Glesca Koans

Tags

99 cone, bhikkuni, birlin' yer wilkies, Chi-Tien, Chick Murray, Dalai Lama, Flake, Gilmorehill, Glasgow patter, Glesca, Huanglong, Irn Bru, Iron Duke, Jakushitzu, koan, laryngitis, Nirvana, Parliamo Glesca, pokey-hat, Rab C Nesbitt, Royal Exchange Square, Saltcoats, satori, Stanley Baxter, The Drunken Buddha, Wuman

(Wikipedia Creative Commons.  99 cone with Monkey Blood sauce:

Handbridge, Chester: 31/7/2009 by nikoreto)

 

As recent readers are aware, I have been fascinated with all

things Japanese in the past month or so.  I came across Zen parables

in the midst of all my reading and was amused by the word ‘koans.’

Somehow it reminded me of a Glaswegian pronunciation of ice

cream cornets.  Then I envisaged a conversation between a ‘Glesca

philosopher’ – a glorified Rab C Nesbitt and his side-kick- and so I

thought I’d share it with you:

(Sorry about the formatting- it looks great in

Edit and then won’t transfer properly)

KOANS ‘n’ a’ that

Wullie:   So whit’s this Philosophy course yer doin’?

Jimmy:    Uch, Ah’ve always wanted tae dae some studyin’ at ra Uni.

W: Whit huv ye learnt aboot?

J: Och, this week it wiz a’ aboot koans.

W: Pokey hats?

J: Whit?  Naw – koans.  K-O-A-N-S.  No like the ice-ey, ‘n ‘at. It’s when a psychological impasse is created an’ then yer intuition takes o’wer an’ ye get a satori.

W: Don’t tell everybody – they’ll a’ be wantin’ one. Ah kwite like stories, but it disnae mak’  sense tae me, aw this.

J:    It’s no’ meant tae make sense, ya muppet. It’s supposed tae be ‘an ineffable, deeply-affecting mental flash that illuminates the cosmos.’

W:  Like when ye first realise Irn-Bru isnae really made fae girders?  Or yer wean pokes a pencil in a soaket?

J: Haud oan!  Jakushitzu achieved it when he was slapped. Wuman says…

W: Aye wummen say too much!  Wan wumman- mah mammy- used tae slap me aboot the heid and said that wid cure me o’ the wisdom o’ emptiness. If it wis a school day, she ca’d it a rude awakening.

J: Mebbe she wis a bit o’ a … philosopher?

W: Ah dinnae ken aboot that, but she was devoted tae windae  hingin.’  That wis her particular form o’ meditation.

J:  A bhikkuni?

W:  Naw, she preferred a wan piece: a piece an’ jam, actually.  She developed her mantras oan the beach.  I called it her pokey-hat philosophy.  That’s how I got it mixed up wi’ yon  koans.  See, Ah asked her why Ah could only hiv a ’99’ and no’ a ‘100.’

J:  Whit did she say?

W:  She said perfection didnae exist in sublunary Saltcoats. And when I complained that the ice cream didnae go a’ the way doon tae the bottom o’ the cone, she telt me that wiz because Ah wuz tae gie the dug the last bit o’ nothingness. Aye, an’ if Ah drapped it on the grass, she said Ah hud two choices: take it; or leave it.

J: Huanglong…..

W:  ….is a piece o’ string?  Aye, that wiz wan o’ her favourites.

J: Ach, awright, Ah’m aff tae the pub.  Comin’?

W: Ah didnae think ye’d be allowed….  Yer religion, like….

J: Nae bother.  Huv ye never heard of The Drunken Buddha?

W: Who?

J: Chi-Tien… He took aff a’ his claes until he wiz in his bare scud and then he burl’d his wulkies in front of his superiors. Granted it wiz a different culture and century.  Ye only get that type o’ behaviour at airports noo, or thirty-eight thousand feet up, but monks like Chi-Tien reckoned non-conformity wuz a good thing. Ah widnae put it past the Dalai Lama either, though he might draw a line  at burlin’ wulkies an a’ that.

W: Ach, we’re no’ Zenophobic in Glesca, but we dinna care tae let it a’ hing oot.  We’re no’ really intae the moment; we dae the past far mair effectively.  Changin’ the subject, though, if it comes tae a cone, Ah must admit tae  likin’ a Flake and some fake raspberry sauce.

