A small town, but going ahead,
subdividing; filling the valleys.

Subdividing to fill the valleys ’til a level is reached.
Woodsmoke, thin and hazy.

Woodsmoke, thin and hazy like morning thought.
There are limits set on how much grey matter -

Limited, how much matter the morning can contain.
My thoughts don’t need to go ahead. The town is small enough to contain them -

to know and to be known. I am conscious
always of the exclusivity of my skin
and the starry void of mind,

but universes might, we speculate, lie entwined;
and could there be knowing
in event horizons pressing impossibly close?
We can’t see out.

Our theories are lonely-shaped,
and I make the universe my mirror
and can’t see through it.

1. Write the title to your own memoir using SIX words.
2. Post it on your blog.
3. Link to the person that tagged you.
4. Tag some more blogs.

Here goes!

1. I doubt I’ll ever be very famous, so I thought I’d give my memoir a title that summed up my personality. After some deliberation, I came up with Disorganised, Confused, Generally Amiable Wishful Thinker.
2. Done.
3. See above.
4. Matt, Katherine, Christina, Reuben. Do it. Or not, as you wish.

It’s never nice to just fade away like this. I’ve done it once before, and it was fairly painful (though not as painful as staying in a church I couldn’t stand). I guess the trick to avoid feeling like I’m losing a limb is to keep in touch with people.

I’m calling out, a small thing among these hills:
are you close enough, if you hear, to know music?

Where I grew up, the mountains had imported names.
They knew their older names in winter-snow-music.

You would be salt for the roads, warmth for the journey;
would I be pilgrim enough, though, Music?

I’ll chip away at the rock face, blow by blow
and find - in me - a safe place to stow music.

I have ears, limbs, two good lungs. I have the words!
But Fraser, you risk an avalanche! You must forgo music.

(for a description of the rules of the ghazal form, click here.)

Meena’s Dad had a thimblerig table set up on the street, close to a pub and thus never very far from a gambler with more alcohol in him than sense. This was the way thimblerig worked: on the table were three thimbles and a pea. When someone walked up and placed a bet, Meena’s Dad would put the pea under one of the thimbles and shuffle them around the table, and the person who placed the bet would have to guess which one the pea was under. Of course, they hardly ever got it right, because Meena’s Dad, as he was fond of telling her, was an Old Hand at thimblerig, which meant that he knew how to keep the punters distracted while using sleight-of-hand to move the pea under whichever thimble he liked. This little scam was quite successful, though Dad was careful not to be too successful.
 ”You’ve always got to let ‘em win just regular enough that each one think’s ‘e’s got a fair chance, me girl!” Dad was fond of sharing his pearls of wisdom with anyone who wasn’t a potential sucker - most of the time, this was just Meena and the pigeons.

Dad was standing at his table, belting out his usual sales pitch: “Thimblerig! Try your luck! Thirty-three-point-three chance of winning double yer money back!” when a tall old man smelling of beer, with a long greyish beard, a twisty walking stick and a ragged black robe walked up and plonked his coin down on the tabletop. Meena saw this through a hole in the tablecloth - she hid under the table ready to grab the money and run away if things got ugly, which happened at least once a week. A few years ago, one unhappy punter had pulled a knife and sliced Dad’s right ear clean off. Dad kept it pickled in a jar of gin, for luck.
 ”Alright, guv! Feeling lucky are we?” Dad began.
 ”Hardly”, said the man, in what Meena thought was quite a posh voice. “It’s a rather bad day I’m having, in fact. Extremely bad. I don’t want to talk about it.”
 He burped loudly to reinforce the point.
 ”Fair enough, sir! Most of me customers are ‘avin’ bad days when they put their coin on the table, and most of ‘em walk away without it improving, ha-ha! But cheer up mate, there’s always a chance your luck’ll change, innit? Right! Shall we play?”
 Meena heard him begin to shuffle the thimbles around. She wriggled her fingers and toes, ready to grab the small sack of coins and run if need be, although the old man didn’t look like he’d be much of a match for Dad.
 ”Here’s our friend the pea, under the middle thimble. Now - keep your eyes on the pea - we shuffle ‘em round and round - right, sir, and which thimble’s ‘e under?
 The man coughed. “I’m fairly certain…yes, the one under your right hand.”
 ”Aw, bad luck, mate! The pea is, in fact, under the middle thimble!” Meena knew that Dad had palmed the pea before the shuffle, allowing him to make it appear wherever he liked.
 ”Hrrmph! Well, I was sure I had it - let me have another go, will you?”
 ”Sir, It would be highly un-ortho-dox, what within the established rules of the game, but - look, I feel bad for you, losing on your first try - so, tell you what - I’ll let you go best of three” said Dad, as innocently as he could manage.
 They began the next round. Meena heard the thimbles sliding around the table.
 ”Aha!” said the old man. “I watched your hands very carefully this time, and I can tell you, without an ounce of doubt, that the pea is under the thimble to your left.”
 ”Very sharp, sir! There he is! Only one more correct guess an’ you’ll win double your bet. Here we go, eyes on the prize!”

