Ancient Wisdom

A wise man has no holes in his pocket, and he is never arrogant or cocky. 

A foolish man has a hole in his pocket, and feels cocky all day long 

A poor man has two holes in his pocket, but does not feel two cocky

From Microsoft Encarta -

Haiku. A Japanese verse form, notable for its compression and suggestiveness. It consists of three unrhymed lines of five, seven, and five syllables.

Traditionally and ideally, a haiku presents a pair of contrasting images, one suggestive of time and place, the other a vivid but fleeting observation. Working together, they evoke mood and emotion. The poet does not comment on the connection but leaves the synthesis of the two images for the reader to perceive. A haiku by the poet Bashô, considered to have written the most perfect examples of the form, illustrates this duality:

Now the swinging bridge

Is quieted with creepers …

Like our tendrilled life.

From under that black stone

A sigh, an enchanting moan

I’ll go fetch a spade

There is a saying in India:

Those who beg in silence starve in silence

I’ve given to lots of charities, lots of times, but no one’s ever called me a charity giver.

I’ve help lots of old ladies cross the road, but no one’s ever called me an old lady helper.

I’ve helped emigrants learn English for years, but no one’s ever calls me a teacher.

I’ve always had the best front garden on the street, but no one’s ever called me a gardener

But one day I shagged one sheep……..

No more Treyboy, no more Story, no more Easter Eggs!

I’m pissed!

darkoozeripple@hotmail.com

Set in London, England in April 1951. Part of a novel that I wrote. Perhaps a little heavy, but not too long. Comments please.

….perhaps was he just too out of his depth in the whole affair, and when the puzzling order came from his superior he was too scared to say no?

The distant ringing of the telephone excused Haig from a final conclusion on this point. With only a token grumble he rose briskly from his desk and descended the stairs to the hallway where the noisy instrument stood on its own narrow table, its shiny modern blackness ruling amidst the wood panel and regency striped wallpaper. He snatched the handset up in mid ring. “Yes.”

“Colonel Haig…” Haig recognised the voice immediately. It was Braithwaite the family solicitor. “Colonel Haig…” Braithwaite hesitated again. That was unlike him. He had the slow measured manner of his discreet profession, but he was seldom hesitant. “I’m afraid that I have some disturbing news for you.” The colonel felt the prickle of fear run down his back, that prickle that comes not from the threat of a blow, or the arrival of a bill that cannot be met, but from the hint of a deeper disaster, that passing by the flesh will bite the soul directly.

 “What is it,” he asked, his voice level and calm.

 “You had better go to Camden police station at once. The police are holding your son Raymond.”

“Holding. You mean he’s been arrested?”

“Yes, he’s been arrested.” The Colonel was dumbfounded. From the solicitor’s tone of voice he had expected a death at least. “But on what charge? Raymond’s never committed a crime in his life. Has he got drunk?” and the colonel nearly laughed.

“No Colonel, not drunk. It’s a serious matter. The officer in charge will explain it to you.”

“Serious matter! The man’s too inoffensive to kick a dog! What do you mean serious matter?”

“It may be best if the officer in charge explains that to you Colonel.”

“Damn it all Braithwaite you’re my solicitor!” the Colonel barked, angering in his bewilderment. “Do you think I’m driving all the way to Camden wondering what the devil’s going on? Out with it man whatever it is! I’m a soldier not a grocer.”

Braithwaite was not used to this. His work was mainly the competent transfer of property, the dull and serious business of drawing up wills, and eventually the somber reading of them. It was in this area that he had served the colonel and his family, not in the messy world of crime. But his client had demanded an answer and there was no way out, and so he spoke clearly with a forced evenness of tone. “I’m afraid that Raymond has been arrested on a charge of unnatural vice.” The colonel gazed stupidly at the hard black plastic that had spoken so strangely to him in its little tinny voice. He felt cold, the hallway felt cold and he felt strangely empty and light.

“What do you mean. How could this happen?”

“Your son and another man. They were arrested on a charge of unnatural vice.”

“Where.”

“In a nightclub in Camden. It was early this morning. Raymond was allowed a call from the police station and he called me. He doesn’t know anyone else in the legal profession.”

“I see,” said the colonel, his voice soft, little more than a whisper.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this colonel, very sorry,” Braithwaite continued, his calm solicitor’s manner crumbling a little under the attack of sympathy. The colonel had been a client for a long time and was always very proper in his dealings, very pleasant to deal with.  “I can recommend a colleague. I believe that he’s very experienced in these matters, however I aren’t.” But the line was dead, for the colonel had gently replaced the handset in its cradle.

Wherever people gather, there those other, half-people are, scarcely noticed, drifting like aimless dust, and every day I see them. If I pause, if I take a casual seat – here, on this low wall – they will settle towards me, shuffling, begging a cigarette, pawing feebly at petty, forgotten desire. They can be found anytime, huddled in shop doorways against the icy wind, or as now, scattered across this broad piazza, blinking in the New Spring sunlight.

They are the residue, the dregs, the ones who could not make it, the dead survivors, the ones we left behind. That man, cheeks black with stubble, not yet forty, shuffling past me the one way as a minute before he shuffled past the other: he moves so stiffly that I thought him crippled with an early arthritis, but now I see that he steps so hesitantly from habit. Long has it been since his stride was warm and quick with purpose.

There, an old man, piled grey hair half crammed into a baseball cap that in his hippy youth billowed jet and glorious black. He blinks, puzzled, at the passing people. Where did his life go to? Who are these busy people whose haste he cannot match and can no longer understand?

Was that how they fell? Was the world was too much, too changing, too busy gathering food to share the banquet, and so they fell, trampled in the stampede of a thousand desires, most of which belonged to others. Did we do this, or was it their own slackness? When the world changed and we leapt to change with it, we nimbly kept our feet whilst they stumbled. We sighed with relief, and quickly kicking the debris aside stood triumphant, erect, and saluted the new day’s glory.

Watched Brokeback Mountain on DVD this evening. Titanic!