(he clears his throat.)

J: Crushed nuts?

W: Naw, laryngitis!  (They laugh.)  Stanley Baxter- classic.It might huv been Chick Murray, but Ah’m no’ arguin’ the toss.

J: Naw, doan’t.  We Buddhists dinnae go in fur conflict.  Ah kin show  ye a koan, by the way.  It’s jist roon the coarner. Philosophers keep puttin’ it oan The Iron Duke’s heid.

W : Royal Exchange Square.  Right! Very funny!  Tell me whit’ they keep dain’ it fur.  Whit does it mean?

J: The same as a single end clappin’ : a tale tell’t by idiots, signifying zero.  It means we’re a’ bampots, or cone-heids.

W: Aye, well that’s hardly a revelation!  Ye don’t need tae huv been tae Gilmorehill tae work that wan oot.

J: Next week we’re dain’ Nirvana.  Literally it means ‘blowin’ oot.’

W:That puts me in the notion furra curry.

 

• pokey-hat- an ice cream cornet
• wean- child
• windae-hingin’ – leaning on a window sill to observe proceedings
• scud- ‘birthday suit’; state of nature
• birlin’ yer wulkies – somersault
• Gilmorehill- site of Glasgow University
• piece n’jam – bread and jam sandwich
• single end- type of accommodation
• ice-y – the ice cream van
• bampot- idiot

(Royal Exchange Square: Wikipedia

Image : Rept0n1x)

 

Dilly-Dallying?

Tags

Abel Martinez, clerihew, Dali, DNA, Port Ligat, Van Vechten photographs

(Carl Van Vechten, photographer. 

Library of Congress.  Wikipedia)

 

Salvador Dali,

Maria Pilar Abel Martinez claims that you got pally

with her mother at Port Ligat.

The DNA sample should sort out that.

Child-Centred Clerihew

Tags

clerihew, Marion Kelly

Associated Press Image

Marion Kelly,

you’re quite at home on the telly.

For one of such a tender age,

you seem to relish centre stage.

Interview From Hell

Tags

clerihew, interview, Prof Robert E Kelly

Professor Robert E Kelly,

I bet you never thought- not on your nelly!-

that your kids would interrupt your interview

and that I would turn it into a clerihew!

Manners Makyth Man

Tags

assessment objectives, Blue Badge Guide, Camelot, Clueless, Colin Firth, Dr Johnson, Elinor Dashwood, feretory, Harriet Smith, Jane Austen, Keats, Lady Bertram, Mary Tudor, Occam's razor, Ockham's Razor, Ode to Autumn, ossuaries, Philip of Spain, St Cross, Winchester Cathedral, Wykeham Arms

The third and possibly penultimate excerpt from Jane Austen’s musings from beneath the floor of Winchester Cathedral.

Today an insolent hussy stood on my stone and shrieked to her companion:

Wow!  Get a load of this!  We are standing on that woman whose book we had to read for GCSE.  Except that our teacher just let us watch the DVD.  We had to compare it with “Clueless”, to show evidence of certain assessment objectives, but I got mixed up and was marked down.  It was the teacher’s fault.  She shouldn’t have confused me. My mum appealed, though, and I re-wrote that bit where Mr Thingy exits the lake in a wet t-shirt.  Mum said it was really cool.  Later she came here to give thanks for my success and slipped in a couple of prayer requests to The God of Camelot and a personal one that she might meet Colin Firth, with or without his wet clothing.

All of this was expressed in spite of a metal contraption which was attached to her teeth, so that I was as showered with saliva drops and my stone wetted, as if the Bishop had sprayed me with the rosemary twigs he uses at baptisms.  It isn’t always the best spot here, near the font.

But, at least we haven’t sunk to those adult total immersions yet.

Then the young woman proceeded to light a candle for me, muttering about there being no vanilla or blueberry-scented ones available.

Before I could utter the immortal phrase: It is a truth universally.. she was off, determined to see the feretory, as she loved those furry little creatures- or were they meerkats?  Simples is not the word.

Sometimes I raise my eyes to the metal hooks on the vasty pillars whose original function was to display the nuptial banners of Mary Tudor and Philip of Spain.  Since I cannot suspend myself thereby, I resort to turning over in my grave.  Someone should remind these youngsters of the motto of their local college:  Manners Makyth Man.  (And that is a generic, inclusive term.)

