Mr Mascellani's Musings

Call it diplomacy, cowardice, or a breaking of the code that says that

writers should speak the truth. But I have to say that it is difficult for

me to pick out a favourite birthday present, seeing as they were

(except for a few exceptions) given to me by family and friends- and

one doesn't want to hurt or upset the feelings of such people.


But, having said that, I would have to say that one the lost interesting

and coolest was one that was given to me by my older brother for one

of my birthdays in my late twenties. It was a sculpture of a blowfly made

out of old motor scooter parts. My brother bought it from a sculptor friend

of his.


Headlights were its eyes; a wheel rim was its body, blue thingamabobs

were its wings and a whatchamacallit was its arse. It looked great, lived

in my loungeroom and was quite the conversation piece. Unfortunately,

it is no longer with us (but that's another story). I wish that I had a pic to

post, so as you could see it.


"for one of my birthdays in my late twenties." Actually, it might have

been one of my birthdays in my mid twenties or early thirties. Hell, it

might have been a Christmas present!


One of the things that these writing prompta and certain other things

have bought to a fore for me- is a reminder of how weird my memory

is. For example, I might rember that I went to Melbourne and did such and

such and met So and So, but I won't be able to remeber if this happened in

1984, 1987or 1995. Or I might have a clear memory of something that

happened when I was 12, but I will have totally forgotten something

that happened when was 23, unless I'm reminded of it. And when I am

reminded and then I wonder why I forgot it, when it was no great

traumatic event. Weird, weird, weird.



Tears, Idle Tears -Lord Alfred Tennyson

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more!


Next: Writing Prompt 15- What is the best birthday present you could receive?