The Taxman Cometh Monthly

 The Taxman Cometh Monthly

First published in Column 8, date unknown, but some time in the 1990s

It is in the nature of things that columnists must write one out of four columns for the taxman. Every four weeks this leaves the columnist with the agonizing choice: which column belongs to the taxman, the good, the bad, or the ugly? (I mean the good, bad and ugly columns, of course.)

 It also means that the columnist has an obvious problem: if he writes a column intended merely to sate the surfeited coffers of the Infernal Revenue, will the readers be able to detect such writing? Will the readers come to each column wondering: Is This The One? Worse, will the taxman begin to insist that the columns written for him be better than usual, (if such were possible), and that he must have a dedication at the top?

 I suppose one way round this problem would be to cast a web of mystery around the persona of the columnist. Columns have often been used as places where fairly insignificant individuals fulfil their literary aspirations. Dear Abby is one example, or The Weasel - sorry, I mean the Ferret.*

 Does/did Dear Abby exist? More importantly, for our purpose, does Mike Crowl exist? Or is he merely a figment of the editor's imagination?

 Is Column 8 thrown together at the last minute by the reporter with the least to do that week? Is the photograph at the top merely a morphing of the faces of several different reporters?

 Will you ever see Crowl in public, or will you only see a character portrayed by an otherwise out-of-work actor? Would he always be played by the same actor in fact? (The beard is a clue: it would help to disguise the possibility that several different people could portray Crowl.)

 Is Crowl merely an urban myth, like the phantom hitchhiker - a character always spoken about at second hand who turns up to haunt gullible people for the next twenty or thirty years? And if Crowl is only a myth, why should one fourth of his earnings be deducted for the taxman?

 If I harp on this point, it is because I suspect that Crowl is not alone in his mythical status. I have long wondered, in fact, if there is even such a person as Miles Singe.** In my opinion, Miles Singe is actually the combined pseudonym of several anonymous writers.

There are various clues to the writers' personalities in the title the column, "Singe Marks."

Marks is plainly a pun on Marx, which means that one writer has communist leanings, though we must say that he keeps these fairly close to himself. This may also indicate his age - I guess he's a victim of the 1950s reds-under-the-bed neurosis.

 "Singe" is even more revealing. "Sin," the first part of this cryptic word, indicates a writer from a Catholic background, and may even tell us that he is a relative of the famous Phillipino Cardinal, (who invited someone into his home by saying, "Welcome to the house of Sin.")

 "Sing" shows that somewhere in one writer's past he (or she) has had a musical career, while "Inge" gives us a clue as to the extent of another's writing ambitions - compare Dean Inge.

The "ng" may indicate ing-digenous origins, although perhaps this is a little far-fetched.

 With both these personalities thus being of mythical status, they cannot possibly be subject to tax. Would we attempt to tax Zeus or Pan?

 Let me suggest to all readers who have friends in the tax dept, (and I don't mean if you owe them money), that you encourage such friends to read this column and consider whether the Infernal Revenue should really be subjecting Crowl or Singe to tax.

 I'll be interested to hear their thoughts on the matter.

The Tax Collector/Paying the Tax - Pieter Breugel the Younger

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*The Ferret was the pseudonym of a columnist in the Auckland magazine, Metro

** Miles Singe was a long-standing columnist in both the Star Midweek and the Star Weekender. He was there before I began writing my column, and continues to this day (3rd July, 97!)  An old soldier, he often wrote about the military; enjoyed pretending to be an old soak as well as someone who maltreated his wife and (grown-up) children.  He was likely to be neither.

 

Snow and So

 Snow and So

 First published in Column 8 on the 20^th June 1995 - this is a typical example of a hobby horse of mine. I’ve written about it on a number of occasions in a variety of places, public and private. For some info on references in the column, see below the article.

 By the time you read this we may have snow on the ground, or may have had it on the ground, or may still be expecting it…on the ground. Then again, none of the above may apply.

I’ve always held the theory that we only have snow in Dunedin – in the city area, at least – once every two years. And usually that consists of one good snowfall and it’s over and done with. We slush on for a day or two, then get back to normal.

Courtesy City of Literature site

Last year, I must admit, was a bit different: we had snow until it seemed as though it came every two
days rather than every two years. It even fell, without due consideration, during the 24 hour book sale.

Talking of which – and this is a tangent, in case you don’t guess – may I ask what constitutes a ‘special’ book at the Regent Book Sale? (The ‘special’ books are those that sell in the upstairs gallery area.)

I saw at least one book that was selling for 50c downstairs and $3 up. Both copies were in the same condition. A load of nonsense by Dame Edna Everage was included in the ‘special literature’ section. Car manuals seemed to be ‘special’ whatever state they were in, as was any book whose cover was disintegrating. The contents were irrelevant, but the state of the cover apparently gave it an archival air.

I don’t object to the organisers of the sale making a bit of extra cash by pricing books up, but at least let them be books that have some obvious value. The way it is now, it looks like someone’s gone round gathering up a book from here and a book from there, and dumped them upstairs.

‘Special’ books these ain’t.

Back to the snow. A workmate of mine once told me of a method by which her family had always gleaned when snow was due to arrive. This method was something I’d never heard of in all my 45 years (up until then) but I hear it so often now it seems current coinage. This is the idea that it will snow in the winter when the temperature goes up.

Not being a meteorologist, I can’t see the connection – and anyway, the method didn’t work this winter because we had endless warm days. However, I’m always interested in rule of thumb methods to work out what the weather’s going to do. We certainly can’t rely on the met office to tell us anything factual.

When you read that the spokesman for Blue Skies in Christchurch says that ‘if there’s a chance of severe weather it’s better to forecast it than not,’ then you wonder if they earned their degrees from varsity or off a barometer.

