(C) C*A*L*I*C*O

C*A*L*I*C*O

(Concerned About Living in Consumer Overdrive)

My Father was an upholsterer – a species of tradesman that has almost disappeared. It’s tempting to say that they have become nearly extinct due to consumer over-indulgence in cheap mass-produced furniture. That of course is a gross exaggeration; but…this is my essay. And as the lawyer said to another in a Japanese restaurant – sosumi! Indeed, in these litigation frenzied times, that is precisely what might happen; but I digress...

Back in the days when most middle-to-upper-class families owned a ‘three piece suite’, it was a major and treasured part of a family’s possessions; right up there with the Holden and the Kelvinator ‘fridge’. It was customary that families would elect to have their three piece suites re-upholstered once the fabric had become worn and faded and/or the springs had given way. Calico was often used as lining cloth and as the material for covering the bottoms of chairs. Better quality calico (with printed designs) was used also as the main covering on chairs where a less luxurious fabric was required; more of a ‘budget’ fabric. Calico, of course, is also used to produce clothing such as shirts, trousers, skirts, curtains and tents; (actually tents nowadays are made more from plastics) and much more.

Actually, it’s irrelevant whether calico, chaff bag or cheesecloth was used to cover chair bottoms. The interesting thing is that these days, people are more likely to abandon the furniture rather than have it repaired. Opp-shops are full of shoddily made furniture – usually compressed pine board filled with cheap foam and stapled together and covered with plasticised artificial fabric. The rationale would appear to be: why have a lounge suite repaired when brand new flat-packs are readily obtainable from Ikea? This mass-produced cheaply made furniture is also to be found at places like Freedom and Fantastic. But they are hardly free and far from fantastic. I think Dad realised that his days were numbered. Foam rubber replaced flock and springs and hessian straps were replaced by a plasticised substitute.   

I can still see my father patiently taking an old worn-out chair apart in his ramshackle old workshop and producing something beautiful and functional in its place. After the repair work was completed and it was time to reattach the new fabric to the frame, he would empty about a handful of small upholstery blue-metal tacks into his mouth. Then taking a small hammer with a magnetic head, he would insert the end into his mouth and bring it out again with a tack on the end with the spike pointed outwards. He would immediately drive this tack through the fabric and into the wooden frame. He would simultaneously position the next tack in his mouth, using tongue and lips, so as to keep up a constant momentum. Bang...went the hammer against the frame; barely a second would elapse from one single hammer blow to the next. The sheet of calico was attached to the bottom of the chair in similar fashion.

I never saw him swallow a tack or have one stick into his mouth. He did say, however, that it took quite a lot of practise to be able to do this at speed. It is probably another of the myriad techniques (some obviously eccentric) that have disappeared over the past half century that tradesmen utilised to carry out their particular skill. I did attempt to do this several times myself but I found the ‘Houdini’ like skill of manipulating tacks in my mouth to be almost impossible. Dad discouraged me from following in his footsteps. He wisely foresaw that I lacked the physical strength that was required at various times for moving furniture. And of course, like all fathers, he wanted a better standard of living for his son. Hence better education equated to less physical labour. Little did he know that I too would bang things for a living. He banged nails into furniture and carpets to floors and I bang drums and other percussion. Incidentally, music is one of the most labour intensive occupations; ironic wouldn’t you say?

Interestingly, some of my drum gear used to be wrapped in calico when transporting from one place to another and I’ve still got his little magnetic hammer stored in the garage somewhere...  

© At Another Time…

© At Another Time…

 

At a fevered pitch, the world attempts still to enrich uranium up to 235.

At the eleventh hour on the eleventh day of the eleventh month...will we still survive?

‘At Last’ is an impassioned song, delivered so strongly by the impeccable Etta James.

At another time, on another occasion, there will be persuasion to participate in games.

At a standstill, the whirling dervishes were curling their moustaches with great abandon.