I try not to mind when tourists seem more interested in where Keats precisely commenced his walk to St Cross, before composing Ode to Autumn. 

I could easily interrupt the Blue Badge Guide and inform them that he first procured nuncheon and a pint of porter at The Wykeham Arms.  However, like my creation, Elinor Dashwood, I feel like commenting on his Romantic versification:

It is not everyone who shares your passion for dead leaves!

But, maybe this is somewhat scathing, even for me.

I still feel that a sermon well delivered is as rare as hens’ teeth.  The Evangelical varieties seem livelier, though hardly calculated to earn their exponents a succession to a stall in Westminster.

Some of the homilies could do with a firm shave by the venerable Occam’s razor, since they can be as mangled as the regal bones in the choir ossuaries and as dusty as the said receptacles themselves.  They might do well to remember the less intellectually endowed Harriet Smiths of this world, who do not always decipher obscure riddles and charades.  As Fielding said, however:

Clergy are men as well as other folks.

Personally, I have been able to touch and affect a heterogeneous audience and consequently often have more than half a mind to rise and preach myself, though I heed Dr Johnson’s astute aphorisms regarding the fairer sex and sermonising:

A woman’s preaching is like a dog’s walking on his hinder legs.  It is not done well: but you are surprised to find it done at all.

I know that I can be eloquent on points in which my own conduct would have borne ill examination.  However, greater opportunity for inward reflection has led me to direct more of my sense of irony towards my own failings.  As the good doctor also said:

As I know more of mankind, I expect less and less of them and am ready now to call a man a good man upon easier terms than I was formerly.

However, I who have gently mocked the aspirations of others have been glad to be sheltered in the bosom of this place, as comfortably as Lady Bertram’s pug upon her chaise, but- prenez soin!  I am sometimes yet inclined to bare my needle sharp teeth and to sink them into some unsuspecting ankles- metaphorically, of course!

Snodbury

Tags

Antarctic krill, catharsis, compund eye, convergent evolution, Dianetics, Hornby, le mot juste, Rev Awdry, Ribena, Salsa, Scrooge, stirrup cups, Tree of Life

(Compound Eye of Antarctic Krill: Wikipedia.  Photo by Gerd Alberti and

Uwe Kils)

 

Snodbury was actually his mother’s surname, he believed.

She had waltzed off to Venezuela, following her political dreams

and had settled down with a salsa musician, producing his half-

brother.

Aunt Augusta ( Editor:In Retrospect May She Rest In Peace and Rise In

Glory!) had deposited him, as a confused four year old, in St Birinus’

Pre-Prep Department, where he might have turned into a pre-pubescent

Scrooge, given that he was often forgotten at half terms.

It was not the first time that Gus (Snod) had had the distinct sensation

that someone was standing behind him whilst he was shaving.  Through

the condensation he wondered if, like another sweet young prince, he was

about to encounter his ghostly father.  There were more surprising things

in Heaven and Earth, he was sure.

He felt that it was not entirely down to thespian self-delusions that he

could summon up a vague remembrance of an encounter with a man

called Arthur in some school holidays.  The visits were etched on his

consciousness as they were marked by the gifts of a piece of Hornby

kit and a Rev Awdry book.

Aunt Augusta would collect him and take him on the train all the way

to Kent and then they would take a taxi to Wivern Mote.

His aunt and Arthur would sit round the fire in the converted stable block,

drinking mulled wine, if it was a Christmas Holiday, and gin and tonic, if

it wasn’t.  He remembered the odd silver cups from which the wine had

been imbibed.  They had embossed foxes’ heads on them.  He had been

drinking Ribena from a tooth mug and had asked about them.  He

remembered now: they were stirrup cups, he had been informed.

When it was time to go, he had to shake Arthur’s hand with his own

mittened fingers and he grew to anticipate the half crown that would

be passed into his woolly palm.  It was never a two shilling piece.  He

could tell, without looking- which would have been rude-just by feeling

the milled edge.  Yes, Arthur had been generous, if enigmatic.

