GPDA

DEEP PHILOSOPHICAL STUFF

... if you didn't mean to be here go to ...

outdoors | australian stories | tales from the past

... this page contains poems and stories that confront deep philosophical stuff - big breaths ...

WHAT IS TRUTH?	PERCEPTION
NOT OF A BALL	EVERYTHING IS AS IT SEEMS...NOT
ON THE PROPOGATION OF PUMPKINS	TIME IS...
AN ORDER BUILT ON GRACE

NOT OF A BALL

There’s a bottle on the table, on its top there is a ball.
The bottle carried beer, now there’s none inside at all.
The ball was used for tennis, lime green and furry too.
A curving line divides it geometrically through.

I’m sitting on my chair looking straight towards the scene.
To my left there is a window where the sun comes streaming in.
Nine-thirty in the morning, now an issue finds its way
To my consciousness, destroying peace I might have had today.

If I take a pen and paper and in seconds draw the ball,
Its furry look, its light and shade, its curvy line and all
Then move my chair across the room and draw it all once more,
Will picture two look just the same as one I drew before?

The ball’s the same from front or back, or top and bottom too.
It hasn’t moved, the fur remains, the line curves gently through.
The colour is still vivid green and sunlight makes the form.
My answer then must surely be both pictures are the same.

The briefest glance however shows that differences appear.
Though still atop the bottle on the table, it is clear
Each drawing of the ball presents a new interpretation,
Its own fresh, measured, visual being, its own unique creation.

Both drawings have their own real life, beyond not of the ball,
Relying on no extant thing they’re independent, tall.
Each openly invites an eye, some critical acclaim,
Recognition as new matter, each deserving of its name.

And so it is in every case of drawings made through time,
From Lascaux on to Durer and still others in their prime.
Inspired perhaps by visions known, or not. That’s not our call.
For a drawing is a drawing and a tennis ball’s a ball.

The issue then is well resolved, just as it needs to be.
Each drawing from a fact remains original and free.
The subject’s not the master sporning likenesses sublime,
It stands as ever-changing in uncertain place and time.

Conceived in fertile moments while perceived by eye and mind,
Each drawing from a fact allows new truths to be defined.
New concepts to be opened up, new qualifying spin,
Fresh understanding of the world we’re standing knee deep in.

On the Propogation of Pumpkins

Can you imagine how bad it would be
If insects invaded your pants?
Butterflies maybe could go there for free
But bees? Not a chance! And no ants.

Now pumpkins can’t execise this kind of choice.
Their organs boast wide to the sky,
“I’m here, come and get me”, they shout with clear voice,
Inviting each beetle and fly.

The men say, “I’m waiting. I’ve got one full day
Come trample all over my things.
Taste nectar, but then as you go on your way
Get some stuff on your feet and your wings.”

The ladies say “Sorry, I’m slow off the mark.
I slept in a while today
But here I am now, so climb in and park
The stuff that you carried away.”

If no insects come, the men and the girls
Just close up and wither in shame
Then fall to the ground and shrink into curls
With no offspring to carry their name.

When insects do visit then good things ensue
Orgasmic events spark and thunder.
Then the vine reaches out and green leaves take their cue
To shade pumpkinlets swelling down under.

Copyright © Graham Pettigrove 2007
TOP

What is Truth?

To be true a thing must be always the same
And knowable. Standard conditions!
Say “Water is wet” and you’re playing the game
Of syllogistically sound recognitions.

Universally constant and knowable too
Are requirements that cause some confusion.
For no matter remains as it was yesterday,
And to claim that you know is illusion.

When the focus is matter the truth takes a dive,
For all matter is transformed by time.
It passes through phases as though it’s alive;
Between first and last there is the prime.

This chair was a tree, and soon will be coal,
Or ash in a fire at the dump,
Or paper to hold as we read the next goal,
Of entrepenuer Donald Trump.

When I claim that I know the coal, chair or tree,
Such knowledge has transitory status.
Universal it’s not. Change comes often, it’s free.
So the claim leaves a stinging hiatus.

When concepts arise as the essence of all,
Then truth gains a constant foundation;
And matter is cast in a secondary role,
To provide varied manifestation.

The concept of chair is quite simple to frame,
And the notion remains free from change.
It is different from stool, and from seat in a train,
Yet is shared by a very large range.

