Election 07

Well, just on a week to go now, and some are rather tired of it all. The consensus is that Howard is History, but that still may turn out to be “History-making” in winning yet another term and going on to break the Menzies record. For those who see that as your worst nightmare, take comfort in its unlikelihood, but still keep your fingers crossed.

Good news

I alluded to a hitch in M’s travels. It involved a really bad case of this in Brazil, but news of compensation has just come through. He enjoyed Machu Picchu and says nothing about earthquakes.

Earliest memory meme

My Sabu memories in the previous entry lead, almost like The Chaser’s prize segue segments, to the meme Arthur has sent me.

I have to:

• Describe my earliest memory where the memory is clear, and where “clear” means I can depict at least three details.
• Give an estimate of my age at the time.
• Tag five other bloggers with this meme.

Easy, Arthur, as I have the relevant story on a page already, but here it is again.

A sixty years old movie and memories of a similar vintage

Last night, thanks to Surry Hills Library’s DVD collection, I watched Black Narcissus (1947). To quote Screen Online:

Powell and Pressburger’s delirious melodrama is one of the most erotic films ever to emerge from British cinema, let alone in the repressed 1940s – it was released just two years after David Lean’s Brief Encounter (1945), with its more typically ‘British’ story of desire denied.

Starting from a controversial novel by Rumer Godden – an Englishwoman living long-term in India – Powell and Pressburger fashioned a taut melodrama of unusually fierce passions and barely contained erotic tension. Although the script never directly challenged the strict standards of the censors, it hardly needs saying that the repressed desires of nuns was not a common – or safe – subject for a British film in 1947.

Friday Australian poem #15: Les Murray, "An Absolutely Ordinary Rainbow"

This is a poem that has grown with me as I have read and reread it over the past thirty years and more.

An Absolutely Ordinary Rainbow

The word goes round Repins,
the murmur goes round Lorenzinis,
at Tattersalls, men look up from sheets of numbers,
the Stock Exchange scribblers forget the chalk in their hands
and men with bread in their pockets leave the Greek Club:
There’s a fellow crying in Martin Place. They can’t stop him.

The traffic in George Street is banked up for half a mile
and drained of motion. The crowds are edgy with talk
and more crowds come hurrying. Many run in the back streets
which minutes ago were busy main streets, pointing:
There’s a fellow weeping down there. No one can stop him.

The man we surround, the man no one approaches
simply weeps, and does not cover it, weeps
not like a child, not like the wind, like a man
and does not declaim it, nor beat his breast, nor even
sob very loudly—yet the dignity of his weeping

holds us back from his space, the hollow he makes about him
in the midday light, in his pentagram of sorrow,
and uniforms back in the crowd who tried to seize him
stare out at him, and feel, with amazement, their minds
longing for tears as children for a rainbow.

Some will say, in the years to come, a halo
or force stood around him. There is no such thing.
Some will say they were shocked and would have stopped him
but they will not have been there. The fiercest manhood,
the toughest reserve, the slickest wit amongst us

trembles with silence, and burns with unexpected
judgements of peace. Some in the concourse scream
who thought themselves happy. Only the smallest children
and such as look out of Paradise come near him
and sit at his feet, with dogs and dusty pigeons.

Ridiculous, says a man near me, and stops
his mouth with his hands, as if it uttered vomit—
and I see a woman, shining, stretch her hand
and shake as she receives the gift of weeping;
as many as follow her also receive it

and many weep for sheer acceptance, and more
refuse to weep for fear of all acceptance,
but the weeping man, like the earth, requires nothing,
the man who weeps ignores us, and cries out
of his writhen face and ordinary body

not words, but grief, not messages, but sorrow,
hard as the earth, sheer, present as the sea—
and when he stops, he simply walks between us
mopping his face with the dignity of one
man who has wept, and now has finished weeping.

Evading believers, he hurries off down Pitt Street.

from
The Weatherboard Cathedral, 1969

To explain it? No, just read… But think about the following story from today’s Sydney Morning Herald.

MORE than two years after attempting to kill himself, the former NSW Opposition leader, John Brogden, revealed yesterday he still finds it “harrowing” to return to his former workplace and has given up alcohol because “it’s easier, it’s simpler”.