D (May)

 This May I read the author whose name ends in D. He writes enigmatically in this fashion of his boyhood marbles collection, the capital city where he lived most of his life, and other egocentric matters. He says he writes personal mythology. This May I read about the collapse of insect species. I think of butterflies, with their delta-shaped wings, being no more. It puts me in mind of how literature is a game for ladies and gentlemen, wrapped up in pastimes like playing with marbles or letters, discussing what it was like living in the world’s most liveable city.

V (May)

“Poème Symphonique, for 100 metronomes, was a reminder of Ligeti’s delight in the absurd.” (Guardian, 25 May 2018) Absurd, and yet György Ligeti was in protest. 100 pendulums V from one side to the other and back, clocking each their exact timing, until they run down and stop. Protest against "stubborn and intolerant" ideologies. Winston Churchill’s victory salute morphs into Ringo Starr's peace sign. 100 windscreen wipers at differing speeds pelt down the rainy freeway. “The piece has been recorded several times, but performed only occasionally due to the obvious difficulty of procuring such a large number of machines.” (Wikipedia)

K (May)

Screenwalking has become extremely common. The screenwalker resembles K, back more or less straight, one leg in front of the other, arm held at differing degrees of upright, screen unlocked. They are kings and queens of self-absorption. K describes their daily encounter with non-screenies. The screenwalker steps in a more or less straight line as the non-screenwalker curves, or makes a rapid ninety degrees to avoid collision with the obvious, or rather oblivious. K-Lanes may have to be introduced on footpaths and public concourses to remedy this daily traffic, though will screenwalkers remember to keep inside the dedicated K lines?

H (May)

H upon H of windows surmount the street-ground, reflect browning plane trees and opposite decos. Parallels of fluorescent lights inside ascend to grey sky. Someone at a desk emails symposiums to e-listers. At another H someone talks solidly to Brisbane. The Council meets at the 20^th HHHHHHHHHHHHs with views of the whole Et Cetera. Grey one-way glass where promoters blitz their buyers with someones who order their own selfies. H’s of offices where portfolios dream overseas, or at very least the movie. Googling tapers at 4:50pm, a dose of collect and exit. Down below H-Block they commute away through May.

B (May)

I’ve wondered about B. for forty years. Why was B. so confident? How come B. gave the speech that won hearts? B. had all the right moves, or so it seemed. They still look right, to me. Did B. run with the pack? Get a life? Make a fist of it? Settle down? Or did B. stuff it? Wind up on the receiving end? Go to seed? Was one night a May Day? Or a night to remember? Is B. truly loved? Or is that was? Where’s B. now? Still alive? And if not, how did B. die? And why?

N (May)

When Glenn Gould wrote The Idea of North he didn’t mean The Fact of North. Voices and soundscapes were his friends. The main motif was a train, that would terminate, leaving his friends staring at icy snow. Canada’s like that, white as day. Only by going to Tasmania does it occur that Tasmanians have their own Idea of North. It’s a vast, difficult city of multiplying voices, across the water, that remains in their minds long after they’ve switched off the light. May writes an Idea in some Melburnians of a certain age, a permanent aquamarine soundscape called Deep North.

L (May)

Cartoonist hardly describes Leunig. His L-borders are hand drawn, reminder we are going into a human space, not a mechanical repetition. He once said, you cannot argue with a teapot. There is something in Leunig striving to disable people’s futile contest of wills. The symbol of peace is a dove, yet this cliché was replaced some time ago in Leunig by a duck. The duck waddled into view one May morning; now when it shows up you know it’s pointless arguing. Then there’s Michael’s sister, Mary. She’s the unexpected in the drawing’s narrative that upsets the applecart. Laugh out loud.   

C (May)

[Memory game on the 5.30pm Hurstbridge express. Rules: C places, the first to mind, first memory] Camperdown: airy hill views from the monastery. Copenhagen: birch trees and running streams in the snow. Cardiff: black walls of buildings and glowing windows. Cheltenham: plethora of eucalyptus golf courses. Como: blue shadows where the lake meets palazzi jetties. Cavendish: wearing runners in yabbie dams. Christchurch: bluestone churches and white clouds. Coolangatta: bus windows. Canberra: flat spaces and upright artefacts. Cologne: spilt-level 60s where carpet bombs landed. Carlton: cheap terraces for twenty-somethings. Calais: seagulls and beers. Cambridge: black fields and greenest grass. [May 2018]

Y (May)

Why the divide? Where does it start, and how? Saul Steinberg sat at his draughtsman’s desk. Figures stand at the end of each tip, wondering did they take the road less travelled? YES rolls downhill like a principal’s speech, directly towards an unavoidable BUT. May starts with an mmmmmmm of anticipation, encounters an A of achievement, only to tail off with an unanswered why. Steinberg took an hour with best art paper drawing a Y, all bells and whistles. Asked why, he replied, boredom. His stick figure Y reaches out, in ecstasy, for help, another branch on the family tree.