The old man should have known his defeat was inevitable, but he didn’t take it well, when it came.
 ”I-I never! There’s no possible way the pea could be under that thimble, I watched it like a hawk! You’re a cheat!”
 ”Now, now, mate,” chuckled Dad. “Let’s not start callin’ people things we can’t take back. You got it right once - why don’cher put up another bet an’ see if your luck changes?”
 ”I will not! You are a cheat, and you have angered the wrong man! I won’t suffer to be condescended to by the likes of you! Give me back my money this instant!”
 Dad sighed patiently.
 ”Fair or not, mate - that’s how these things work. Come on, what are you gonna do about it? All I gotta do is whistle an’ me mate Gary’ll step ’round that corner with his stick.”
 ”What am I going to do about it? You smug little crook! How about this?”
 There was a crackling noise and a flash of light, and then Dad’s clothes fell in a pile without Dad in them. Meena shrieked and jumped out from under the table in time to see the old man hot-footing it down the street. She looked around frantically, but Dad was nowhere in sight. Then she looked down at the pile of clothes.
 It was moving.

Meena gingerly poked at the clothes with her toe. It squeaked. The lump from which the squeak had emanated began moving in earnest. Meena stepped back, in case it was a rat. The lump wriggled through Dad’s shirtsleeve and poked out a twitching pink nose, followed by a triangular head. It kept on wriggling out of the sleeve to free its long, furry body and tail - a ferret. She’d seen ferrets before - the city ratcatchers sometimes kept them as pets. It sat up on its haunches and stared at her.
 ”…Dad?”
 There was no mistaking him; he had the same smart-alecky grin, and was missing the same ear.
 ”ukukukukuk” said Dad, sniffing at the small money bag by her feet.
 Meena scooped Dad up and tried to think of what to do. There weren’t many people ’round about who could help - or who would help. Just about all of the locals - the shopkeepers, the patrons of the various pubs, the city guards - had been scammed by her Dad at one time or another, and though she knew everyone liked him, they didn’t like him so much that they’d actually want to help him out of the mess he’d got himself into. There was Dad’s mate Gary, but the thing Dad hadn’t told the old man was that Gary was even older - at least eighty - and mad as a sparrow, so he’d probably not be much help. She knew there was only one place they could go, and she’d have to be pretty tough if she was going to avoid chickening out. Meena stuffed the bag of coins into her pocket, bundled up Dad’s clothes, gritted her teeth and, with Dad perched firmly on her shoulder, started running in the direction of Gran’s place.

The room that Gran rented was tiny but clean. Everything was so frequently scrubbed, dusted, whitewashed or boiled that you felt guilty for every speck of dust that floated off your tunic. Gran herself, bent over a steaming basin on the doorstep, scouring the life out of a chipped teapot, wore her hair in a tight grey bun and her sleeves permanently rolled up. Meena had run the mile or so from the thimblerig table pretty much non-stop, and came to a panting halt in front of her.
 ”Gran!” she sobbed, “Gran, it’s Dad, there was this man, and - he called Dad a cheat and then he did some magic or something and - look!”
 She dropped the bundle of clothes and held Dad out at arm’s length. Gran drew back a bit at the sight of the grubby ferret.
 ”Meena! What’s the matter, child? Where’d you get that nasty thing? Gawd, don’t wave ‘im in my face! What’s my no-good boy gone and done now?
 ”Gran, there was a man - he lost at thimblerig and wanted his money back, but Dad wouldn’t give it to him, and I was under the table so I didn’t see what he did, but there was this big flash of light, and a loud sort of ‘bang!’ noise, and Dad disappeared but his clothes stayed there. And the man ran away. And just then I found this ferret in Dad’s shirt and look, he’s only got one ear!”
 Dad made the ‘ukukukukuk’ noise again and hid his face in his paws.
 Gran frowned.
 ”Girl, you ‘ave too much imagination by half. Let me look at the little monster, then.”
 She lifted up Dad’s chin with a rubber-gloved finger.
 ”Hmm. Well, he’s got the look of your Dad about him, all right. It’s all nonsense, I’m sure, but I can see I’ll have to sort this out. I can’t be having with my only granddaughter being left alone while her Dad’s off gallivanting Lord knows where without his trousers!”
 She tipped out the wash-water, put the basin inside and locked the door.
 ”Come on, Meena - we’re going to find this man, and I’ve no doubt we’ll find your father too. What did he look like?”
 ”Well, he was very old. And skinny. He had a beard, and sort of a pointed hat, and a long black robe. He had a walking stick, and he’d been drinking, in the middle of the day!
 ”It sounds to me like we’re looking for a wizard”, said Gran. “Just like your Dad, this is, getting mixed up with that sort! Nothing but trouble, wizards. All that learnin’ goes to their heads, you know.”
 She considered the ferret again.
 ”If that old man was a wizard, then I suppose this little beast could very well be your Dad…Oh, Davey, what have you got yourself into this time, you fool of a boy? Your poor dead wife would turn in her grave, she would, if she knew how you treat us!”
 Dad made a few squeaky noises and snapped at a passing fly.
 ”The first place to look for a wizard,” said Gran, after a moment, “is in the pub.”

