers and bells
Don't see lights a flashin'
Plays by sense of smell
Always gets a replay
Never tilts at all
That deaf, dumb and blind kid
Sure plays a mean pinball
It's one of my favourite songs. I first heard this movie version when I was 13, when I saw The Secret Policemen's Ball. I didn't know the song or who Pete Townshend was or who The Who were ("who The Who were", hehehe). But I was quite taken by the strange and beautiful lyrics and performance. It's a great story: someone who doesn't have access to most of the usual ways of sensing the external world has found their own, extraordinary, way. It's usually sung in a more rocking or melodic way (when sung by The Who or Elton John), but this, acoustic guitar-slightly melancholic-Pete Townshend version, is my favourite.
(here are some of the lyrics - Pete Townshend didn't sing one of the verses and sang the last verse twice, I don't know if this was on purpose - I think I read somewhere that he was very nervous during this performance)
He stands like a statue
Becomes part of the machine
Feeling all the bumpers
Always playing clean
He plays by intuition
The digit counters fall
That deaf, dumb and blind kid
Sure plays a mean pinball
He's a pinball wizard
There's got to be a twist
A pinball wizard
He's got such a supple wrist
He ain't got no distractions
Can't hear those buzzers and bells
Don't see lights a flashin'
Plays by sense of smell
Always gets a replay
Never tilts at all
That deaf, dumb and blind kid
Sure plays a mean pinball
It's one of my favourite songs. I first heard this movie version when I was 13, when I saw The Secret Policemen's Ball. I didn't know the song or who Pete Townshend was or who The Who were ("who The Who were", hehehe). But I was quite taken by the strange and beautiful lyrics and performance. It's a great story: someone who doesn't have access to most of the usual ways of sensing the external world has found their own, extraordinary, way. It's usually sung in a more rocking or melodic way (when sung by The Who or Elton John), but this, acoustic guitar-slightly melancholic-Pete Townshend version, is my favourite.
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