‘The incorrect forecasting is not due to a lack of funding or staff,’ said the met office spokesman, ‘but southern New Zealand’s mountainous nature.’ Between 80% and 85% of the forecasts were accurate, he claimed. (Blame the South Island again!)

I must only listen to the forecasts on the days they get it 15% to 20% wrong. But it isn’t just the forecasts. When I’m driving along the road on a bright and sunny Dunedin morning and listening to what the weather is suppose to be doing round the country, I more often than not hear: ‘Take your brolly – it’s raining in Dunedin.’

I long ago gave up listening seriously to weather forecasts, in spite of the fact that they’re heralded as an essential part of the news. I believe they’re only there to fill up air space or television time.

The weather forecasts are about as real as Shortland St or Neighbours, but apparently we have to have our daily fix of them, all the same.

My suspicion is that the met office people have something in common with those who pick the books for the ‘specials’ in the Regent Book Sale.

Both take something that’s not – and make it into something that is.

 

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Dunedin – largest city in Otago, but of the provinces of New Zealand, and situated in the South Island. As opposed to the equally prosaically-named North Island. There’s an ongoing rivalry between the two Islands, and the North not infrequently claims that the South has the worst weather.

The Regent Book Sale has been a longstanding secondhand book sale of considerable size that takes place annually. Up until recently it was held in the largest theatre in Dunedin, the Regent, a former cinema and now a live theatre. These days the sale takes place in the larger but far less interesting Edgar Centre.

‘Shortland St or Neighbours’ – the first the longest-running soap in New Zealand, the other an equally long-running Australian soap.

Pettifogging Fisticuffs

Pettifogging Fisticuffs

First published in Column 8 on the 26^th Oct, 1994

Remember the saying ‘real men don’t eat quiche?’ It inferred that real men were too tough to get into food that melted in your mouth. In other words, no males eating fluffy-food needed to apply for the ‘real man’ brigade.

I think the saying should now be amended to ‘real men don’t play rugby.’ Perhaps that broad statement needs a little qualification. A few real men play rugby, but they’re getting harder and harder to see amongst the pack of scruffs who’ve been performing on the fields the last few seasons.

I don’t suppose rugby ever qualified as a gentle man’s game – there’s always been a rough edge to it.  But these days there’s no way you’d think of it as a game for gents: the rugby field’s become a place where galoots with weight to throw around think their weight’s the main reason they’re in the team.

If someone else gets in your way, poke him in the snout, or pull his arm off, or throttle him. What do you mean, tackle him? That’s for quiche-eating sissies.

My biggest concern with all these lumps whose brains reside in their fist is the effect they’re having on the up-and-coming generation of footballers.

Kids are learning a mindset regarding this game: the opposing team’s only there to walk over. In fact, if you don’t get in first, they’ll demolish you. Hang the game: this is warfare.

I’m appalled by kids who think that rucking someone’s face or head or torso or let is the way to play 
rugby. I cringe when kids consider that injuring the opposition is part of the game. I even hear about kids who go into the scrum determined to punch someone’s lights out so as to put them out of the action.

Where do they learn all this? Do their coaches teach them? I don’t think so.

Courtesy Jwgfoto

It’s not long since we used to see an advert on television where an aggressive young player in the changing rooms was told he wasn’t going to play because he had the wrong attitude.

The philosophy behind that advert no longer impacts on the minds of the kids out on the fields. Aggression and ugly play are getting to be the norm.

And why? The answer’s obvious. Refs spend countless minutes in games these days sorting out adults who can’t control their tempers or fists. They’re forced to waste the time of paying spectators because so-called top players get steamed up over nothing and don’t have the self-control to behave on the field. And half the time it’s fully televised for all the nation to see.

The skills of good rugby players are going down the tubes because they’ve forgotten their purpose is to play a game, not have a fight. If these players are so much into fighting, send them into a boxing ring.  At least there people expect you to knock your brains into sludge.

Let’s leave fisticuffs off the football field.

I struggle to persuade the rugby enthusiasts in my family (with the exception of the Aged Parent) that doing serious damage to other players is not the norm. They see it all the time now and see the best-known players getting into it. If those heroes do it, it must be okay.

Does the pressure of playing rugby, or the hype of a championship final, or the state of the ground really cause grown men to fling their fists about? I don’t think so.

And will hitting the pockets of the players with a fine really tackle the problem? Coughing up cash is the easy way out.

I think these guys need to be hit where it hurts: ban them from the game, not just for a few weeks, but for a full season. Put them on the back burner and see if some sense of shame starts to seep into their system.

So what if they’re big-time rugby stars? In the future, are most fans going to remember Richard’s Loe’s playing, or the way he eye-gouged Greg Cooper?

And while these guys are out of it, let them do a bit of community work with people who find being battered isn’t so macho. And perhaps they could write a few essays for general publication on why they think a lack of self-control is so vital to their game, or how they reckon young players can avoid being influenced by their petulant behaviour.

Unfortunately, I don’t think the NZRFU has the guts to turn these players into real men.

Gallery

 Gallery

 First published in Column 8 on the 24^th May 1995

A friend brought up the old argument recently that we should be spending money on improving Dunedin’s water, or the sewage system, rather than on building an art gallery in the middle of the city.

I’ve always been citified, and my bent in life is not a practical one, so perhaps I expect sewage and water to be there. To me they’re things we find in a city, come what may.

They should never be used, however, as an argument against not funding art galleries, or museums.

When the present city library was being built I recall similar dismay being aired at spending large sums of money on something ‘so impractical.’ But our library is one of Dunedin’s great treasures. (As someone who always takes a look at other libraries round the country when I have a chance, I’m prepared to stand up and say our library is one of the finest, if not THE finest.)

