Nor by night—

SEMPER VIGILANS!

Which might other times be translated as ‘ever awake’ …

I hoofed off to Winton the other night to investigate a great white. Great white glow in the sky … and scored these.

But first, a shot I shot in the day when passing a wee novelty on the sports field there:

And it being so self-obvious I feel no need to explain. But that was a daytime snap and these are the nighters—

The utterly deserted rugby ground, but floodlit … for God? Who else would need the floodlights? (Other than cranky old dogs growling and prowling with a camera, tripod, and cold paws? No ice there yet but it was freeeeezing!)

Now: that hedge to the left is about ten feet high yet somehow manages to block some of the light. But the locals across the road—

(The road, above. Hedge to our right; locals to our left. My feet out of sight below us, various millions of gods and stars in their heavens waaaay above us.) (Ya gotta set the scene …)

—are very religious.

I’ll explain further down; and now, detail from along the road a bit—

—these Southlanders are nothing if not

(a) pragmatic,

(b) patient,

(c) long suffering,

(d) very understanding and tolerant where religion is concerned …

… and here in Southland there is only One True Religion and Sport is its name. There are two major sex (oops) sects; one follows Rugby and the other Netball. I am an atheist so I miss out on a lot …

 

WPC: Variations

ON A THEME

Wot theme? How’s about …

BRICKS

… and why not bricks? Bricks are good guys, they keep you snug in winter and serve at any time to keep out the ungodly. So, my Lords, Ladies and others, I present—

—a few heaps of bricks.

Thus, in various incarnations:

A wee wall separating the sheep from the goats, the olde from the new, men from the boys, the wheat from those who chaff and so on. (Queens Park in Invercargill where the drought has finally broken.)

And herewith—

—a variation on the theme “hole in the wall” (ol’ Butch would be delighted~!).

AND MOVING ALONG

a bit:

let us now look up. You know, heavenwards, to the skies above and the multitudes of universes beyond …

… to the Invercargill Water Tower. A motley collection of bricks that has been officially deemed ‘earthquake prone’, which should attract oodles of tourists I’m sure. (Lemmings come to mind for anyone responding to brilliant advertising like that … if I had to mention it at all in public whilst lusting for your tourist dollars I might (as in “may possibly have”) call it “vulnerable-in-the-unlikely-event-of” or similar, but that’s Southland’s advertising genius for you. We need all the tourists we can get …)

WANNA GOTA CHURCH?

Here’s a wee church hall-ish building. It was used until someone decided that God wasn’t looking after it properly and roped it off—

—but is made of bricks. Legal.

C’est no more …

… also made of bricks. The daddy building too is showing age, and when padre bumped into me growling and prowling his estate with camera in paws he was most pleasant but didn’t respond to my subtle hints about letting me see inside. (I think it’s one of those ‘Sundays only’ churches, make of that what you will)—

BUT IN KEEPING WITH

variating the theme, we have here one of the opposition franchise’s efforts at brickery—

—and now that I’ve set the scene, here’s a shot of said edifice that I grabbed en passant a couple of years ago. I’ve posted it before, but it’s still entirely legal ‘cos it’s a Variation On the Theme—

—and my coffee’s gotten cold.

Refresh time, don’t wait up …

“Argie … thanks! Any publicity is good bad enough for me, appreciated …”

 

 

 

 

SNAP~!

and with a clear conscience, boom boom!

Taken yesterday whilst out hoofing the roads and keeping out of The Spouse’s way …

—I can never resist a bit of natural framing. And now, social comment—

I mentioned recently in my ‘Cassandric’ blog that the Christmas commercial nausea began being cranked up here back in September.

Then last week in a Countdown supermarket in town, this—

—attempting to crank up for the commercial nausea of Easter. Small wonder I take so little interest in these things—although I’ll admit that I do enjoy those spicy buns, split and lightly toasted and absolutely slabbled in butter whilst still hot. Boom boom!

IF I WERE GOD

I’d bring out a new law to the effect that no use of My Name could be applied to any commercial activities until just three weeks short of The Day. (Thank God I’m not God, then.)

Christmas should be a time of rejoicing, or celebrated as the Winter Solstice, or whatever … but please, not a blatant blasted both barrels full bore bloody commercial bunfest~!