‘At My Desk’ sat Charlie Chuckles who darkly coloured drawings that little children fashioned.

‘At the Cross’ is an English hymn, when devotees on a whim, sing exulted praises to their messiah.

At the meditation centre, I had a dream I was a centaur galloping and neighing to the music of a choir

At the ashram, Andris sat cross-legged at Mangrove yoga as he strove to make some sense of it all.

At one with nature? No, we are at two and nothing we can now do will reverse the planet’s fall.

At the bicentennial rally, briefly I got pally with cross-gendered protestors in Hyde Park in ’88.

At the bottom of the garden, without a ‘beg your pardon’, came fairies, hobgoblins and dykes incarnate.

At the battle of the sexes, I was struck in the solar plexus by a person of an ambiguous disposition.

At the third stroke it was apparent I was a new bloke; no need to take heed of emotional ammunition.

At the beginning, perhaps we thought that we were winning the war on world poverty.

At best it was a token gesture; a cynical brokered device to defuse adverse publicity.

At the coal face there was always a race to have a face as black as balsamic vinegar.

At the trivia night, though we had less wrong than right; it was not enough for a voucher for dinner.

At the apex was the diva who recorded the best version of ‘Fever’; of course... she was Peggy Lee.

At twilight, you’ll just hear her singing when lights are low; always a treat for you and me.

At the looking glass stood Alice, who leapt in with no malice, and stormed the red palace of the queen.

At the hospital I had an inhospitable encounter with a physical fitness trainer who ruled supreme.

At another time and place, I’ll fall flat upon my face, heaving like a whale upon a beach.

‘At my command, I’ll have you stand and take it like a man – remember the whip’s within my reach.’

At my wild erratic fancy, an image comes of Clancy – it’s a deliberate misquote so’s to use another ‘at’.

At my knee I have an old banjo-ukulele, I like to strum from time to time and scare the cat.

At the conclusion of this verse, you could say I’ve written far worse – but after all, who really cares?

At least it mentions ‘fever’; at worst it’s like a blunt meat cleaver – chopping up ideas, my dears that I now have shared!

© Bower Bird

© Bower Bird

 

Some call it rubbish or garbage, waste or trash.

Others call it refuse, debris, litter, junk...

But I live with a woman, who instead sees only cash,

She’s Steptoe’s offspring – a rag ‘n’ bone queen;

She keeps it all in a trunk...

And in boxes, bags and carryalls in the garage and the shed.

It’s in all the cupboards and the wardrobia;

In the hall and pantry and a large part of my head!

She’s Second-hand Rose – in preloved clothes;

A fear of newness - Cainotophobia.

She knows all the op-shops in cities and towns.

The junk shops and antiques and garage sales;

She knows by instinct when a business closes down.

She’s the original liquidator – a Bower Bird;

Just manages to keep out of gaol.

She found an old chandelier in a box in the street:

Dirty, disfigured and neglected.

Took it home, spruced up and rewired it came up a treat!

She’s a shrewd negotiator; she took it to a market.

Made more dough than anyone suspected...

In addition she sells knitwear, beads, lemons, trinkets,

Old toys to old boys (she has strange friends).

Sand to the Arabs if she could risk it.

She’s a picker with her eyes all a flicker,

A complete eccentric who avoids all the trends.

I can’t complain, she keeps me in T-shirts...

Jeans, jumpers and all manner of stuff.

Like books and old battered ukuleles and crap ‘til it hurts.

She has Disposophobia – she hoards like a squirrel for winter.  

At times I must tell her: Enough!

So what is rubbish? It’s hard to define...

Trash or treasure, merchandise or muck?

She finds stuff and uses it, keeps her amused for a time.

She even collected me who’d been manacled before.

I’ll be sold on the stall myself next week – I’ve run out of luck!

© At a Loose End...

© At a Loose End...

At the third stroke, it will be 9.54 and 10 seconds and my lady reckons it’s time for tea.