To get back to the art gallery. Now that it’s going to be right in the centre of town, I believe thousands of Dunedinites will discover its treasures for the first time.

For the first time they’ll catch such marvellous exhibitions as the two that are on just now: Treasures of the Underworld, and Takitahi. I originally saw Treasures in Wellington over a year ago and raved about it then.

The Underworld may refer to New Zealand’s alleged position on the globe, or to where the materials to make the exhibits have come from: under the earth.

Whatever, none of the amazing pieces here pale with a second viewing. In fact, it’s like meeting old friends – particularly the two enormous buxom lady pots by Barry Brickell called Bosomorphs! Brickell’s human-sized figures have such a sensuous feel to them, you want to wrap yourself around them – if it wasn’t an uncouth thing to do in a public place. (Oh, dear, I’ve opened a can of worms now.)

I only realised, in this second viewing (courtesy of one of my children) that the stone-like rock-pool with its tinkling water has at least one face hidden in it – perhaps more.

There are startling red and blue bowls, some with a texture more like glass than clay. There’s a whole array of pieces delineating the voyage of Christopher Columbus – and three other large oil-can shaped pieces called Santa Maria, Pinta and Nina. (All these pieces were first produced for Spain.)

Some items are so fragile they look as though they’d barely exist beyond a few viewings; some tough and gritty, such as the bowl like a bursting volcano. Some slightly damaged pieces show the difficulties of moving these works around the world.

All these marvellous works can be seen for FREE! Not only that, in the other half of the gallery where several weavers from Dunedin’s Multicultural Weavers group are at work, you can see art of a totally different kind being created before your eyes.

A huge range of traditional items is displayed: hats, cloaks, mats, garments, shoes, in all manner of materials and colours. Usually designated ‘craft,’ this display shows how much these pieces have a right to be called ‘art.’

More than that, because the work has traditionally been done by women, it has been undervalued. No more! Go and have a look and have your eyes opened twice in a day.

The women don’t have it all to themselves in this exhibition. There are several items made by men (and pakehas). And not everything is in traditional materials. Some things are made from film, plastic wrapping, string (this one feels as soft as cashmere), and even a barrage of supermarket bags.

Do I sound enthusiastic? I am.

I can’t wait for the day the art gallery opens in the Octagon, just five minutes from where I work. What better way to spend your lunch hour (apart from relaxing among the cool towering columns of the Cathedral), than to browse among the quiet and calm of what is going to be the country’s newest and bestest, and finest, place to view art?

 

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The Art Gallery was built in a former department store, and is a magnificent piece of redesign. A vast entrance area – in which I’ve sung several times with the acapella choir, Sunny Side Up – leads to roomy spaces at the back of the building, a first floor with several galleries, and another floor that can be used for meetings and celebrations and the like.

The two exhibitions mentioned were on at the old Art Gallery, in a building that was formerly part of the Great Exhibition, and which was situated in an area that was only easily accessible by car.

The Cathedral mentioned is the Anglican Cathedral, St Paul's, right in the centre of town in the Octagon. At one point I worked in the building right next door.

Music Teachers

Music Teachers

 First published in Column 8 on the 6^th November 1991

 A group of heroes work in our city whose conditions would make most wharfies pale. I’m talking about music teachers.

 (And I speak from experience – for a few years I taught piano from three till whenever, after spending a frenetic morning as a postie. I must have been mad.)

 Utter dedication is required of anyone who decides to take on this job as a permanent career. (I didn’t.) The frustrations from pupils who don’t work combined with the frustrations from those who do work but will never play anything with the slightest hint of musicality, have to be experienced to be believed.

 One in a hundred pupils may have the spark of musical life in them; the sort of spark that makes you think they may achieve something. The other 99, however earnest they may be, will fall by the wayside, and during their mid-life crises will gloomily say, ‘I wish I’d carried on playing the piano.’

 (Or worse, ‘Why didn’t Mummy and Daddy make me practise?’ Have you ever tried to MAKE a child practise? They attention manages to be focused on everything but the keyboard.

 I recommend the 1953 fantasy movie, The 500 Fingers of Dr T, to anyone who doesn’t know what I mean.)

 Music teachers sit for hours in the same room, often seeing only an endless stream of children. It’s like being a solo parent. The occasional adult pupil may or may not be a bonus, depending on their reason for learning.

 When everybody else is out socialising in the evening, music teachers are teaching. When other people are having a leisurely meal at home with their family (something we still haven’t achieved – the leisurely part, I mean), music teachers are teaching.

 When other teachers are enjoying up to eight weeks’ paid holiday per annum, music teachers are forced to spend those same weeks unemployed, eking out the income they’ve earned during the rest of the year.

 And in spite of using new material as it appears, the basic details of what they teach hasn’t changed in decades; there is no New Music to go alongside New Maths. Scales are scales are scales. They have to be learned. However much most pupils may dislike them, (I used to enjoy them actually, but then I’m a bit unusual), no musician worth his salt can afford NOT to learn them.

 I write with a sense of awe to think that one of my former music teachers has been teaching for nearly 60 years.

 Originally she lived and taught in Sawyers Bay. She commuted to Port to teach as well, but being without a car, (of course) she had to walk. Usually it only took half an hour. It took somewhat longer in the Big Snow.

 Later she rented rooms in town, and still later, during the war, had a room in the Glenpark Presbyterian Hall. When she calls it the ‘dug-out’ or ‘dungeon,’ you have a pretty good idea of what it was like.

 Mice were frequent visitors. Boy pupils had to empty the mousetraps, to their disgust. (I’m pleased to say I was still a twinkle in my father’s eye when the war was on.)

 By the time I was her pupil, she lived in a pleasant house in Mornington. The comfortable music room was built over the garage; moving the two pianos - both grands, as I recall - up there must have been a nightmare.

