Here on Mars, it can be difficult to find a comfortable chair, or even a packet of chips to eat while sitting in the comfortable chair that’s hard to find. There’s little else to do as we wait for the potato crop to come in (though it may not since we haven’t bothered to plant it yet, too busy sitting in the non-existent chair). Things are going off the rails here, so I’m off to see my good friend, the Mobile Psycatrist (watch out for her in future instalments from the fourth rock).
As a feline with quite useful paws, its pains me to say that it is rather difficult for me to play the ancient game of chess without mauling the innocent pieces before they even launch themselves on their board-y crusades.
However, I have put my perfect little paws to good use and discovered that the set depicted in the image below was originally created by F. Lanier Graham, a former curator at the Museum of Modern Art in New York (he also curated at the National Gallery of Australia), though he has yet to visit the other MoMA, the Museum of Martian Art (one day, perhaps).
The set in the fairly able hands of Octavia and Arpeggia was created by our beloved Lorrie with her own two versatile hands. She likes to fly under the radar most of the time, and is responsible for a lot of the tuna that gets slung my way. Thank you, Lorrie, for the loan of your lovely homage to Mr Graham, minimalist extraordinaire, if you ask me, and I know you do. And also for the beautiful chess board you also made with those same hands (as opposed to any borrowed ones).
You can read more about chess sets and see Mr Graham’s set if you look at this Smithsonian magazine article, and very interesting it is, too, even for non-players. Enjoy.
Psycatry has existed for as long as we’ve needed it, or since the first felis catus psycatus decided it was time to pitch in and try to save human- and other-kind from themselves. It may be a losing battle but as Dr On Mars says, If you have the tuna, I have the time. So let’s get cracking, shall we, and do a little therapeutic dance together. You never know where it may lead. (With any luck, to edible victuals).
It wasn’t often that this disparate group of friends – no, let’s just say acquaintances – got together for an outdoor do. And on this occasion there was no-one to naysay their menu choice, especially not the nameless mime, who was so dedicated to his craft that silence was his only riposte to the terrifying prospect of himself as imminent repast.
[Note: I have been reliably informed that the scene depicted below is an example of what is known these days as Fake News. So fear not, dear friends, no mime was harmed in the construction of this doolally setup. Well, perhaps a little singed, but them’s the breaks, or the breakfasts, as it were. Mmmmm, roast, mmmmm.]