It wouldn’t seem long before he was back to the security of school- that

same establishment to which he had dedicated not only the best years

of his life,but the majority of them.  The only noteworthy hiatus was

when he had studied Classics at university and had then returned like

the Biblical dog…

The toilet paper he had licked and stuck to his shaving nick fell off.  He

hoped the wound would heal more quickly than the childhood scars he

was well aware of bearing into advanced adulthood.

‘Catharsis‘- that was le mot juste.  If he could only lance the boil of his

carbuncular life, he felt the bloodletting would be beneficial.  There had

been so many toxic infections visited upon him in the course of his

school-masterly life.

He laughed to himself:  Pus in Boots!  This was the way his tangential mind

roved around, seeking bad puns.

Yes, Dear Reader, the exploration of the life and times of this apparent

nonentity will be the very means whereby he may be purged and brought

to a hopeful re-birth (but not in any Dianetical way, I assure you.)

By tracing his twig’s development on The Tree of Life, by exploring

different starting points, he hoped to arrive at the identical solution: himself.

The Biology teacher had explained convergent evolution to him, but I won’t

bore you with an elucidation now.

He had also wished that he could see the world through a compound eye-

to see himself as others saw him and to see himself more clearly.

Perhaps with ocular enhancement he would avoid any more shaving nicks…

Villanelle

Tags

Jacob and Esau, Rebekah and Isaac, villanelle

I haven’t written a sestina yet, I lamented to Brassica.

They are supposed to be good for laments, she said, somehow

reading my thoughts and mood.  Try a villanelle.  It might be

easier to start there.

So, I tried to think of a topic and turned to The Bible for those

little dramas that illustrate human nature.  Suddenly Jacob, Isaac

and Esau popped into my mind and, before I knew it, inspiration had

prompted the following poem.  Maybe it is an exercise in form,  but

I hope it transmits the essence of their relationship struggle.

HALF LIGHT

Half-blind, he mistook goat for venison.

(Mother and son were partners in the crime.)

And so he gave Jacob his benison.

 

Take this stew and treat him with kid gloves, son.

Rebekah staged her little pantomime:

half-blind, he mistook goat for venison.

 

Jacob stayed at home- a tent denizen;

but Esau was a hunter in his prime.

Isaac still gave Jacob his benison.

 

Isaac couldn’t recognise anyone.

His cataracts obscured this social climb:

half-blind, he mistook goat for venison.

 

Jacob knew when to put the lentils on.

Esau’s priority was dinner time.

Thus Isaac gave Jacob his benison.

 

An old man’s craving made him jettison

Divine will.  So, trapped like a bird on lime,

half-blind, he mistook goat for venison

and gave Esau a lesser benison.

 

 

 

 

 

The Pajama Game

Tags

deshabille, Doris Day, embonpoint, Gladys Hotchkiss, jim-jams, Lloyd Webber, negligee, Noah, ognon, onesie, pajamas, plein-air, Shirley Maclaine, subjunctive, The Pyjama Game, Waitrose

(original Broadway windowcard: Wikipaedia)

 

Oh look!  Here comes Peabrain Minor’s mater, alias Head of The Grievance

Committee, expostulated Virginia Fisher-Gyles, PA to The Headmaster of

St Birinus Middle School.

Late again, commented Mr Augustus Snodbury, Senior Master, on his way

to Registration via his partner’s office.

The aforementioned parent hopped out of her 4×4, still in a onesie, or

her pyjamas.

Gives a new aspect to the adjective ‘deshabille’, he added. Mind you, I

wouldn’t mind if you turned up for work in that rather fetching negligee

which the saleswoman persuaded me was entirely appropriate as a Christmas

gift for a friend.  I think you would make a better understudy for Shirley

Maclaine than Mrs P does.

Let’s be professional. Virginia stood on her principles- as well as her

four inch stilettos.

Oh, the subjunctive- and so early in the morning, quipped Snod.

You say ‘pyjamas’ and I say ‘pajamas’, countered Virginia, closing the

conversation and starting to hum ‘I’m not at all in Love.’

The Carry On Teaching vision with choreography by Fosse faded from

his magisterial brain, but not before he had noted the similarity

between Virginia’s embonpoint and that of a certain fictional Gladys

Hotchkiss.  Yes, they no longer produced the great musicals of

yesteryear. That Lloyd Webber character…  Sigh.