 Sounds like music teaching pays after all, I hear you say. Well, maybe it does, if you’re prepared to put in endless hours of dedicated and concentrated work, your only contact with the outside world being your pupils.

 So all hail to music teachers – they never go on strike. Many workers who do hardly know they’re born.

 ***************

 Many music teachers enjoyed their work: Eli Grey-Smithwas still teaching in his nineties, and had trips to Asia regularly because he was much admired there as a teacher. Olive Perry, the teacher I mentioned in this column who lived in Sawyers Bay, never married, and looked after her mother for many years while teaching.
Unmentioned in this column was Sister St Anne, a Mercy nun, and my very first teacher. Her enthusiasm could never be quenched, even in her nineties.

 An anonymous letter following the publication of the column said:

 In his column today Mike Crowl has some nice things to say about music teachers and some less kind things to say about the job itself. Perhaps it’s not really so bad. The one thing I’ve noticed over the years is how many music teachers keep on going to a ripe old age, many well into their 80s. Is it a ‘soft’ lifestyle that allows this, or is it the daily challenge of taking each of their pupils just one stage further that keeps them alert and active?

 

Generation X

 Generation X 

First published in Column 8 on the 21^st June 1995

(This may now seem a little out of date in terms of its subject matter; it's worth reading still for the alphabetical fun.) 

Courtesy CasetteVHS96

One of the buzz phrases these days is The X Generation. This relates to that up-and-coming group of
late teen to mid-20-year-olds who are just about to take over the world as it were.

I have a lot more contact, however, with Generation Y. Y do I have to go to bed before you do? Y do I have to eat at the table? Y can’t I drive the car? Y can’t you give me the money?

After enough of this (being the elderly gent that I now am) I tend to become a member of the Z Generation, ie, I begin to nod, and finally drop off to sleep….zzzzzz.

The aforementioned members of Generation Y don’t consider that’s good enough, and shake me awake into instant membership of Generation A – ‘Eh? What did you say?’

When they persist in wanting everything NOW, and ignore my refusals, I find myself evolving into yet another generation: B. B-cause I said so; B-cause your mother doesn’t want you to; B-cause no one else does it.

Generation Y now skips a few and winds up in C: C, you always say that; C, you never listen to me; C, you’re not with it!

When I continue to stonewall, they D-part the scene, and, E-ten up with their own insurmountable arguments, they F-ectually cut off further communication.

I flop down into my favourite G generation chair: G, I’m glad they’re gone; G, thank goodness that’s over; G, I wonder if I really won that round?

Since I know I can never completely scratch generation Y where it Aitches, I slide downhill into distress. In order to get some fresh air, I J-walk across the lawn (and into the kaleyard, which, as all you Scots will know, is the vege garden), feeling as though I’ve been the victim of the K-O generation.

‘L!’ I say, in a moment of extreme provocation. ‘M I the only parent to suffer in this way? Isn’t there an All-Hugs and Cuddles Group for Parents of Y Generation children? Don’t other parents struggle with the following demands: “N I want this, N I want that! N I want to go over to my friend’s place to stay the night – N of course their parents will be there! N I’m Never going to listeN to you agaiN!!!”’

O…dear. What happened to those P-wee charmers, the P-kaboo generation? Is Parent now a P-jorative word, and can parents truly be considered P-vish?

‘QED,’ the Y Generation will reply. ‘Don’t you realise you’re R-chaic, they R-gue, and that we’re the R-chitects of the New World Order? (I always think that has something to do with a supermarket.) R-n’t you R-ware, they continue, of your R-rested development and your R-tificial intelligence?’

When I’ve had enough of this R-gy-bargy, I S-chew further debate and S-cape into the sleep-out at the back of my S-tate.

This intergenerational thing is enough to make you un-T-total, but with great strength of middle-aged mind I stick to a cup of T. Just who do these T-nagers think they are, T-ming over my world with their message-laden T-shirts and their fluoride-riven T-th, making us pre-pensioners T-ter?

U-th’s a stuff will not endure, said Shakespeare’s Feste, and the Earl of Asquith claimed U-th would be an ideal state if it came a little later in life.

Oh, Generation Y, what V-nial sins have we committed against U? Do U D-spise us 4 driving V-dubs?

Generation Y, us venerables have had enough. The time has come for retaliation! Nag me once more and I’ll Double U out the door!

Embarrassing?

 Embarrassing?

 First published in Column 8 on the 10 May 1995, and written by my number two daughter, Abby, as a fun ‘guest’ writer. Surprisingly, this got the approval of my editor.

 Over the past four years, Mike Crowl has been writing interesting and embarrassing anecdotes about us, his family. As one of the clan I feel it’s time to get our own back.

Mike Crowl was born in May five decades ago, and lived the first three years of his life in that small island to the west of New Zealand, Australia. He started learning to play the piano at the age of 8, and his main claim to fame in this area is playing for Kiri Te Kanawa. He’s always talking about it.

At the age of 22 he went to London where he married our Mum. He is now approaching the big half-century.

In his life so far he has done some amusing things. Since he’s paid us out, I should include a few of his embarrassing moments. Shall I mention the time he ran for one of those double-decker London buses? It took off as he was grabbing for the rail, and he found himself dragging along the road, tearing holes in the knees of his trousers.

He claims to be adept with his hammer and other handyman tools. But my mother recalls many a time listening to Dad banging in nails and suddenly hearing a yell of pain, after (I’ll put it charitably) a near-miss.

Or what about the time he asked his bank manager what he was doing in a rival bank? No wonder the bank manager gave him a funny look. He was in fact heading into his own office in his own bank. Dad had forgotten where he was.

There was also a time Dad was left alone on a stage in front of a crowd when the singer he was playing for forgot his words and walked off without a backward glance. Dad didn’t know whether to carry on playing, by himself, or pretend he wasn’t still there.

