In praise of Ambiguity and the Tender Trap

may i feel said he
(i'll squeal said she
just once said he)
it's fun said she


I love ambiguity.
I think that's what attracted me to Business Analysis in the first instance.
I love it most when it's deliberate.
So many contradictions are only understood when the ambiguity is laid plain, the trap is revealed, the victim impaled. Sweeter still when the victim is caught in his own hubris, the end of the play, as it were.

Poetry.
Poetry and ambiguity go together.
Which brings me to e.e. cummings and his delicious little poem on the seducer and the seduced.

Oh my! This is a wonderfully ambiguous poem.
A married man seduces.
There is a warning, but he misses it: thinking this, he does not hear her say that.
Expecting passion, he surrenders his power: he forgets that the angel carries a flaming sword.

He pursues, she gives way.
He goes deeper, she draws him in.
She raises one last barrier, he breaks it down.
He enters, she unfolds:

(cccome?said he
ummm said she)
you're divine!said he
(you are Mine said she)

The trap has slammed shut: the hunter is caught, too late.
He will discover his fate, but not tonight.

"i'll squeal said she" and there was the threat, wrapped in ambiguity.
There are two kinds of squeals, you see: the kind giggly girls do, and the kind that the Mafia does not like.

(you are Mine said she) in all of the poem, "Mine" is the only word that is capitalised. He is Hers: he is no longer the wife's. She has only to squeal, and all will be revealed, everything laid bare. She is ready for the scandal. He is not. And when his wife finds out, there will only be one pair of arms waiting for him.

And all of this bound by that single, ambiguous, delicious "squeal".

You can find the whole poem here.
It may not be one of his most well-known, but oh, it should be!
Perfect for bachelorette parties :-)

The image is from Rodin's sculpture "The Kiss"

In the name of those who have died for causes not of their own choosing

A man’s destination is his own village,
His own fire, and his wife’s cooking;
To sit in front of his own door at sunset
And see his grandson, and his neighbour’s grandson
Playing in the dust together.


I have been spending some time with TS Eliot, just recently.

I came to him by way of Yukio Mishima: I had been engrossed in his tetralogy "The Sea of Fertility"; Mishima's great exploration of reincarnation and the mind of the Japanese person up to the mid 20th century.

Elliott was an admirer of the Bhagavad-Gita: so I looked for some poetry there to make some connections.

I don't know why I chose Mishima to close off our first steps into the 21st century, maybe because it has been such a violent decade, when we had been expecting (maybe wishfully hopeful) a saner world.

And this is the poem that spoke most strongly to me. So many soldiers have died, and continue to die in causes far removed from their childhoods, and in defence against ideas that are driven by emotion rather than reason

A man’s destination is not his destiny,
Every country is home to one man
And exile to another. Where a man dies bravely
At one with his destiny, that soil is his.
Let his village remember.

---
The Military cemetery is in the neighborhood of Dundee: at Talana Hill, it is one of many scattered throughout the Natal Midlands. It is the final resting place for British troops who died during the Anglo Boer war.
Click the link to read "To the Indians who died in Africa".

The couch, the airport, the long wait

Redecorating should be approached with caution.

I know this: repaint the walls, and you will find that the curtains look tatty.
You can end up with a new bedroom suite just by changing the carpet in the living room.

Sophie (the couch) has been in dire need of a new wardrobe for quite some time now.
Not only has her covering becomes faded and stained (there are stains on the stains!), and the odd cigarette hole (now strategically hidden by cushions) blemished her modesty, but her holiday covers just don't fit into the space that she finds herself in these days.

She becomes understandably nervous every time I tell anyone who'll listen that she's about to be re-covered. After all, my fashion design and colour coordination are the subject of happy amusement amongst my so-called friends. My fashion sense extends to knowing that I have bought the wrong thing after I have arrived home. Well, at least I know my mistakes! It has cost me money in the past, not to mention the hoots of derision from all and sundry.

Last July Duncan and Gosia took the matter in hand while I was down in Cape Town and chose the New Material. The Birthday Present: all that was left for me to do was to bring it back to Joburg, find an upholsterer, and all would be good.

The wheels came off at Joburg International -ORT. For some reason there weren't enough trolleys for everybody. So I thought "it's not far, I'll just carry this lot to the car". Four suitcases, one under each arm, and the heavy curtain suitcase gripped in the left-hand.

Next morning I woke up with a compressed spine, a dislocated arm, and pulled muscles in my back and neck. Somehow in recovering from all of that, Sophie has been forgotten, as well as her new wardrobe.

Looking at her today, stained and worn, I decided.
This month, Sophie: the long wait is over.
Just you wait and see, and don't be surprised if the carpet in the spare room suddenly changes colour too!