Archive for April, 2012
Why is Vladivostoc? When is Rome?
Where is Gdansk, when it’s at home?
How many flies do I have in my ear?
Where are the snows of yesteryear?
Timor mortis conturbat me.
When does the Tagus flow so sweet?
Whence comes the heart at my feet?
How many fell at Sarajevo?
Whither the Euro?
Timor mortis conturbat me.
Which one’s a coward and which brave?
Sean or Howard, Chris or Dave?
And the lords and ladies of Byzantium,
Where have they all gone?
Timor mortis conturbat me.
During the heyday of the Roman Republic the Senate had the constitutional governance, in the name of the People, of the robust and burgeoning city-state – SPQR.
The policy of expansion was at first deliberately gradual and steady; but it was not without its setbacks – the Carthaginian general Hannibal hauling his armoured elephants through the Alpine passes and then drawing up his army on the plains of Lombardy certainly took the Romans by surprise. At the battle of Cannae (216 BC) he soundly trounced the vastly superior Romans legions, by that time a formidable and honed fighting machine, under the command of Consuls L. Aemilius Paulus and C. Terrentius Varro and taught the Romans a valuable miltary lesson – brute force alone was not enough against the genius of a cunning and entreprising foe.
All the African elephants were killed were killed during that battle.
But the pragmatic Romans learned to adapt and eventually their armies prevailed and in due course the famed and beautiful city of Carthage, in the then fertile lands of northern Africa, was laid waste, plundered and the ground sewn with salt.
The commander of victorious Roman armies at the end the Punic wars, Publius Cornelius Scipio was descended from the gens. Cornelli – one of the six great patrician families of Rome. The Senate voted that the agnomen Africanus be added to his name and granted him a Triumph.
Picture the scene: the cheering crowds, tramp tramp of the marching legionnaires, the flowers thrown in front of the triumphant general’s chariot as, with a circlet of laurel-leaves on his brow, he enters the Forum and drives up the ramp in front of the Senate House to receive the plaudits of the Senate and the acclaim of the people!
There is another man on the chariot behind him, a slave, who at the height of the frenzy, leans forward to his master and whispers in his ear – MEMENTO MORI – remember that thou art mortal.
Since last Thursday there has been a little show of my paintings up in the entrance hall.
So far, not only has no one commented on them, but I don’t believe that anyone has even noticed them, which certainly puts me in my place, doesn’t it?
I do believe that I’ve discovered the formula for producing an invisible painting.
What you do is the following:
First you contrive your life in such a way as to end up in an Old People’s Home full of nice, but culturally innocent, inmates.
Then you take a sheet specially treated A4-size gummed paper and with a pencil in your right hand (because you’re experiencing slight tremors/twitches/tremblings/spasms/shakes etc.on the right side of your body because your tumor was on the left side of your brain) and sketch vague lines and shapes in the hope that eventually they get to resemble something or other (anything will do) so that you can later impute an intention or purpose.
Next, with your paint-brush in your right hand, you apply various coloured tinctures, water colours (acrilics only to be deployed in an emergency) onto the prepared surface to see how it turns out and with any luck you’ll produce a painting.
Repeat this periodically over several months and then, and this is the tricky part, get someone to group them together and display them on a large stand in the entrance hall.
Et voilá, there you have it – invisible paintings (painted by The Incredible Shrinking Man).
It was love at first sight.
I bought her for 50 Pounds, souped-up and thoroughly unreliable. One of her long list of previous owners must have a bit of a hippy because she was painted in a garish livery of yellow and bright purple. She was in seriously bad taste and it was a moot point whether or not she would survive her next M.O.T. test.
She was fun to drive though.
The end came as I was driving home late one snowy winter night from a pub on the edge the moors.
It was a beautiful night and flakes of snow fell thickly in my head lights as I drove slowly along the deserted white road bordered by a white ditch, a low white wall and beyond the white fields. Cold softness was all around and I could see in my rear-view mirror through the dancing flakes the double white tracks of impacted snow.
A bend in the road loomed and I turned the wheel accordingly but she had other ideas and just serenely carried on and crashed neatly into the ditch up against the wall.
I got out, shaken but not stirred, and just abandoned her, lying tilted into her little white ditch and already partially covered in the canopy of her white shroud and plodded stoically home across the snowy fields.
That was the last I saw of her.
My life is a canvas, once painted with broad free strokes of the brush with a bold design of colour and movement, now become crabbed and petty, crouched into one corner, which is then enlarged to fill out the vacuum left by my lost physical freedom.
Now and then the small things creep out from the shadows,
From under the damp stones,
Tiny lizards slithering out silently to bask in the warm sun.
Time, my lord, keeps a wallet at his back,
wherein he puts alms for oblivion.
(Troilus and Cressida)