They’re crap at most things, but startlingly talented at others. As Lynne suggests, tunnelvision is one of the symptoms that makes unique minds so brilliant. Who also happens to be an historian of aviation and shipping, a metalworker, a carpenter, a chemist, a sailor… the list is long, but very specific. Robert, the scientist who inhabits my carport together with his antique industrial machinery. We have all heard stories about the genius guitarist, who lives out his days muddling away in a bedroom, unknown to the world at large, subsisting at some shit job when he could be benefiting the universe with his talent.
Robert is working towards a restraining order. More threats have been issued and another resident has been assaulted. The management and the police are doing very little to restrain the troublemakers, not all of whom have been imprisoned. I must admit, I have been warned – by Pink Light and by Donald – but I thought the use of pseudonyms would be sufficient.Īs a footnote to my previous post, Robert’s boarding house is not – as I suggested – at peace. I have much to learn about what I should and shouldn’t say – though the urge to tell it warts and all is almost irresistible. I can only speak for what I witnessed what I learned second hand seems to have been the product of emotional heat.Īll up, it was the result of my naïveté as a personal blogger.
#CALM PANTS QUEST OBLIVION SERIES#
It is my tendency to colour reality as brilliantly as possible and in this case I succeeded in making an already seedy series of events appear shockingly squalid. Much to my surprise it was discovered by the subjects of the article and, though no names were used, there was predictable outrage. I have removed the post ‘ Lemon and Orange’. The months passed and it seemed that the CD had been lost in the mail.īut today, on the eve of Polly’s first day of school, the disc arrived - and from this point on I can invest her with this little silvery flake of her heritage. My dear friend Ieva - a magnificent woman of honour and intellect, who guided me compassionately through the reunion with my estranged aunt – promised to post me another copy and each day since Polly has been checking the letterbox without result. Throughout her short life I’ve been singing her the pigeon-Latvian version I remember from my childhood. What else could one do at suck a moment? Sometimes you can’t even call it singing – it’s crooning, humming, lulling – something heartfelt and primordial.’Īfter my return, Polly was born, but by that time – of course – I’d misplaced the CD. ’ As the magical moment of sleep arrives for the children in our arms, we rock them with an age old movement and we sing to them. The mouse is seen as a tiny quiet creature, the colour of the evening dusk, who is able to simultaneously guard boundaries and cross them.’ ‘ The Latvian mind imagined that sleep is provided by a dear, sweet little mouse. I learnt that it was generally known as ‘The Latvian Lullaby’ and was based on a melody by one of the great composers. When I travelled to Latvia, early this century, I made sure to get a recording of the song. He kept as far from the local Latvian community as he could for fear of communist spies. I know what he went through, and how frightened he was. And it’s the only piece of real Latvian culture he left me. It’s the sweetest memory I have of my father. It was a story of a mother and father bear bringing honey and berries to their cubs – though I never knew the meaning of the words. Most nights, my father would sing me a lullaby in Latvian, his native language: aijã zuzu lãca berni. I had selected that image from a wide selection at the church shop, because the holy man depicted bore my name. On the wall was a painting of the biblical Samuel in a similar attitude, giving homage to what appeared to be a supernova. ∆ george and the decrepitude of the cemetery managerĮach night, when I was very small, my parents and I would kneel and say prayers by my bed, heads bowed, hands clasped together in reverence.