At the end of the day who can say what the outcome of the next election will be.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning, fawning regret, will we remember them?

At the final bell in the afternoon shall we spoon with the crème de la crème?

At times hard to handle; I am out of control and quite impossible am I – pity me.

At the 1972 Irish sheep dog trials, with smiles, I asked, ‘How many were found guilty?’

At the Star Hotel, all’s not well; the patrons are not happy ‘cause the beer’s gone flat.

At the stroke of twelve fair Cinderella, lost her feller, at a long weekend in Ballarat.

At night the trees aren’t sleeping ‘though the birds aren’t cheeping and so the hounds do bray.

At the crack of dawn when the dew on the lawn gives way to the promise of a fine winter’s day.

At the traffic lights there’s a momentary contemplation; alienation surrounds me on all sides.

At the final bell, it will be impracticable to know if what I’ve written is valid or contrived.

At the third stroke, it will be 11 am precisely and wisely we retreat to the terrace by the roses.

At the end of the rainbow you may find the Land of Oz, simply because, your partner proposes.

At the end of the street where the waters meet is a lake beside the hanging marsh

At the end of a love affair, recriminations come to bear upon an idyllic now turned harsh.

At the periphery, life is so slippery, fragile, transient; precarious yet serene.

At the movies, life is so groovy! Forget all your troubles by the silver screen.

‘At the Codfish Ball’ with Shirley Temple: a memorable song and dance with Buddy Ebsen.

At the end of the universe, although perverse, it’s rumoured there’s a restaurant to make mess in.

‘At the Castle Gate’, I must relate, was the theme for ‘The Sky at Night’ – a bright impression.

At the present time; at the moment; at this juncture: all will function as the same expression.

At a café in Casablanca; at the markets at Salamanca; at a pub in Parramatta – we say this ‘n’ that.

At a glance, you will look askance at this meaningless dance of sentences; starting with an ‘at’.

 At arm’s length when you read what’s before you; I would implore you not to break the spell.

At an educated guess, even though I won’t confess...oh, alright – it’s a mess! It’s clear I’ll be exposed at the final bell!

© Yo! I, An Odd Kangaroo Boy

                         © Yo! I, An Odd Kangaroo Boy                            

(Good Book On A Rainy Day)

So...we found ourselves in Kiama, in somewhat of a dilemma,                             

 It was a rainy day and accordingly: no views.

And the blowhole wasn’t blowing and the way things were going,

It was clear only we’d have nothing but the blues.   

It had been a stressful drive (we were glad to be alive!),

On a freeway, wrong direction, back towards Sydney.

Where you couldn’t turn around, it was chaos and the traffic sound...

Worried me; I needed to pee, had a pain in the kidney.

We finally made our destination amid much consternation, 

Vowing never to leave our front door again.

But next day with café breakfast on board, we saw scrawled on a blackboard:

‘Don’t wait for the storm to pass; learn to dance in the rain.’

Suddenly, the day seemed bright and cheery, no longer dull and dreary,

Though the blowhole was still obstinate; stubborn, kept down.

Then came a lady in purple exterior with a white three-legged terrier,

Who had been to a ‘purple party’ with her little smarty mate with purple crown.

She was full of joie de vivre, she was happy, she was free...

Of the absurd banalities that surround us on all sides.

Even her little canine tripod with purple hair, which looked quite odd...

Was ridiculously happy, so frisky and snappy; even took the big steps in his stride.

Later...in the Minnamurra Rainforest; Red Cedar Giants and Strangler Figs,

Some had been defaced by human pigs that left their tags.

For although the trees are ancient, they’re fair game...it strains your patience

To the bitter end; don’t they comprehend this is our heritage?

In the river there were boulders of massive size and shape; so older than...

No one has a definitive answer – two hundred million years they conjecture.

Worn smooth by millennia and constant flow of water,

Some of these, like the trees, bear the scars of the white man’s...pleasure?  

