My old friend, Brigid, simply loves geometry, so she was a sitting duck for the imitation game, wasn’t she? Yes, she was. And what could be lovelier than imitating your own namesake’s symbol? I’ll tell you what could be lovelier – a plate of tuna fancies in the shape of a St Brigid’s Cross, of course. What else? Well, eating them all is what else. Excuse me, I hear some fancies calling.
When I meditate, or engage in complex and nuanced yoga poses, I am invariably sleeping. Don’t knock it, it works; also, if you knock it, you’ll wake me up, and I will be cranky. Arguably, dreaming of such things is as effective as doing them, and who are we to say we are dreaming or we are real-ing? Hmmm? Now I must return to my weight-lifting – the 250kg snatch and beef jerky, shall we say?
It is almost a certainty that former hired assassins have limited knowledge of appropriate titles. On the other hand, I, for one, am not going to tell Maxwell Magillicuddy that he should, indeed, second-guess ‘Kebab Your Lamb and Other Stabby Recipes’ now that he’s turned his attention to, let us say, other victims. If he could stomach a dose of vegetarianism, ‘Coleslaw Your Carrot and Other Grating Recipes’ sounds so much less threatening, don’t you agree (unless you’re a carrot, or the friend or relative of a carrot – apologies to all long, orange vegies)?
As a violent pacifist, I sympathise with Linda, and all of us, really, we, the many pawns of the universe, all of us made from atoms billions of years old already. You’d think they would have acquired enough wisdom by now to have nothing to do with war and mayhem. Hmmph – evolution, so protonically, neutronically, electronically slow.
Not to be judgmental, but I’m hoping that gang of peeps isn’t one of our Martian mining cohorts. On the other hand, they seem like a jolly lot, willing to ride on any passing vehicle or hayride. And, to be fair, they are looking for a musical bandwagon, rather than a bandwagon of trends and popularity, and anyone who searches for music is okay in my book, and also in my litterbox, my comfy doona, and upon my breezy, red-dusty veranda.
We are really getting into, and onto, sculpture, here on Mars, and we hope you like it very much. Otherwise, well, like it anyway, there’s nothing to dislike, really, about modern sculpture. After all, who knows anything about it or why it even exists except to make us all feel calm and happy after a long, hard day at the solar-face (which is gradually replacing the coal-face, though you will work no less hardly, harder, hard, like very squashed coal). There are diamonds here somewhere.