After speaking to one of the nuns who taught Dad to play, I learned that this brilliant piano player didn’t like practising. This nun said of Dad: ‘He was a nice boy. He didn’t like to practise but he used to bring me flowers – although he made sure he brought them without any of the other little boys seeing him.’

Although Mike Crowl’s family is picked on the most for material in his column, they’re not the only ones. His friends and acquaintances must also watch what they say, otherwise these poor unsuspecting souls may find their words printed in Column 8 the next week.

We kids have learned to try and keep our mouths shut, however, and lead vapid lives.

Sometimes I wonder why we are here. Why did my father have us? Is it just to provide ‘ingredients’ for his column? (I wonder also about the names of two of his daughters – why are they named after two of Dad’s ex-girlfriends?)

Furthermore we have to cope with English teachers using Dad’s column as part of a test or unit study.

And lastly, there is the difficulty we have with inquiries, such as: ‘So who was Mike talking about in his last column?’ or ‘Was that you your Dad said was taking too long in the shower?’ As well as all the people forever asking: ‘Is Mike Crowl YOUR Dad?’

When I was writing this letter, my Dad saw the notes I was taking off his earlier columns. Luckily my life-saver of a mother used one of her diversionary tactics and grabbed the piece of paper before he could get hold of it.

I’d like to thank my Mum and Grandma, my brothers and sisters for adding all their little bits to this. Also all those other people who supplied their special pieces of gossip. And my English teacher, who helped me to put it together properly.

PS: Happy 50^th birthday, Dad!

In my defence:
I only once played publicly for Kiri te Kanawa, as far as I recall. It was a competent performance on my part, no more. 
I can still hammer a nail better than my wife, one of the few woodworking things I can do better than her. 
It's true that I didn't like practising piano much, but I still played it a lot because I could sight-read very well from quite a young age, and so felt practising wasn't really a necessity (!)

Irritable

First issue of the RD, 1922

Published in Column 8 on 12th May 1993. 

 I wonder how many other people who read the Reader’s Digest are inspired by the suggestions in their How-To articles – but find carrying them out more like a Drama in Real Life.

I read one article about Dealing with Irritations. The reader is supposed to remember and use the several points listed to avoid becoming angry at petty irritations. But remembering the points in the middle of a hassle isn’t easy. (I know that wives/spouses/partners are there to remind you, but often their reminders only make the situation worse.)

Nevertheless, in case some people out there are more self-controlled than I am, I’ll go through some of the points.

The first suggestion is to keep a daily record of what irritates you. That’s fine, but don’t they think I have enough ideas for my column already? And anyway, wouldn’t I get irritated writing down the same things day after day?

However, here’s Saturday’s list – for what it’s worth. Irritations: my children, all other drivers and the bathroom basin.

It’s a peculiar thing that the children one begets are the people most able in the world to rub you up the wrong way. And worse - they bring in other people’s children to help them do it.

The fruit of one’s loins nettle us with their nagging, they carelessly collect boyfriends of all shapes and sizes, and infuriatingly, they eat the food and don’t clean up afterwards.

‘All other drivers.’ This may be a slight exaggeration. One driver particularly took Saturday’s provocation prize. I was about to turn left into a park at the supermarket when s/he tried to pass me on that side. The other drivers merely pestered me as usual by having no idea of the road rules, or of where they were going, or what I expected of them.

Thirdly, after months of deliberation, I’d spent the morning clearing the bathroom basin drain pipe of its accumulated hairy gunk – and prying broken bits of toothpaste tube out of the overflow. But when I tightened up the joint again the connection started to leak, one petulant drop at a time.

Huh! So much for listing the irritations. Just listing them makes me cantankerous and dyspeptic.

However, this peevish RD article next suggests taking the Pollyanna approach to irritations: When Pollyanna was sent crutches instead of a doll in the family’s missionary parcel, she was able to be glad. Why? Because at least she didn’t have to use the crutches.

Can I be glad about that exasperating driver? At least s/he didn’t hit me. (I can do $800 worth of vexating damage to the car on my own.) But how do I take the Pollyanna approach to the drainpipe leaking? Or to being swamped by kids?

I should be glad the joint didn’t crack with plastic old age when I tightened it up again, or screw itself on awry – permanently. And glad that the kids occasionally eat, sleep and block the doorways at other people’s houses.

The article next says you should Do Something. Don’t let irritation stop you in your tracks.

Well, I could order my kids to each write me a 500 word essay in triplicate tabling their complaints and listing 50 qualities their friends might have. And I could put a bucket under the leak and hope it won’t fill up before I next have the energy and inclination to do something about it.

Next on the list is to accept what you can’t control. This means accepting that the girls’ boyfriends will probably continue to fill up all available corners, which may at least stop the draughts. That other drivers will never be as perfect as me, and that when they make mistakes on the road I should just close my eyes and keep driving.

And thirdly that leaks are part of nature’s way of reinforcing the second law of thermodynamics, and I may as well live with it.

Finally the article tells me to keep my perspective – what will all this matter in eternity? I guess in eternity there’ll be plenty of room for stray boyfriends (or non-stray husbands as they may be by then). And there’ll be plenty of parking space, because there’ll be no cars – which suit the greenies fine.

As for leaking pipes, they’ll be of no importance whatsoever. Since there’s not time in eternity a bucket ought to be able to fill as much as it likes, and never overflow.

Cynicism

 Cynicism

Published in Column 8 on 13 May 1992, on my 47th birthday.  The column focuses on the loss of the America's Cup, something that came as a shock to the 'country' after thinking we could never lose it again. Crump and Scotty - one a real person, a popular writer, and the other an actor - bewailed the loss...or at least Scotty did. Unfortunately I can't find a link to it on the Net. Various politicians are mentioned here, along with well-known sportspeople. The programme, More Issues, a satirical series often included real people as guests, actors pretending to be real people, and occasionally some puppets. 

