You may be familiar with Cyranny’s Vintage Notes, but I wonder if I am the only one to whom the word word ‘vintage’ immediately inspires thoughts of nostalgic personal introspection.

On this occasion she was hinting at her own getting of wisdom, even though she has been around for barely the blink of an eye, relatively speaking. The only wisdom that I can offer, from a bit further down the track, is that one comes to realise not only how stupid one was as a youth, but how stupid one remains and is destined to remain always. The big difference is that stupidity was so much more fun in youth.

So I sent Cyranny a little poem in response and repeat it here, just to indicate that I still draw breath and occasionally attempt to feign optimism, albeit not very well.

Neither of the people in the picture is me, by the way. The one with clothes on is Henry Miller, my first great literary hero, and the other person is somebody else – probably a very respectable old lady now, in a retirement villiage. I remember seeing the picture originally in one of Miller’s books somewhere with the caption, ‘no matter how attractive my opposition, I never lose focus’. If only I could claim the same.

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Old

But not forgotten

On the nose

But not quite rotten

I’ve done the yards

And done them hard

Slightly bruised

And badly scarred

And badly kept

I’ve sadly wept

On nights alone

I’ve barely slept

And yet a heart

Still beats within

With thoughts of

Every mortal sin

Still pumping blood

Through every vein

To taste your lips

Your fine champagne

Still living, breathing, don’t forget

There’s life within the old dog yet.

Ok, ok, ok. I know.

One shouldn’t be promoting the idea of suicide as a logical answer to life’s problems. Even if it is. Especially if it is, in fact.

But I’m not really doing that. I’m just, as usual, fiddling around with a few words. I was reading a poem from Kate on a sort of similar subject and she takes a rather more optimistic view of things. But that’s Kate for you – always the optimist.

So this is just a bit of balance. A bit of Yang to her Yang

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Feeling jaded? Overawed?

Why not just jump overboard?

Into the current, come what may

Upstream, downstream, either way

Depart this life of tears and toil

Leap off your boat, this mortal coil

Floating gently with the stream

Blending there with life marine

Bring forth the darkness. Let it rain

Wash away this earthly pain


Happiness is what you find


When leaving sadness far behind


All will be blissful, by and large


So make your splash…. and …. Bon Voyage!

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But.

Lest anyone take me seriously may I implore you to cast your eye over previous posts of mine. There is ample evidence there that I am not to be taken seriously.

Ever.

I really can’t decide if this is absolutely dreadful, or just very bad, along with all the other stuff I throw into a haphazard pile that I reluctantly refer to as ‘my poetry’.

It results from a post from dVerse requesting thoughts about vacations and naturally conjuring up thoughts of exotic destinations sipping cocktails under an endless sky and watching a perfect sunset over a distant horizon.

But the fact is that I barely leave the house these days (believe it or not, though, I used to get about the planet quite a bit) and am more inclined to hide from the world in a book. So that’s the holiday I chose to tell you about, albeit fairly poorly ….

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Getting away from it all

Little moments I recall

Little lives I re-live

Little errors, I forgive

My own mistakes.

With little breaks

From reality

Where, I see

And tell

Life works out well

In this little paper place

A smile upon my face

That lasts forever, in its way

The sorrow of tomorrow

Put off, another day

And so to play

Who knows where? And who can say?

A life of cheerful disarray

Should I care? Is it clever?

To never leave this place

This easy pace, this quiet space

This sweet embrace within the page

A timelessness for any age

And never mind what I have missed

Those girls I may have never kissed

For always there, inside the cover.

Behind the mist awaits a lover.

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I wrote this in quick response to Fandango before realising it was initially inspired by Cyranny.

Anyway …

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Her name was Suzie. She was 23 years old, of ‘Chinese descent’, liked art galleries, travel and fast cars. We had never met. We had exchanged photos, but not even yet spoken.

 

I chose the restaurant.

“Authentic Szechwan cuisine.” 4 ½ stars, Joel, 34

“The Fuqi Fei Pian is to die for.” 5 stars, Karen, 28.

“Not your average Asian slop.”  3 stars, Mark, 42

 

I had arranged for food to be served immediately upon her arrival, and so, when I recognised her gliding through the entrance, I held my hand up to her and simultaneously nodded to the waiter in a manner which I hoped conveyed an air of both experience and authority.

She was a replica of her photo.

Her hair was long and straight and dark and seemed to move as if choreographed to compliment the sway of her body. Her eyes were deep mysterious pools cut into the pure alabaster of her skin. She moved with a calm oriental grace such that the atmosphere itself seemed to bow respectfully to her as she floated across the floorboards towards me.

 

Just moments after she had taken her seat and demurely pushed her hair back behind her ears, the waiter arrived and, with a suitable air of ceremony, presented us with the opening course.

 

She examined it briefly before taking just one chopstick in her fist and driving it, like a spear, into a piece of meat nestling within a colourful array of noodles and vegetables.

 

“And what exactly,” she asked me, in a broad Australian accent, “is this shit?”

 

 

 

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