(Does anyone out there recognise the etymology of ‘magisterial’ ??

Are we all going to adjust our spelling to ‘ognon‘?)  The Editor.

There was a peremptory rap at the door.

Enter! boomed Virginia.

Peabrain Minor’s mother appeared in her usual matitutinal

fluster.

I’ve just brought a bag with a change of clothes for Noah, if I could

leave it in The Office for him, she announced.

Oh, we are a Left Luggage Establishment now, Snod thought, but

didn’t remark aloud.  That was a forbearance that he had learned

from Virginia, in the course of their relationship.

I’m afraid I don’t quite understand, said Virginia.

Well, it’s just for the lesson after break.  Noah doesn’t respond well

to formal learning strategies and, if Mr Snodbury doesn’t mind, my

son would be more comfortable in his jim-jams.  Oh, Mr Snodbury!

She had just noticed the schoolmaster lurking behind the door.

Ah, his namesake was quite comfortable with appearing in a

Post-Diluvian Apocalyptic public space au naturel, Mrs P, Snod

pontificated. But, unfortunately, even the members of the patriarch’s

family took exception to his informal, nay  casual,  plein-air approach.

I take it that that’s a ‘no’ then, Sir?

She left, with the Waitrose bag of clothing, looking rather

chastened.

Not exactly Doris Day, said Snod in his habitual report-speak.

But more intelligent than you’d think.

 

 

 

Our Principles Define Us

Tags

Ai Weiwei, Changi, David Battie, deferred gratification, Dim sum, earthen vessels, Garden of Eden, Heathrow, Horatius Bonar, Humpty Dumpty, Jia Xiang, KrisFlyer, NGV Melbourne, Qing vase, Singapore Airlines, The Antiques Roadshow, The Fitzwilliam, Trust, UOB Bank, Warhol

(Walters Collection, Baltimore)

I wouldn’t trust him with a barge pole, said Brassie, firmly.

How does she create these mixed metaphors?  What would

she expect someone to do with a barge pole?  Run off with it and

sell it on E-bay?

I kept thinking about the short advert for UOB Private Bank which

I saw on KrisFlyer, on the screen on the back of the seat in front of

me, during my flight on Singapore Airlines, from Changi to Heathrow.

The advert was a lot more interesting than the films on offer.

Trust.  “Our Principles Define Us.”

A sweet little boy- Jia Xiang- is shown a large blue and white vase

by his father, who tells him that it is priceless and irreplaceable.  The

parent places it on his display shelves and asks his son not to touch it.

The boy nods and promises.

Later Jia Xiang is bored as it is raining and he goes to the shelf and takes

the vase down, in order to look at it.

A servant calls him for Dim Sum and the boy hurriedly replaces it on the

shelf, but not in the exact same position.

(Matt@PEK Flickr)

His father later questions him as to whether he touched the vase.  Truthfully,

the boy confesses and his father raises the vase and smashes it to the floor.

He then tells his son that trust is of the utmost importance.  They hug.

Hmmm, as a non-committal Anglican vicar friend of mine might comment.

(Image by Hafenbar)

The underlying metaphor reminded me of the video at the NGV, Melbourne.

The Ai Weiwei/ Warhol exhibition is brilliant and featured footage of the

Chinese artist raising an ancient vase above his head and smashing it to

the ground. I think we are meant to question its cultural, aesthetic and

historical value.  All I could think was:  What a shame!  I hope it was a fake.

It’s like David Battie on The Antiques Roadshow, assessing some priceless

piece of porcelain.  I keep wanting to shout out at the screen:  Be careful!

You are making me nervous!

I remember some visitor stumbled down the stairs at The Fitzwilliam Museum

in Cambridge and knocked over three Qing vases on a sill in the stairwell.

They had a combined value of £500,000.

He should have tied his shoelaces.

Restorers did manage to put all the shards together again- unlike Humpty

Dumpty.

But should the museum have trusted the visitors?  Well, 9 million people

had passed them before and nothing untoward had occurred.

When The Husband broke both of my prize lustre vases in one week, I had to

ask myself where I placed my value.  The Bible says we have our treasure in

earthen vessels, so I suppose the vessels are only the receptacles.  Where

your treasure is, there will your heart be.

I was still annoyed!