 After my Clayton’s column of last week – the column that wasn’t a column – I’ve decided to tackle (round the neck if necessary) one of the lesser issues of which I spoke. 

I know I’m not alone in having a facet of my personality that I need to keep under strict supervision. However, cynicism (that facet) still creeps in the cat-door even after I’ve locked it. 

I was relaxing – but only for a moment, mind – in front of the television (actually, I was supposed to be washing the dishes but my neck wouldn’t stretch far enough round the corner) when I saw the Crump and Scotty ad in which the latter mourns New Zealand’s loss of the America’s Cup.

Cynicism bowelled up from the depths. I tried to thrust it down, without success. ‘This ad must have been made before we lost,’ said Cynicism. ‘And if that’s the case, there’s an alternate version, in which they celebrate the win.’ 

That version, of course, will now be locked away in the agency’s vaults. Participants may carry the guilty secret to their grave. The ad may only see the light of day if a thesis-lacking student discovers a need to investigate ‘Ads which never made it.’ 

Cynicism, however, gave me some idea of what it would contain. 

First, Scotty and Crump return to the pub, an admiral’s uniform replacing the sailor suit. Along with a champagne-swigging cast of thousands, who only manage to inhabit this building because the walls stretch, they perform a new and improved – and even more uplifting – rendition of Side by Side. 

This time the words centre on such Kiwi-magical concepts as a humbled world bowing at the feet of a NZL-20 T-shirt. 

The ad then uses cleverly spliced film of Mr Bolger handing over his job of Prime Minister to Michael Fay, as a result of the overwhelming gratitude of all true-blue New Zealanders. Schoolchildren’s happy faces are seen in montage as the crew distribute miniatures of the Yacht That Won. 

Jenny Shipley and Ruth Richardson appear to congratulate the crew (although it’s a moot point as to whether the ladies themselves are visible or their lookalikes from More Issues.) 

The ladies good and true hand out large amounts of money to all and sundry (sundry debtors?). Why?, you ask. The implication is that now the cup is ours the economy must bloom; no one will ever cry poor again. and the two First Ladies can stop taking all the flak for their supposedly callous decisions. 

In a variation on red-nose day, imitation bow-sprits appear on all vehicles. John Kirwan and Martin Crowe sing a ditty which implies that anyone who doesn’t put one in place will be considered a piker lacking national pride. 

The advertisers thought this idea could be taken up as a road-safety norm because it would encourage vehicles to travel a a safer distance from each other. In their enthusiasm they hadn’t considered problems with parking. 

During the two full minutes that this ad lasts, the entire history of the race is seen in potted form, and every mug shot of Denis Conner is in place. 

In fact, his rude words during the previous race are formed into a kind of rap with repeated shots of his snarling, and sudden head movements. Again the advertisers had high hopes for this aspect of the ad, thinking that Michael Jackson might use it as a basis for a major hit. 

Television NZ, being so grateful for all the advertising revenue they’ve received as a result of the cup ‘fever,’ would have shown the ad free. None of this is to be. Instead we must face, interminably, a post mortem 30 seconds’ worth of maudlin Scotty and Crumpled cold duck.

Disappointing movies

 Looking back through older posts I find that I use to review quite a few movies, mostly those that turned up on TV. Occasionally something I saw at the movies. 

I don't go to the movies that much anymore, especially since streaming arrived in full force. I don't feel quite so bad about watching a movie that turns out to be a bit of stinker if I haven't paid for it up front - and spent almost as much on getting an icecream. 

We have a small cinema here in Oamaru. It was recently sold and is now called The Riviera. Its seats are large, as though everyone was outsized, and it's advisable to take a cushion, since the seats' designers also assumed everyone had long upper legs. Apart from that it's comfortable enough. I think the only film I've enjoyed at this cinema was Mission Impossible: Dead Reckoning. Three hours of solid entertainment: suspenseful, funny, clever, full of wonderful stunts and with a great cast. 

On the other hand, we saw a film in which Michael Caine was the only saving grace: The Great Escaper. Based on real life story that was only eventful in the mildest way, and though the film tried to inject some additional interest in it, it had the feeling of everyone trying to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. Sadly it was Glenda Jackson's last movie; she has hardly any scenes with Caine, and has to carry chunks of the movie by herself when Caine's abroad. 

We saw Thor: Love and Thunder which in spite of director Taika Waititi once again at the helm was another noisy, cluttered piece full of CGI and a number of nonsensical scenes. Disappointing after the sheer enjoyment of Ragnarok.

Most recently we went to see Wicked, partly against my better judgement, hoping that when my daughter said she nearly fell asleep during it she meant that it was because she was tired rather than because it was boring. Unfortunately it was the latter. With the first act of the original stage show extended to something like three hours, it was stretched out beyond belief, and only served to show up the fragility of the musical's original book, which presumably worked well because it was shorter. 

The two stars were certainly excellent, but everything else was so overdone, and so geared towards DEI that after a while you began to count the white faces in the cast. Weirdly the Munchkins were pretty much full-sized adults, the talking animals seemed to make no sense except to introduce some political point and every dance sequence was full on and superb and EXCELLENT!!! But left you feeling disconnected. 

Elphaba's journey from unwilling witch to wicked witch seemed to be missing a gear or two. From the beginning she was drawn as a sympathetic character; by the end you wondered quite what had happened to her. 

Except that it wasn't the end. The second act is presumably in the pipeline somewhere, but I don't think this moviegoer will be drawn back the theatre for it. 

So much money spent on so much clutter. 

Incidental Music

 To my great surprise it's now around six months since I abandoned the book I was writing. It would have been number five in the Grimhilderness series. 