Later on we had a try at the Illawarra Fly, above the treetops high

Looking back towards the sea, in humidity, atop the escarpment.

Then I climbed the viewing tower – a mistake; I began to cower,

With a third of the way to go, I succumbed to vertigo – oh the embarrassment! 

But really – who cares? I’d had a look, repaired to the flat with a good book,

Whilst milady toured craft and junque shops to heart’s intent.

I read my book and snoozed, like a lazy kangaroo...

Taking relief from the heat of day in a rainforest light-years away, content...

‘Okay, Any Android Go Boo!’ Startled awake – I came to,

‘Goodness,’ I said miffed – ‘it’s raining; have you been adrift, out shopping again?’

‘Let’s go to the beach’ said she with glee, ‘and we’ll collect a shell or three.’

Remember... ‘Don’t wait for the storm to pass; learn to dance in the rain.’

© Cosmic Mosquitoes

© Cosmic Mosquitoes

The ‘Mosquito’ was ready to launch; awaiting only the final sequence that would send the last spacecraft hurtling through the now mostly polluted atmosphere and out of the Earth’s gravitational pull. The year was AD 2085. The crew were comprised of the best minds and most physically perfect specimens that humanity had left. The idea was to ensure that a remnant of humanity would survive the anticipated cataclysm and return to Earth at an undetermined time in the future.  The acidic rain had finally relented after pouring down unremittingly for around three weeks. However, further heavy falls were anticipated within 24 hours – this was their last opportunity before the monsoon season started. 

Whilst all care had been taken, the reality was that some contractors had still cut corners in the supply of components to the project. Consequently, at T minus 20 seconds, an alarm showed up on the DUD (digital universal device) of an anxious manager in the control room at Cape Canaveral. The launch sequence was immediately postponed and a technician was despatched hurriedly to the launch site. Normally any technician entering the spacecraft would need to be attired in full protective, sterile, gear so as to ensure that no contaminant compromised the atmosphere of the vehicle. Such was the urgency of the mission, that the quality control section was instructed to give only the bare minimum of scrutiny to the technician. Consequently, no-one noticed that two or three mosquitoes were clinging to the man’s overalls.

The fault (a minor section of printed circuitry in the communications system) was quickly replaced. The technician wondered idly why it was necessary that the whole project be held up for such a minor problem that could have been easily rectified by the crew at a later time. Meanwhile two of the mosquitoes took refuge in the warmth of an air filtering duct. The technician quickly vacated the craft and the launch sequence began anew. This time there was no hold-up and the launch sequence proceeded to its inevitable conclusion. Lift-off!

Climate change, global warming and the resultant struggle for control of the Earth’s dwindling resources, fresh water and arable land decimated the planet; leading to anarchy. The planet’s population descended into warring tribal factions. Contact with the ‘Mosquito’ was lost around 50 years later and all but forgotten. Thousands of years passed...

≈≈≈≈≈≈≈

The story of the launch of the ‘Mosquito’ entered the realm of myth and its eventual return became entwined with other stories and legends of the return of a messiah.  In story and song, even the names became interspersed as ‘The Mosquiah’. These stories were handed down from one generation to the next. In 4550 or thereabouts, a strange craft materialised on the shore of the Simpson Sea. The local tribe approached the craft cautiously. In appearance, they were similar to the Aboriginal tribes that had inhabited the area many millennia before. The legend -‘MØЅΩÜÏŦΦ’ appeared on the side of the craft, together with what appeared to be a depiction of a six-legged insect.

An opening appeared in the side of the craft and a being the height of a man stepped into the bright sunshine. It stood upright on two legs and appeared to have four arms, and rudimentary wings. The head was almost human in appearance. The only difference was that the large compound eyes dominated the face and had the ability to view a very large angle, detect fast movement and the polarisation of light. Two or three members of the tribe dropped to their knees and began chanting: ‘Mosquiah has come, Mosquiah has come...’

