Robert (gurdonark) wrote,
Robert
gurdonark

coalport and skylarks



The local Thai restaurant serves something called a "monsoon roll", a cold-rice-paper salad roll. When I bite into one, a citrus surges through my teeth onto my tongue, giving me a rush no less thrilling than something thrilling, whatever as-yet-uncompared thrill might be on offer.

On this weekend, the movie "Ghost" plays on my television like so many welcome Twilight Zone marathons, as the "country music" cable network decides that it is a country western movie and the adult rock cable network declares it a movie that "rocks". I have a weakness for this film, with its imaginative simple Ghostaverse, which runs through my mind like citrus from a monsoon roll.

Lately I think how I should do things during my leisure time that make me happy. I mean by this that rather than hunting for some arduous and time-consuming fun, I should do simple trips to nearby places that bring me contentment.

Saturday I walked in the riparian woodland near McKinney's Towne Lake Park, with my Radio-Shack-purchased voice recorder, and captured birdsong. I have decided that songcapture serves a purpose much like fishing for me,without the fuss and bother and moral ambiguity of the hooked bait and hooked fish. It's a kind of "real connection" to a grackle or a song sparrow.

I like that Rickie Lee Jones song about how "you never know when you're making a memory", except that when I record such a memory, I know that I'm making it. I also like the old song by the band Rush called "Lakeside Park", a reverie in ballad form about hanging out at a park in a place called Port Dalhousie, north of Toronto. It has a lyric in which Geddie Lee, Rush's lead singer, who never hit any note in a human range when birdsong pitch might be more appropriate, saying:
"Everyone would gather
On the twenty-fourth of May
Sitting in the sand
To watch the fireworks display
Dancing fires on the beach
Singing songs together...
Though it's just a memory
Some memories last forever".

Although we did not celebrate Victoria Day where I grew up, nor gather on the beach at DeGray Lake very often, I could relate to this lyric. It reminded me of games of Risk while Jethro Tull and Bowie and U2 and perhaps even 2112 played on the record player, and evening tennis on humid nights, and driving in a friend's sky blue Gremlin to the local Sonic for grape slushes or snow-cones at the local place with the bubble-gum flavor.

Those evenings were like days at the local lake park, in which contentment is not an ocean but five minutes away, hovering, like the giant swallowtail butterfly on my back-yard lantana, so far and yet as close as Sunday. Capture it quickly, hold it lightly, then release it, or it will fly away forever.

I took my car to the robotic wash at our local convenience store, and, while I was cleansed, recorded the sounds of the whirrs and buzzes. This might theoretically enable me to make more industrial music, but I found myself marrying my drones with a sample of European skylarks instead. I love the sound of church bells backing birdsong, which, to me, is a good background to anything.

I have a bell before me now. It's a small, white bell, not three inches high. If you'll listen carefully, you can hear it tinkling. It's a light tone, endearing and yet not particularly functional. Inside the bell the letters read:

"Bone china...Coalport...made in England...Country Ware".

I see an eBay auction, now closed, generated one bid for a bell of the same kind as my bell, sold by a seller in Yorkshire for 99 pence. All my treasures are worth 99 pence or less, at least in this construct, for this moment, subject to change and revision.

On Saturday afternoon, I went to the Allen Public Library, to see the Anne Frank exhibit there. It was done on large storyboards, with pictures and text. I knew much of the story before, though I do not recall if I have read her diary or not. It was gripping and chilling, with the story of one family serving, as it has for so many, as a way to learn a feeble and disquieting something about the incomprehensible. I was moved.

I travel once more for business this week, to the Deep South and then to the Far West. I had meant to go see Superman Returns, or perhaps rent those odd Underworld movies, or purchase fascinating literature. Yet on recuperating weekends, I am apt, as this weekend, to do a few chores and otherwise rest. I did the laundry.

Nice fellows at the oil change place serviced my car, while I discussed the new Smart tiny car with the manager. It looked enchanting to me, although I do not believe I won him over. I suppose I could have sung him Lloyd Cole's song about the CV2, but for understandable reasons, I did not. I read an article in Popular Mechanics about how we could all have high mpg cars if we wish. It was right by the article about the Heinlein-esque millionaire who, with friends in Dallas, is busy exploring space. I imagined recording exploding objects.

Life has so many things in play. Myspace generates me spam friends' requests, imaginary women with names like Brianna or Noelle, clad in light garmentry, designed to make me click "yes" and subject myself to malware. I am so fortunate as to realize that no Noelle needs my approval, and thus avert disaster.

It is all simpler on a lake. I imagine e malis I wish to send, to people whom I should write. I imagine the feel of pen on paper. I installed that Yahoo IM service, which even has a rudimentary voice function, but it does not work well with the various other things I have on my computer.
I'm feeling pretty good, for all the quiet, and eager to get things done next week,preparatory to another quiet, contented weekend.
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