So what have I been doing with my time since then (apart from gardening, walking, housekeeping with my wife, cooking meals - between us - performing in three concerts in one week, two of them in different locations, and all the church-connected things we do. 

Being a creative person I found it hard not to be doing something creative, and then out of the blue the idea of writing some 'Incidental Music' related to The Counterfeit Queen - the book I published in 2023 - came into my head. 

The result was eight piano pieces written in the second half of last year. I'm still calling them 
'Incidental' although that usually refers to music that accompanies a theatre performance. In fact that was partly how the idea came about: I'd really enjoyed writing the music for Grimhilda! back in 2011/12; there was plenty of scope for variety, for thematic ideas, and there was the probability of getting the musical performed. In fact, the music for Grimhilda! was probably written faster, proportionately, than this Incidental music. 

With the Incidental Music to The Counterfeit Queen, however, there's no idea of the music accompanying a stage production. In fact the titles themselves show that the pieces have a certain randomness about them: 

Liam
Polly
Toby
Polly's Arrival in TEOTE
The Dwarf Council
Stevedore
Miss Chimble
Coronation March

Anyone who's read the book might note that while three of the main characters have  their own piece of music, the Queen doesn't, nor Onopulous, another important character. (Though the slightly pompous Dwarf Council might be said to include him.) Stevedore, the dog (who also appears in The Mumbersons and the Blood Secret) has only a few scenes in this book, and again provides a surprise at the end, and Miss Chimble, while an important enough character, doesn't really come into her own until halfway through the book. There are also some hints of the Dragon in three or four of the pieces. 

The music wasn't written in this order - the Coronation March was the first one off the ground. Polly's Arrival in TEOTE picked up on a theme from the March, as did Toby. Polly herself arrived late on the scene, and Miss Chimble was the last. The ear-worm-like theme for The Dwarf Council - another march - arrived in my head while I was hanging out the washing. And Stevedore just came out of nowhere, and worked. 

I'd like to perform the eight pieces later in the year, perhaps with appropriate extracts from the book read by someone. I'm thinking of combined them with The Fence piano duet, which also has a children's book connection. 

Meanwhile, I'm practicing the eight pieces regullarly (along with other pieces), partly in order to keep my fingers agile, and partly to enable myself to play some of the more difficult spots that I wrote. 

I'll keep you posted. 

Finding the Father

While reminding myself of this poem by Robert Bly this morning, I came across the notes I'd made below it. I thought they might be enough of interest to add to this blog. 

 FINDING THE FATHER by Robert Bly

My friend, this body offers to carry us for nothing ˗ as the ocean carries logs.
So on some days the body wails with its great energy;
it smashes up the boulders,
lifting small crabs, that flow around the sides.

Someone knocks on the door.
We do not have time to dress.
He wants us to go with him through the blowing and rainy streets,
to the dark house.

We will go there, the body says,
and there find the father whom we have never met,
who wandered out in a snowstorm the night we were born,
and who then lost his memory,
and has lived since longing for his child,
whom he saw only once...
while he worked as a shoemaker,
as a cattle herder in Australia,
as a restaurant cook who painted at night.

When you light the lamp you will see him.
he sits there behind the door....
the eyebrows so heavy,
the forehead so light....
lonely in his whole body,
waiting for you.


Some reflections on this intriguing poem.

Being someone who grew up without a father (after the first three years of my life) this poem has always resonated with me, though it’s hard to put my finger on quite why.

The poem, at first sight, appears to be about two different things: the body and the father. Not only
that, it’s unusual to have the sense that it’s the body carrying the soul/spirit, and even making a major decision: we will go there, the body says. Many philosophers would claim that it’s the soul or spirit that animates the otherwise lumpish body.

It’s as if the body is being proactive (the anonymous knocker at the door only suggests going; it’s the body that says ‘we will.’ And there’s a final reference to the body ˗ not that of the main ‘body’ but that of the father. It’s like there’s some final connection made, though plainly there’s some way to go after all these years!

So what is the first stanza about? Is the body’s wailing and smashing indicative of some crisis in the spirit, or is it the body itself trying to arouse the spirit to action, to reconnect with the lost father?

Then there is the anonymous knocker. This could be interpreted in a variety of ways: some might see it as the voice of the Holy Spirit, arousing the writer into action, an action that he doesn’t appear to have considered before. There’s perhaps even a link with the picture of Jesus knocking at the door in the Book of Revelation: behold, I stand and knock. There may be other explanations. Whoever it is that’s knocking, he’s insistent: he doesn’t let the writer even have time to dress. This call for action is absolute: do it now, or perhaps this chance will be lost.

And the journey will take the writer through the blowing and rainy streets ˗ this isn’t a daytime journey (at least in my understanding); this is a journey taken in the dark, in inclement weather, for a dark destination. It’s a journey down into the psyche to find something that’s been lost and can only be restored by the writer taking a step. As we see, the father has never managed to do this for himself.

So the writer goes, and is told about the father ˗ whether it’s by the body or the anonymous other doesn’t matter. The writer is given understanding about why his father hasn’t been present, and what happened to him and where he’s been.

Except that things in the poem are unlikely to be as literal as they might appear. On the surface this could be the literal truth; in reality it’s more likely to be a picture of the father’s spiritual/psychological state. What do we learn, or what can we discern.

This father may have always been physically present (even in spite of the various ‘jobs’). But he’s never been present as himself, he’s never given himself to his son. I write son because Bly is a male poet; I guess it could just as easily apply to a daughter.