The alien being looked bemused. He or she lifted one of its arms/tentacles and directed it at the chanters. There was a flash of light and an energy beam flew from the outstretched limb, incinerating the nearest person to a fine ash within seconds. The air was filled with an acrid smell and there was a sound not unlike that of an insect hitting an electronic Bug Zapper in a food shop. The bug had travelled far; it was now time to reclaim the Earth.

© The Grand Drake of Wenty Lake

 © The Grand Drake of Wenty Lake

Across the peaceful lake there glides the venerable Grand Drake: the unrivalled ‘el-supremo’ of local ducks.

From the hanging swamp to the weir he is lauded and revered; verily, his rivals are awestruck.

All the hens that he encounters are chronically disappointed, for he seeks the famous duck called ‘Ida’ Down...

Under cover of the foliage in the quiet of his dark garden, he would take this coveted quacker, coloured brown. 

Though the Grand Drake did believe that he was ‘oh so good’; in reality, he, was just an ordinary Aussie wood!

A little larger to be sure than his other, brother drakes, for GD’s father was a mallard, so common and so crude.  

But no trace could be found of the fabled ‘Ida’ Down, though he searched both night and day amidst the rushes.

He even asked the local duck-sage known as ‘Mandrake’, to determine where this virgin quakes and blushes.

Elderly Mandrake paddled hard, for he was an old mallard, who had spent his life attending ducks that cracked.

He swam in concentric circles; he was eccentric; he turned purple but at length he admitted defeat with final quack!

He said, ‘Listen close my Lord Grand D, I know well that you are randy; but give up the quest for Ida – it’s a fable.’

But the Grand Drake was quite obstinate and he crossed the lake once more ‘cause on the other shore by picnic table – He saw a glimpse of white, spread his wings and took flight quacking loudly, ‘Ida, here I come it’s your last chance!’

But it was of no use ‘cause he had mistook ‘Mother Goose’ who honked loudly and quite proudly snubbed his advance.

Then an old hen feeling clucky quacked out, ‘Over here Grand Ducky! I’ve got what you want, so...feeling lucky?’

But frantic as he was, the Grand Drake kept his poise and quacked, ‘be gone you bogus swan back to Kentucky!’

Was he thinking of fried chicken? His reproductive glands were ticking; his need to produce an heir ‘egged’ his call.

GD had an apparition in his nest that very nightfall of three ducks in flight like porcelain figures prone upon a wall.

He perceived one duck as Ida and himself the other glider; perhaps the third was the duckling he longed to produce –  

A little duckling boy with down, like his mother a nutty brown; more than a mallard decoy, a feathered papoose.

Then one day a wayward swan, splashed into the lake forlorn, at a misty time in winter’s drawn-out season.

Once more the foolish, sad Grand Drake made another awkward mistake and called the black swan ‘Ida’ for no reason.

‘No,’ said the puzzled swan, ‘my name is Wayne, offcourse I’ve flown; I lost my way in the rain you foolish drake!  

The only Eider ducks I know are in the Northern climes; at no time do they shed down in Australia you feathered flake!’

‘Is there not a unique Ida?’ ‘No, it’s Eider same as cider or...a spider.’ Then Wayne the swan took off to find sanctum.

The Grand Drake was perplexed, disconsolate and vexed for he had wasted precious time in search of phantoms.

So this maladjusted mallard, still mooning for a comrade, met a dazzling, dizzy duck known as ‘Madoona’.

 Like a goose she took a gander at this drake who was far grander than the other dreary drakes who tried to woo her.

The Grand Drake and Madoona got their act together sooner than was considered appropriate by most water fowl.

Though GD had waited long enough, Madoona was made of sterner stuff and rebuffed him – after that threw in the towel.

Across the peaceful lake there glides the venerable Grand Drake with Madoona in his wake and ducklings aplenty.

From the hanging swamp to the weir he is lauded and revered, as he surveys his watery fiefdom at Lake Wenty.