A quick visit to The Singing Turtle revealed that yes, a man by that description had been in earlier that day, sulking at the end of the bar for hours; yes, he was definitely a wizard, you could tell by the robe and the pointy hat and the bleedin’ foul temper, excusin’ your presence, ma’am; yes, he’d left about half an hour ago and no, ma’am, there really was no excuse for the filthy state of the bar and he’d give it a good going-over right away. The wizard in question was named Albert Benthwicke and lived in a boarding-house on Horseblanket Street, only about a mile away. Meena and Gran set off to Sort Things Out.

The wizard sighed.
 ”Listen, little girl, I’m really very sorry. I should’nt have resorted to transmogrification over something as silly as petty grift. But you see, I had been having a very bad day. My funding proposal - I’m primarily a researcher…the wave dynamics of magical fields, you see,” (Meena shrugged) “had just been rejected, and that coin was the last of my money. And, I’ll admit, I was the worse for drink. Truth be told, I was going to use a bit of magic to win the bet, but when I perceived your father had, as they say, ‘rigged’ the game - well, I lost my temper.”
 ”So, why not turn my Dad back? Come on, he’ll understand. He’ll have a laugh! Look at his little face, he’s not mad at you!”
 Gran nodded emphatically.
 ”My Davey does some silly things, Mr. Benthwicke, but he’s a good boy at ‘eart. If you’ll undo this spell on ‘im, I’ll make sure he apologises sincerely.” She gave the ferret a withering glare.
 ”Well, I’m afraid it’s not as easy as that, ma’am. You see,” - and here, the wizard looked around conspiratorially and tapped his nose with a knobbly finger - “Magic doesn’t just happen. To do magic, one must procure the proper substances, and these do not come cheaply. The fairy dust I used in my unfortunate confrontation with your father was the very last I had, and I simply cannot afford to buy any more. Your father will have to remain…as he is, until such time as I can. Unless, of course, you are able to obtain some.”
 ”Now, Mr. Benthwicke,” said Gran testily, “If any of us had the means to go spending on such things, my Davey wouldn’t stand around street corners playin’ thimblerig.”
 ”Quite right, quite right…the only option I can think of is Mr. Gubbins, whom I buy my supplies from…perhaps he’ll add it to my account. After all, I have been a regular customer of his for some time, and I’ve often paid my bills on time, too. If you could convince him to give you some - I’d only require a tablespoonful - still rather an expensive amount, but it’s worth a try, yes? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a new funding proposal to work on. Here,” - he scribbled an address on a scrap of parchment - “this is where to find the place.”