We’re told several things about this father: we have never met him. He’s never shown his true self to his child. (Note that Bly uses the first person plural throughout; he may be talking about the body and the spirit, or it may be an inclusive ‘we’.) The father wandered out into a snowstorm the night we were born. The writer has just journeyed through a blowing and rainy night, but the father went into something much more severe. Where the writer has to run out dressed in his nightclothes, perhaps, and might catch a cold at the worst (!), the father wandered into something that could have killed him. The snowstorm seems to me to signify a blanking out in his mind of what’s just happened: the birth of his child. This father has allowed his selfishness to overtake the new person he has given life to, and he has cut him out of his mind.

No wonder the next line is about the father losing his memory. In a sense he’s not just lost his memory, he’s lost his mind. He’s done something that is un-fatherly, he’s effectively rejected his child. This is a heightened picture of the ‘absent father’, the one who puts the bread and butter on the table but never puts his arms around his child, the one who pays the bills, but never pays his dues.

But maybe the father isn’t all bad: he has lived since longing for his child whom he saw only once. But what’s stopped him coming back? What’s stopped him being present? Plainly the longing was never enough to change his attitude ˗ or at least not until now.

The last three lines of this stanza also imply that this man has provided. We could assume that he’s lived on his own, far away from his family (we hear nothing of the mother), or we could assume that he’s faithfully worked at whatever he could put his hand to. But something was always missing.

And so we come back to the writer: when you light the lamp you will see him. This is no literal lamp; this is illumination that has to happen for things to change. The writer himself has to make a breakthrough, because without it, there will be no reconnection. But at least once the lamp is lit, the writer will see the father, in every sense.

The father still remains in hiding: he sits there behind the door, and has obviously been sitting in the dark as well, if a lamp needs to be lit. The lamp lightens the room, and Bly gives a wonderful couple of lines that sharply show what the writer might see by the lamplight: the heavy eyebrows, the bright forehead.

And then the man himself, lonely in his whole body, waiting for you.

There has to be forgiveness here, I think. The father has spent his life being absent, not giving of himself except in the most material sense. And this is an altogether different body to the one we met at the beginning with its energy and smashing. This is a pitiful body that’s wrecked itself by its refusal to connect. Though the poem ends at this point, it ends in hope in my eyes. The writer has made the decision to follow his instincts, to change things, to bring something vitally important to pass.

Abandoning the book

 I haven’t written anything here for a just under a month. For those who are still interested, that may seem like a long time between posts. You may be wondering what the hold up is in regard to the book I’ve been writing.

Well, I did continue to do a lot of work on it. Wrote a long chapter – nearly 3000 words - which explained things that had happened before the book opened. This was a chapter, however, that I didn’t intend to include in the book. It was for my own understanding of the background of the story.

And I continued to work out how events happened prior to the story, and during the first chapters. I made a kind of timeline in order to get my head clear of wondering when this or that happened.

And then I came to a stop. Not because of procrastination, but because something was disturbing me about the story. It may have been that the villain arranged for someone to die very early on in a nasty way. And that later there would be the attempted murder of probably three, maybe four, of the characters, all in the same scene.

I felt I was heading towards a much darker story than any I’d written before, even though there were deaths in the other stories too. Something in me felt wrong about this book, however. As a Christian I see it as the Holy Spirit warning me against going down the path of this particular book. Others might just consider it an intuition.

I haven’t had this feeling about any of the other books, and I got the sense that I was being warned off going along the track I was headed. It’s worth paying attention at such times. I’ve enjoyed writing the other books even though there were dark moments in them. Somehow these didn’t go against the grain. Whatever it was that I was being ‘warned’ about, I felt that I definitely had to take hold of that warning.

It may even be that I have something more important to do in the near future, and the book will have too much of a hold on my time. At this point I don’t know what that 'more important' thing might be, but I’m waiting.

So there’s no new book in the Grimhilderness series on the horizon.

When I told my wife about abandoning the book, she said, ‘Why don’t you write something completely different?’ I said, ‘I’ve tried other books in the past, but they always come out with me as the main character - and I’m always perfect.’ (I meant that the character who narrated the story, or who was the lead, always seemed to be too good to be true.) With a grin, she said, ‘Well, isn’t that the case?’

Abandoned house - similar to an abandoned book...
Photo: V.B.Speranza

 

Do I ever stop writing about Procrastination?

Procrastination takes all sorts of forms.

I’ve written about some of these before, and about we can do about them, but I want to mention a heavyweight one that arises.

This is where you find yourself saying that the story just doesn’t have the wings to fly, that it’s too much like everything else you’ve written, that the complexity of it will never make sense. Might as well abandon it.

That there are better things in life to be doing.

This is a tough one to deal with, because there are always ‘better’ things to be doing. If you’re of a hedonist mode, this can mean spending more time enjoying yourself, not struggling with some half-baked story.

Or more altruistically, you know you should be helping other people, you should be making the world a better place. This doesn’t need to be on some big scale: it can be as simple as getting a housebound person from A to B.

Or, for a Christian who writes, you can find yourself saying you don’t think this is really what God wants you to do with your time. Check out this essay by James Sinclair for some good thinking on that.

Any one of these seems like a valid excuse, but the result is that even if you put your story metaphorically in the bottom drawer, and cover it with a heap of other things so you don’t see it, it will still nag away at you.

Be brave and tell yourself the truth. You’ve mostly stopped because planning the story, even at a moderate level of planning, is extremely hard work. Your brain doesn’t like hard work, therefore it would prefer you to make seemingly valid excuses to stop.

So what to do?

The answer is simple, but needs courage. Tell your brain that nothing is ever achieved without hard work, and remind it that you’ve been through this before, and you may have to go through it again. But abandoning the story is not the answer to your problem.

The answer to the problem is…hard brain work.

Get on with it.

Mike Crowl's latest book, published late 2023, took five years to write. A good deal of that time was spent in overcoming procrastination. 

The one ton cartoon courtesy of Re-artur