Favourite internet search term of the week, which led some unfortunate browser to my haunting melodious lament, “Albino Girl”, who wasn’t even Albinanian.
Where do the years fly? The Joe Chip Empire is crumbling. The barbarians are at the gates, and Edgar’s wandered off – he was only supposed to be buying a packet of chips and a can of creaming soda, but I bet he’s in the record shop. The blogs lie untended, slowly being covered by drifts of sand as the climate changes and the deserts spread (ahh, if only the desserts would spread – slowly encroaching lemon meringue pie would not be such a horror, though the fact I write of such visions may explain why my belly is not so slowly encroaching on my belt).
Australians love order. They like to think of themselves as anarchic larrikins, but that is a complete load of bullshit. You only have to look at the seasons. In the northern hemisphere, they think it is still summer. But how can it be, when here in Australia spring has been declared? We do not let nature get in our way, hence the devastation of our environment. Spring commences on 1 September here, we care naught for equinoxes and solstices and unofficial unlegislated astronomical stuff. When I raise this with no doubt mightily bored compatriots at the change of each season (I can bore for Australia, it is one of my Olympic events, I won silver), they say things like “Hey my mate Joe Chip, you’re talking about natural, seasonal spring”. WHAT OTHER KIND IS THERE????? Idiots.
Sorry, please forgive me, I need calm in my life. My only balm is the arts, and of course by the arts I mean poetry, and of course by poetry I mean doggerel. Hence the only place there has been any Joe Chip action lately is in “Poetry and Paranoia. Looking at the blog, I am a little worried about the writer. I applaud his continuing television poetry and his murderous effort in “Dexter“. TV poetry is the new art form for those who don’t wander lonely as a rain cloud in a spate of good weather. However, I worry if he is slipping into premature middle age, with his comments in “Stuff” about how it is good that he is not ten years younger (for goodness sake, he’s only seven, what is he going on about?), because who knows what he might try with someone nameless that no doubt would lead to the same disaster it would have led to ten years ago; and then in the beautifully named “Ugly Fat Old Man” he writes tenderly about how
he we deteriorate s before his our eyes. I knew there was something to worry about long ago, noticing how he writes in the third person about himself.
Now what is in all this for the reader? Here is a picture I took in Penang of a wild dusky leaf monkey in the botanical gardens – sorry, no bird this time.