They followed the wizard’s directions to the shop, which was holed up in a damp side-street off Mugger’s Square. Nailed above the door was a roughly-painted sign that read “Gubbins’s Magickal Supplies”. Walking in, they found the proprietor perched on a stool behind his counter, surrounded by a vast array of glass jars, most with nasty bits of animals in them. Dad’s nose twitched at the swirling confusion of odours in the room. Gubbins was easily the fattest man Meena had ever seen, and had several long strands of hair combed greasily over his otherwise bald scalp. He eyed them suspiciously.
 ”Good afternoon, young man,” said Gran. “We’d like to buy some fairy dust. How much was it again, Meena?”
 ”A tablespoon, Gran”.
 The man’s sunken eyes lit up at the prospect of a sale.
 ”Fairy dust! Sure and I’ve got fairy dust, love. Top quality stuff. Ground from only the finest dried fairies what ‘as been carefully selected for potency.” He pointed to a small vial next to a bottle marked ‘Baby Oil’.
 ”Will yer be payin’ in cash or in kind? It’s a good market for Liver of Ferret at present”.
 ”He’s not for sale!” said Meena. “He’s my Dad!”
 ”Cor, now there’s a story”, said Gubbins.
 Gran explained the situation, while Gubbins grew progressively more agitated.
 ”Let me get this straight, just so’s I’m perfeckly clear on wot you’re arskin’” said Gubbins. “Ol’ Benthwicke-the-bludger has turned your swindlin’ son into a pipe-cleaner, an’ sent you ‘ere to arsk me, out o’ the goodness o’ me ‘eart, to give you thirty pounds worth o’ top grade fairy dust! On the off chance he’ll pay ‘is account this year! Ha! I say, this town’s better off wivvout the both of ‘em! Out of me shop, yer old crow!
 Gran was not impressed.
 ”Now look here, you gormless little man…”
The shopkeeper eyeballed her right back.
 ”Gormless! Me! I’ll ‘ave you know I got plenty o’gorm. A right big barrel o’gorm what just come in fresh last month!”
 Gran blinked.
 ”What? I’m sure I don’t know what you’re babbling about.”
 ”‘Gorm. ‘S a type of fish extract.”
 ”The point”, said Gran, “is that this whole business is that wizard’s doing, an’ we’re going to get him to turn my Davey back to ‘is proper shape if I have to drag him in here by the ear to settle this with yer”.
 Meena suddenly had a thought. She looked around the shelves at the jars of animal parts. It seemed that just about all of the magical things in this place had once belonged to very unfortunate pigs or toads or foxes or…yes, if you looked carefully there were even a few fingers and one nose floating in their own jars, placed discreetly in the darker corners of the shelving.
 ”Mister Gubbins,” she said, “Would you maybe swap the fairy dust for…a man’s ear?”
 Gran looked shocked. Gubbins scratched his chins thoughtfully.
 ”Ears ain’t worth so much, at the going rate. Still - if it’d get the two of you off me back…but where would the likes o’ you get an ear from? Yer look too scrawny to be a grave-robber, an’ I wouldn’t recommend tryin’ to get a fresh one. Folks tend to be attached to ‘em, like”.
 ”It’s Dad’s ear”, said Meena. “It got cut off, but he kept it preserved for luck”.
 ”Haw, haw! I like that, I do! Lucky ‘e did! Alright, you ladies nip ‘ome ‘an get it an’ Ol’ Gubbins ‘ll do the trade”.

They took the fairy dust back to Benthwick, who reluctanctly muttered the magic words and sprinkled the dust over Dad. With another crackling noise and flash of light, Dad was back to his old self. He looked around, dazed.
 ”Well, I’ll be jiggered,” he said.
 Gran whacked him around the head. “Fool boy! You deserve everything you get for the worry you bring your poor old Mum an’ your little girl!” She turned to the wizard. “Mr. Benthwicke, my Davey is very sorry for cheating you out of yer money - aren’t you, boy?”
 ”Um, yes. Right sorry, I am,” mumbled Dad.
 ”And you, Mr. Benthwicke, apologise to my boy for how you handled yerself. A wizard! You lot should know better!”
 The wizard cleared his throat.
 ”Ah, yes. Certainly. Very sincerely, hm.”
 Gran turned to Meena and Dad.
 ”Come along you two. You’re both gettin’ a flea bath.”

As three wild harvestmen are led away, the news cameras hum their peeping song.
I hear how they plucked Blenheim’s biggest grape, and I want to sing a reaping song.

Now, as ever, we need the mad prophet, the voice crying in the vineyard, the advocate -
when too few have ears to hear God’s weeping song.

Zeppelin domes rest lightly in the valley, absorbed in conversations dropped from heaven’s eaves,
while three joyful reapers draw near (the dawn chorus their creeping song).

“And we have come in the name of the Prince of Peace to close it down.”
The Prince, as ever, holds his peace; a nation falters but briefly in its sleeping song.

Can you hear me sing, Iraq? I am Fraser; you don’t know me but I share your faint hope.
Why hope I? I can’t answer. But let me share your plough, sing a safekeeping song.

We call it reclamation;
re-education would be closer. A hundred years
and half a million pounds, it cost, but in time,
the daughter of the sea learned to love her captors.

The sea will never give up though.
It paces up and down Tasman Bay, broadcasting loss in the voices of gulls.
It waits for the day we pack up and ship out,
leaving a used-up Nelson to creep back to her mother.