... pointing the cement to the edges of roof tiles is
nearly as boring as air travel.....
so there I was, on a sunny sunday afternoon, pondering the banality of life [and in this case death].
I could have concerned my self with the latest bullshit report on the use of
dirty fossil fuels and how instead we should spend more money on windmills.... but no.... it was copulating flies that caught my attention......
I was mixing up the next batch of cement and as I reached for the water bucket, there on the surface of the water was 2 copulating flies..... not blue bottles.... [that would be too obvious] more like fruit flies, but I don't think they were even that type.... but for sure whatever they were they were copulating flies.....
So did I leave the flies in the bucket to drown in their ecstasy ? or did I pour them into the cement mix, immortalised in stone for ever ? ........ did the earth move for you dear ? .....
I say ecstasy because of course who is not to know that such flies do enjoy an orgasm when they copulate.... they were pretty well engrossed in their conduct, so much so they did not realise that they were at risk of drowning.....
Not sure I would ever risk drowning for a leg over.......
It's funny how we can become pre-occupied by the banality of life.... but of course for the flies, they wouldn't consider their life in the least bit banal..... for them, they are at the epicenter of their universe .....
It would have been easy to pour the copulating flies into the cement mix and point them into the roof for ever...... but........ in the sand I was mixing into the cement, I had earlier seen lots of ants..... trouble was, I couldn't pick out everyone of the ants..... there were hundreds of them..... I'd have been there all day just ant picking.....
So instead...... I saved the copulating flies..... it was then easier to assuage my guilt over the ants.... and with my trowel I lifted the still copulating flies onto the ground .......
Funny how ..... the ants got cemented and the copulating flies lived another day.... to colour once more......
We can't save everyone..... but we can save someone.......
Makes you wonder who is/was more important ....... the ants ? the copulating flies ? me ?
Well as I had 3 gable ends to cement in, then at that moment in time..... it was me ........
But as the saying goes there are dogs and lamposts.... so should the ants ever take over the universe.... fook I hope they never have any gable roof ends to cement up.... other wise I am done for.......
That's what boring cementing jobs do to you
.... makes you think lots of shit.....
at least I had
Richard Ashcroft on the iPod
to keep me sane....
Human Conditions
and to provide a trilogy of great RA tracks
a bonus from Alone with Everybody
[
Postscript: before I went to bed, I watched the movie .......
no country for old men.... a movie I have seen countless times, but a great movie each time I have watched it ..... it is a work of fiction based on a book of the same name ...... but it seems that Anton Chigurh and real life people such as whom he portrays ..... seem to make the same choices about ants and flies.... but make those choices upon us..... the movie/book
{delete as appropriate or not as the case may be} is a wonderful observational piece on the fragility of life......]
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
Those dying generations – at their song,
The salmon‐falls, the mackerel‐crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing‐masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
[Yeats]