 

 

GODS MOVE IN

MYSTERIOUS WAYS

This is the third and final of the tales I rediscovered in the course of trying to get ‘Spark’ (a kiwi would-be email/web ‘service’ provider) to work.

Hope you like it. But first, a—

DISCLAIMER

No gods, goddesses, or long skinny mysterious ethereal things were harmed in the process of writing this tale. No offence is intended to anyone, alive or half-dead. Just enjoy (if your religion will allow).

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In the beginning all was void

and without form. Then after a very busy few days and nights God created Man, in His own image.

(Ooops … bugger!) (Rewind, try again)—

That being the gospel truth, must then mean there’s a feminine variant of God …

Now flash forward some years (about six thousand by some counts, about 14,000,000,000 by others) to ME in the here and right now:

Knock knock!

“Who’s there?” Damn. I’m busy, delegate—

“Toots?”

“Eep?”

“Can you get that, please?”

Mutter mutter mutter … click, followed by indistinct voices.

Door closes, two lots of footsteps.

Uh oh. A visitor, and me up to my elbows in old-fashioned pen and pages—blasted power cut. Damn again … curiosity:

“Who is it, Toots?”

“No-one you know — it’s Mrs God. She says she’s calling in person to see you after your recent blog posts. Who’ve you cranked up this time?”

Bugger.

“What’s she want?”

“Just a chat. Says she knows you’re busy and will be until you finish that commentary on polar bears — I didn’t know you wrote about polar bears?”

Poop. Other than me no-one does, I’ve just started it. Oh! Mrs God, of course.

“Tell her I’ll be right out—”

“In about twelve minutes, She says. I’d offer Her a coffee but the power’s still off — oh, not a problem, She’s got the jug going.”

“It’s still off in here.”

“And here — it’s only on at the jug. Weird.”

“Whom did you say it was?”

“Mrs God … … … … … … oh.”

That might explain something.

“Can you get Her to—” My computer boots into life.

“—thanks. Appreciated.”

Again I marvel at my own ability to accept the unacceptable at a moment’s notice. Okay, miracles sometimes do take a little longer, no problem. Now, polar bears, something important in the great scheme of things … aaaah.

Still marvelling I shift from pen to keyboard, momentarily resenting that She hadn’t called earlier. Honestly, some People …

“She says She’s sorry about that! A minor miracle was needed at short notice in Afghanistan to stop some more Buddha statues being blown up. Took a bit longer than She expected. Bloody heathens.”

Oh.

A thought—

“Couldn’t Hubby have done it?”

“She’s not speaking to Him right now. Something to do with His ‘holier-than-thou’ attitude, She says.”

Coffee noises float in through my doorway, followed by a heavenly scent. Blue Mountain, my favourite, how did She know? Oops, dumb questi—

“Omniscience, She says. It can be a bit of a pain too, sometimes.”

Wait—

“Buddhas? I’d have thought She’d be happy the competition was being blown up?”

A loud appreciative slurp is followed by Spouse’s voice, tinged with deepest appreciation (think orgasmic, only more so).

“She says that it’s Mr God who’s the jealous one, she’s more the live-and-let-live type Herself. Anyway, competition is healthy, lowers the costs, so the believer benefits all round.”

Ye gods. A capitalistic free-thinking God? Goddess?

A thought.

“What’s She look like?”

“She says just get on with your writing — and to stop hammering anthropogenic as being too man-made, it’s a lost subtlety.”

Gone. Just like that, a whole morning’s scratchings.

Rip. Shred, tear, rip. Control A + delete. Start again.

“Does She have any suggestions?”

“Argie, She’s gorgeous! And says to use your own free will, She’s not going to write it for you … eh? What? … Oh! (Okay, I’ll tell him) … but your article on revamping NZ politics sure stirred ‘em up!”

“I haven’t written one!”

“Next week — She apologised for mixing the dates up, says being in next week as well as here and now can sometimes get confusing.”

NZ politics? Now there’s a thought.

“Should I come out there?” I know the Spouse, her idea of gorgeous means absolutely divine. Oops.

“No point, She says. You have to believe first. Disbelievers can never see Her.”

Bugger.

I watch in disbelief as a coffee floats in through the doorway and parks itself neatly between keyboard and mouse. Coffee at least is real. My hair fluffles to an unseen soft touch and I feel a light kiss on the back of my neck. Instant goosebumps.

“So you believe in God, Toots? I never knew that.”

