15th January 2025

 

At The Other End Of The Telescope By George Bradley the people are very small and shrink, dwarves on the way to netsuke hell bound for a flea circus in full retreat toward sub-atomic particles-- difficult to keep in focus, the figures at that end are nearly indistinguishable, generals at the heads of minute armies differing little from fishwives, emperors the same as eskimos huddled under improvisations of snow-- eskimos, though, now have the advantage, for it seems to be freezing there, a climate which might explain the population's outr? dress, their period costumes of felt and silk and eiderdown, their fur concoctions stuffed with straw held in place with flexible strips of bark, and all to no avail, the midgets forever stamping their match-stick feet, blowing on the numb flagella of their fingers-- but wait, bring a light, clean the lens.

Looking for poetry on eiderdowns.  But the above does not answer what I was looking for.  When I was a child in the evening I would tell stories to my brother.  We had twin beds and I would use my fingers for the characters in the tale.  Now I always used to think the beds were covered by eiderdowns.  This came to mind with my latest patchwork quilt.  I have small squares of squares, matching colours in the squares.  I had hoped to try the 'wash of colour' effect.  It wasn't achieved but now I take great pleasure in its colourful appearance. 

But there are words that capture the imagination in the poem and thought also - miniaturisation.  For instance Netsuke, Paul had a few, a tiny ball that rattled in a larger cup but which you could never get out.  An old fisherman as well, it reminded me of all the miniature ivory bits and pieces my first MIL had in her Chinese cabinet, along with the jade bunch of grapes that is still somewhere in this house.

Could be because I am listening to a story  - The Garden of Evening Mists, by Tan Twan Eng, a Malaysian writer.  It is written so quietly, the illness of the lead retired supreme judge and her flight back to the Cameron Highlands of Malaya.  The story is told over three periods of time, the 1980s, the 1950s and then WW2.  Teoh Yun Ling has come back because she wants to make a garden for her sister, who is now dead and was a 'comfort worker' in the war with Japan.  The sense of sadness is apparent, she is also going through the illness of aphasia, which will take her mind and language away.  Also she has to ask a Japanese gardener to draw out the plan for her. I  am somewhat of two  minds on Japanese Gardens.

They are cultivated to the last leaf.  Trees are formed into cloud shapes, rocks in gravelled areas represent stories, flowers are not on show but the moss is perhaps the most beautiful in its soft molding of the earth and is of course one of the earliest plants.

I am bumbling on, must not forget the bread in the oven, and listening out for the Amazon driver who is bringing my new camera today

Japanese culture and religion is based on Animism, the spirit of life that can be found in any form.  Great ropes around old trees shows respect for  them.

And I pick two more words out of the poem - Flea Circus, can it be true.  I am sure I saw a flea circus when I was little and they did exist, so for today's unbelievable video I present a flea circus.

Watchmakers would tie a thin golden thread to the fleas!