Sometimes I remember the patient child in the psychology experiment on

deferred gratification.  When told not to touch the sweets and there would be

a greater reward after a little time, some kids just could not wait.  Others

could and reaped the benefits of even more confectionery.

Sometimes I wish that I was able to trust God and leave things alone and not

touch them.

But then, it is the same old problems as our forefathers had in The Garden of

Eden:  curiosity, impatience and lack of trust.

Our principles define us, as the UOB advert says.

Christianity often recommends having a firm grasp.  Horatius Bonar’s hymn

sprang into my mind:

Here, O my Lord, I see Thee face to face.

Here would I touch and handle things unseen.

Here grasp with firmer hand eternal grace…

Oh, for a more tactful and careful approach to dealing with sensitive matters!

The Wrong Wellies

Tags

barista, Botticelli, Brassica, Brunetti's, Chinese New Year, Commissario Brunetti, Commissario Montelbano, David Cameron, Donna Leon, Donna Tartt, Hunter wellies, kiddychino, Nicola Sturgeon, Rebekah Brooks, salted caramel eclair, SamCam, Singapore Sling

(image by abc 10)

 

So basically you have been unfaithful to ‘Costamuchamoulah’ cafe here in

Suttonford? Brassica accused me.

It wasn’t like that, I tried to defend myself. No bog-brush bearded baristas

were involved, I assure you.  It’s just that ‘Brunetti’s’ salted caramel eclairs in

Melbourne were so tempting.

That Italian name’s familiar, Brassie interrupted.

You’re thinking of Donna Leon’s Commissario Brunetti, I surmised, knowing

she’d read a couple of the volumes in the series at her ‘Bookworm’ group.

But, you know, I’d prefer to make a tangential mental leap to summon up a

vision of Commissario Montelbano- the young one, I mused.  Actually, one

of the waiters who brought me extra marshmallows was kind of like him. He

had the same bandy legs, but Botticelli curls.

Mmm, quite a lot of Italian guys do.  Yet, you’ve been swanning round the

globe while the rest of us were generating mould in our ‘Hunter’ wellies from

the condensation build-up of Apocalyptic precipitation levels?

Join Nicola Sturgeon’s clan.  But not David Cameron’s.

How so?

She shares your taste in trending wellies.  Apparently Cameron wore a cheap

pair when he visited the flooded areas.

Oh, that was for the press, she exclaimed.  Do you think SamCam would

let him out in anything cheap if he was (say) visiting Rebekah Brooks for a bit

of a pot supper, after helping her to muck out at her stables?

Okay, I’m sorry.  By the by, I would be surprised if SamCam, as you call her,

allowed him out at all, when he is off-duty.  She would probably prefer him to

come home smelling of roses.

Why do I always get Donna Leon and Donna Tartt mixed up?

Dunno. Easily done. I took my tablet out of its case.

Look! This was us on our final evening at ‘Raffles’, on the way home.

Put it away, barked Brassie.  I’m not interested.  Anyway, you said you

went there twice, so I can’t forgive you.

She couldn’t resist a peek.

What were you trying to do?  Live up to your gravatar?

No, I was just having a ‘Singapore Sling.’

She drew me an even greater disapproving look.

Not a ‘fling’. You can get virgin ones, you know, I pleaded.

Silence.

No, actually.  Look, I’m not trying to be elitist.  Nowadays

it is a virtual extension of a creche.  Kids everywhere.  All these

special venues are commandeered by fathers in baseball caps

and shorts and mothers pushing giant buggies with babes who

only require feeder cups.  You dress for dinner and they throw theirs

on the floor- or ground-, if we are referring to the outside courtyard. 

Sometimes the infant accessories even manage to project their

regurgitations into your lap.

I do so agree on the distinction you make between ‘floor’ and

‘ground’, Brassie reflected. But, have you always been irritated

by kids, Candia?  I mean, didn’t you once teach the little darlings? 

Surely teachers like children?

Don’t bank on that, I replied.  D’habitude, we only like the well-behaved

ones, of which there are fewer and fewer.  I don’t mind them at informal

eateries at lunchtime, but if I am spending a mint on a rare grown-up

treat, I prefer a kiddychino-free zone.

Kiddychino?

Coming to ‘Costamuchamoulah’ by Chinese New Year, I predict.

We both sighed.