“Not in God, no. Mrs God, yes — it’s a girlie thing, you wouldn’t understand.”

Witch. Thanks for the coffee, anyway. A thousand questions flood my mind. At last, a chance for some answers.

“Argie! She’s grabbed her stuff and is heading for the door—”

Damn! So close, yet so far.

“—She says that if you’re going to get all metaphysical on Her She’s out of here—what have you done?”

Me? Nothing. Yet. Eek.

My keyboard explodes into life and this post writes itself before my eyes in mere milliseconds. I lean forward and obediently sip from the coffee floating in front of my lips while the keys rattle on. Cute.

The script switches to bold italics — goody, I like italics — and this post finishes itself just as the front door closes with a gentle, final, and perfectly omnipotent CLICK.

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FOR THOSE OF US

WANTING

open, honest, and sometimes acerbic commentary: may I draw your attention to my more forthright blog “Cassandric”.

I created it to replace one of my others (Forestall). Forestall tried to say what I think but kept running into very lengthy screeds—so I popped it off and replaced it with Cassandric. I try (and sometimes fail) to keep Cassandric under three hundred words.

So if you want to pop over for a quick look (or to stay) you’re very welcome:

 

CASSANDRIC    click <—— there and explore. Or not.

 

But please: ‘Follow’ only if you really want to—no more ‘spam’ followers. (And no, I won’t trade—I don’t play “I’ll follow you if you’ll follow me”.)

BE WARNED

though—if you want reinforcement of contemporary ‘group-think’, or if you want PC (politically correct stuff), or if my opinions of beliefs (there’s thousands of them, all the One True Path …) offend: don’t go there.

Your call …

 

WPC: CAREFUL 3(?)

Okaaaaayyyy …

CAREFUL

it is then. I’ve lots to be careful about so I lose count—but after our recent Labour weekend (public holiday) we went to town where I was intrigued enough (before I got the story, note) to take this—

—we’d just been in to our favourite coffee place and emerged loaded for bear with lovely ‘tailor-made just as we like ’em’ coffees (try that anywhere else in Invercargill and all you get is a vacant stare, followed a few minutes later by the standard formulaic coffee).

We turned south and saw a ‘Do Not Cross’ official tape across the pavement. Okay, it’s Southland, so of course the blank side is showing and the warning message facing inboard, but one divines the drift.

So we drifted outboard of it, and noted a wee impact damage that wasn’t there last time. Some poor buggers had done a wonderful job of cleaning up what had to be a real mess, but Ground Zero still looked like this—

—which if you know reinforced concrete indicates a truly inspired impact. Someone, it seems, may have misjudged …

There was no (r) no sign of tyre marks, ergo no braking. So I told The Spouse (jumps to conclusions, this kid) that this was deliberate. I used the word kamikaze but she wasn’t impressed. A bit miffed actually (coffee hadn’t kicked in yet).

WE SEPARATED AMICABLY

and while she toddled off to do the rounds of combat zones op shoppe boutiques I likewised to the park. I wanted spring colour and human nature, a heady mix. My first took me back with delight to my childhood, when in the Wolf Cubs (junior scouts) and in school I was told a million times:

“The moss grows always on the south side of the tree”

—and now, for the very first time in many decades of optimistically examining the alignments of mossy trees: I found one~!

Boom boom! Okay, I found it once before and may even have posted a similar snap, but the delight resurrected as virgin—and although tempted to hop and skip and cavort I resisted the urge. There’s enough weirdos already in Queens Park. (I’ve been told. Never seen one, mind, but that’s the story.)

Careful? Oh yes—be careful what Pearls Of Wisdom you imbibe at the feet of wise teachers and tutors … there’s a one in many hundreds chance that they may just be right. If you live long enough …

AND whilst carefully taking snaps of some wonderful, brilliant, artistic and emotions-raising modern practical-art statuary that the Parks Management have converted a beautiful avenue of trees into, a power-hiker strode into view. The opportunity too good to miss, I snapped.

The message here? Be careful what you snap in parks—serendipity may step (or stride) in and convert a gripe into social observation. And yes—the background racket in the once peaceful park these days is chainsaws.

