The elusive prime

Henry and I have just finished Muriel Spark’s excellent short novel The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie. No doubt, many people will be more familiar with the cinematic version of 1969, but I must say the book is far better, for the usual reasons (nuance and depth not the least).

Upon some reflection on our recent reading habits, we have deliberately chosen a ‘feminine’ novel to mix things up a bit. I have been worried about Henry’s escalating assertive masculinity, and figured that a book written by a woman, set in a girl’s school and ostensibly about a ‘strong’ women in her prime would offer a counter balance to the raging testosterone that has taken over the house.

Having not read any Murial Spark previously, let’s just say that I was taken by surprise. I was taken aback by the complexity of the narrative and plot. This is a book rich and original in style. In terms of delivering a ‘feminine’ voice, I guess it did that. I am not sure if it delivers a message that will be helpful for Henry to hear however! You see, the feminine voice was overwhelmingly Machiavellian in its intent, with all of her characters (except, of course, all of the men and the regrettably stupid Mary McGregor) exhibiting rather base moral frameworks and motivations.

What struck me most was the rather tragic figure that Miss Jean Brodie – a woman in her prime – eventually becomes. It is also an intriguing reflection on the costs of focusing all of one’s attention on the crème de la crème. I will refrain from saying more and risk spoiling the book, for I recommend it highly to all readers.

What I would like to briefly do is reflect for one moment on the notion of one’s prime. I once believed that my prime occurred between the ages of 19 and 24. Yet now I am starting to recognise that this period is better understood as perhaps my early prime. It has been no doubt my physical prime, but I am starting to think that I have another prime to look forward to.

Thus, despite the novel being exceptionally bleak in tone, I do take some solace in Miss Brodie’s exhortation to her students from early in the novel:

“One's prime is elusive. You little girls, when you grow up, must be on the alert to recognise your prime at whatever time of your life it may occur.”

There may be hope for me yet!

Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral

There was nothing left. No reason, no conscience, no understanding; even the most rudimentary sense of life or death, good or evil, right or wrong.

Here is a self portrait. I’m calling it Portrait of a lady in a dirty window . Shocking, isn’t it? However, it is apt! Samhain , Nos Galan Gaeaf , Hop-tu-Naa , All Saints , All Hallows , Hallowmas , Hallowe'en or HALLOWEEN . It’s Theme Thursday and we’re talking about the festivals traditionally held at the end of the harvest season. Huh? No wonder Australians have trouble with the concept of HALLOWEEN. For the record, in my thirty-two L O N G years on the planet, I can’t say I’ve ever seen ghosts ‘n goblins, trick ‘n treaters or Michael Myers stalking Tasmania’s streets at the end of October. [That said, I did once see a woman as pale as a ghost turning tricks that looked like Michael Myers in late November one time.] Despite the best efforts of Hollywood, sitcoms, and innumerable companies; it seems Australians are impervious to the [ahem] charms of a corporatized variant of a celebration of the end of the "lighter half" of the year and beginning of the "darke

In dreams begin responsibilities.

A life at sea, that's for me, only I just don't have the BREAD. That's right, Theme Thursday yet again and I post a photo of a yacht dicking about in Bass Strait just off Wynyard. The problem is, I am yet again stuck at work, slogging away, because I knead need the dough . My understanding is that it is the dough that makes the BREAD. And it is the BREAD that buys the yacht. On my salary though, I will be lucky to have enough dough or BREAD for a half dozen dinner rolls. Happy Theme Thursday people, sorry for the rush.

This will hurt me...

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