ON THE WAY BACK

later to GBs for a pre-going home with The Spouse coffee, I caught a display of lovely freebies in a rack outside a Salvation Shop—

—I like to browse through the offerings sometimes but sadly cannot linger (the ol’ gagging reflex kicks in). Interestingly, this display is just along from Ground Zero—which as The Spouse told me with wide eyes, apparently actually was a suicide. Op Shop ladies … no jungle telegraph was ever more efficient. At least the 24 year-old female driver now knows the answer to all questions: be careful what you ask for, you might just get it.

CAREFUL? SADLY …

… this below is not (r) not one of mine. It came in with an email, but sadly I cannot credit the creator. I Love it—

SO JUST

be careful out there. Life can be a challenge, especially for those with cameras and quad-bikes beautifully secured on utes.

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NIL DEPESRANDUM 

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weekly photo challenge: relic

  .

THERE WAS A TIME some while ago when the Apple Mac was the epitome of user-friendly.

Alas, such memory is but a relic … so  instead of being able to ‘copy and paste’ I now have to upload a screenshot of my onboard dictionary; progress(?) was ever thus.

A LADY I ONCE KNEW was a devout and devoted Catholic. I had no qualms as a devout athiest myself in driving her to church and sitting outside with a good book whilst she was inside with God alone knows how many child abusers, but to each his/her own. It intrigued me that as a genuine ‘card carrying’ Catholic she kept on her person a wee locket containing (or so the holy sales-pitch went) a piece of the Blessed Dominic. It fascinated me that Catlickers not only thought nothing of chopping up poor ol’ dead guys into little tiny bits, they inserted them into lockets and things to be idolatrously worshipped and/or appealed to as the needs arose. Holy Relics, I discovered, were/are Very Big Business in Catholicism. To each his own … and moving on:

THIS NEXT ONE

what exactly is it?

Sadly I can’t give a credit ‘cos I failed to make a note of the source—

—but if anyone suggests it may be a bready bit I’ll concede top marks. Actually it’s toast … once was a fresh baked loaf ready for sale but the Eruption of Vesuvius put sales on hold for a thousand years or two. (Perhaps if the inhabitants of Pompeii had all had bits of holy dead guys around their necks God wouldn’t have let their lunches be ruined?) Moving on—

I love the juxtaposition here of the good ol’ moon (often worshipped as a god and/or goddess in its own right) and the church tower—long a relic of Man’s aspirations towards the stars. Man has now set foot on the moon but I’ve yet to see God set foot in any church (did see some Buddhas in temples, and Hindu divinities likewise but ‘cos those guys are all ignorant heathens they don’t count).

AND ON THE SUBJECT OF CHURCH

try this shot for size, taken recently in Windsor. One quick flip of a lever on the camera and godlike powers can be invoked to turn a ratty old normal sky into something approaching the wrath of God—

—and this particular wee sacred edifice is still functional, so has to be a relic to modern (okay: current) superstitions rather than ancient. But one day it too will be outmoded, outdated and obsolete, quite unlike the relic below—

—which edifice in one of our local wee towns is still performing well after a hundred years or so. The discerning may have discerned that yon tower, a relic of Victorian engineering, has a discernible lean to it. Opinion seems to be that if we ignore it long enough the lean may go away—but if that lot topples there’ll be a wee instant flood of biblical proportions (and someone somewhere will get growled at).

LIVING RELIC?

I was going to insert a shot of a tuatara but you’ve seen quite enough of those so Plan B was a shot of The Spouse watching the Queenstown attraction Earnslaw departing—

—but knowing that The Spouse would promptly relicate me if ever she saw this post I decided that Earnslaw alone is quite enough to fit the theme (out of focus as she undoubtedly is when one cuts the centre of attention out of a shot).

This way you get your relic and I get to retain my teeth— win/win all round. The next—

—is the Invercargill War Memorial rendered silhouette by the face of God peering round behind it. Good old Ra, sacred to the ancient Middle Easterners and the Maori alike. Good ol’ Memorial too, covered with lots of names and dates but don’t fret, there’s plenty of room for lots more. A relic of a more barbarous past and equally barbaric future—

“Mr Editor, Sir—am I allowed to use ‘relic’ in the future tense?”

“Of course, Argus—time is relative and history will of course level all fields. Go for it~!“

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KISMET

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WEEKLY PHOTO CHALLENGE: STREET LIFE

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IMITATION

.

is the only sincere form of flattery. It can also be a form of tuition, and it doesn’t cost a cent. So in the course of my exciting explorations in darkest Invercargill I kept happening across St Mary’s Basilica, which looks a lot like this—

—and is much more impressive than my simple snap suggests. But the sight triggered a philosophical frame of mood and I couldn’t help but try to capture the representations of modern technology and progress exemplified by cars and railways and electrical switchgear and controls and lighting and microwave towers and all that stuff; contrasting with the mediaeval mindset that designed the structure built to house the thoughts that slithered out of the desert some two millennia ago.

A SHIFT IN PERSPECTIVE

led me to try to use local materials and modern tools to reproduce one of the … THE … all-time great shots from the Second World War; thus—

—which if you haven’t sussed it yet will appear later on in the series. I was struck by the resemblance and similarities, but can’t spare the time to tweak. ‘Twas ever thus:  excelsior~! So enough of that old chestnut—

—it’s time for a new chestnut, a fresh perspective if you like. Here’s looking at you, Kid … shot outside whilst Spouse was inside confusing the snits out of our local medics, she does that when she’s feeling rash. They never spot it, though. It’s a wicked web we weave, they tell us, and flies zooming through the local holly pretty soon get the point—

—while I’m lost in admiration for the wee engineers who created these structures as mathematically precise and ordained as St Pauls itself but without the divine assistance. It takes an awesome amount of weaving to make one of these things—worth it though, judging by the ROI for the spider (ROI = Return On Investment). The above is only a portion of her haul.

So, on the Street and life therein: just one week out from the summer solstice in this oft-touted semi sub-tropical South Seas island paradise (ergo in theory at least ‘warm’, right?) I couldn’t resist this opportunistic shot of a wee street vendor purveying her wares—

—and doubtlessly wishing she’d never come this far south to do so. The cherry growing regions in NZ are a wee bit closer to the Equator—down here be for hardy types of idio  folks.

AND IF I’M ALLOWED

to stretch the ‘street’ into the country, and to dedicate a snap to Maria, here’s a wee gatey thing I snapped whilst out briskly walking along a country road recently. Sadly I didn’t catch the spiders so you’ll just have take my word for it:  they were there.

AND NOW, THE ANSWER

to all lingering questions: that WW2 phamous foto. It was of course Mason’s St Pauls in the Blitz shot, instantly recognisable from any head-on angle—

St P in the B

—and used by both sides at the same time in their propaganda war. The Germans got hold of it and used it to show how successful they were in burning London, and the Brits used it to show how staunch they were in the face of all the German efforts to burn ’em. I use it as inspiration although I’m not that keen as to sit up on the roof all night during a blasted blitz just for a good snap.

So without intending to flatter the photographer I do attempt to emulate some of his techniques and by so doing hope to learn and improve. We can do worse than sit at the feet of the Great Masters to imbibe their wisdoms.

AND shamelessly copy the little buggers …

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CARPE DIEM

(Images courtesy of various innocents, and Wikipedia for the Blitz snap)

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GO PLACIDLY

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AMID THE NOISE

.

and haste …

and waste; amid the cat-calls, whistles, shrieked demands and screeches for ‘vengeance’.

UKRAINE

We now all now where it is. We also now know all about

Pie Day

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CIRCULAR REASONING

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just a brieffie, this week I’ve lost a lot of time fighting this computer. So on with the show …

NEW SCIENTIST

advises us that a recent date was ‘Pi Day’. Three dot one four (must be American, the fourteenth of March is actually one four dot three in real English). Whatever. It’s a bit too late to take the analogy further as in 1916 being a finer resolution (but coming up soon to a planet near you, a replay). Brrrr.

SOMEWHERE

(and please don’t ask me to find it) I wrote a brief tale of interplanetary travel wherein the good travellers were on their way to a nearby star and had to sleep in their cocoons for many millenniums. On-board automated thingies would awaken them when within cooee of their destination or in event of unforeseen necessity.

To keep itself amused the on-board computer(s) were set to happily calculating pi to ever finer resolutions. (The theory—demonstrable so far—is that Pi never ever ever works out whole.) So when the travellers were awakened they wondered why, until they discovered that after about some thirteen thousand years at umpty zillion calcs per second the Pi computer had suddenly  stopped. On a number …

AND NOW

to do some bits of catching up about the place, and revisit the Photo Challenge of the week. (I still think ‘whimsy’ would be a good one, and possibly ‘what’s left out’.)

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CARPE DIEM

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