All chairs throughout time and those yet to come,
By being will have clarified knowledge
Of the essence that stays just the same all the time.
Ask the tutors at Socrates College.

Time is...

Time is incessant, regular, infinite.
It is both dominating and elusive,
And presents itself precisely and only on its own terms.

We are born into it
And must live a life within it.
Yet we always fail to manage it or control.

We can use it, but only once.
We can save it, but cannot store what we’ve saved.
We can buy it, but must spend it to do so.

We can take it, but in taking we loose it.
We can find it, but more often we say we’re too busy and can’t.
We can waste it, but if we don’t it spends itself.

We can bide it, but in our patience it flows past unnoticed.
We can pass it, yet can never get ahead.
We can mark it, but it moves forever forward past our place.

We can document the past, but must employ the present to do so.
We can debate the present, but quickly as it slips away into history.
We can predict the future, but only if we choose a distant target.

It has us in its grasp
And on a whim can blithely drop the trapdoor
Having allowed us to know one unfinished chapter of an endless book.

Time is incessant, regular, infinite.
It is both dominating and elusive,
And presents itself precisely and only on its own terms.

Copyright © Graham Pettigrove 2007
TOP

Perception

Reflections appear in a mirror or pool,
On windows, or anything shiny.
So long as it’s flat it will play by the rule,
Replicating all things large or tiny.

The detail amazes, the colours are true,
And textures convince the sharp eye,
Every shape, every size, every visual cue,
Combine without telling a lie.

I see a reflection and so does my friend.
We contemplate it for a while,
Then describe what we saw from beginning to end,
And exchange our descriptions and smile.

Just as we expected we told different things,
While narrating that common event.
For perceptions are guided by what the mind brings,
To observing a scene with intent.

Which description is true and which one is not?
That question oft’ needs resolution.
But truth moves quite quickly, it’s here then forgot,
In the rythmn of time’s revolution.

The reflection itself is the only real fact.
It existed in one time and station.
Each secondary tale of reflection or act,
Is a teller-made interpretation.

An Order Built on Grace

What causes tides to ebb and swell
At certain times each day?
The sun to rise, or night to fall.
What sets their clock that way?

And why do winds blow loud and strong?
What do they answer to?
Why rustle, and then rush along
As if there’s more to do?

How come cicaders know its right
To climb up from the earth,
When seven years of dormant night
Is all they’ve known since birth?

In Kenya elephants sense that salt,
Required to keep them well,
Is stored in one deep cavernous vault.
What makes them know pray tell?

Then termites in the forest build
Their dome-shaped mounds for years.
They’re cunning, practiced, highly skilled,
Air-conditioning engineers.

How do they know? I often plea.
Who orchestrates the plan?
A grand design there has to be,
Beyond the power of man.

It’s something special, like a spell
Pervading all we find
In nature - and it reaches well
Beyond the human mind.

Its rational equations score
No debt, and win no prize.
Responsive, self-refining law
Is knowing and it’s wise.

It’s balanced and symmetrical,
This order built on grace.
It’s sensitive, methodical.
It gives our world its face.

At times it can confuse us all
And leave us asking, “Why?”
For mortal view is far too small.
Sometimes we close one eye.

This order has a scope sublime.
We’ll never comprehend.
It transcends purpose, place and time
It is, and that’s the end.

Copyright © Graham Pettigrove 2007
TOP

Everything is as it seems ... not

I work through the night then come home at about four-thirty each morning. As I walk up the two flights of stairs to my apartment I pass a door. Outside the door there is a mat.

On Monday there was nothing else. Just the mat. It is quite a new mat with stiff bristles standing straight and advertising the clear imprint “Welcome” to beckon passing pedestrians. Not that there are many. In fact I know I’m the only one.

The mat fits snuggly into the doorway reaching from one architrave to the other exactly. It is as though the manufacturer shaped it for this door only. Perhaps the inhabitant of the space behind the door is a mat manufacturer, or a person who knows a mat manufacturer. Then it would be logical to assume that the mat was made to fit this door.

Whatever the case I was impressed by the neatness of the arrangement of wall, door and mat on Monday. Nothing was out of place. Everything was in harmony. It was as though the universe was at peace.

So I climbed my own flight, entered, ate and fell asleep.

On Tuesday as I reached the landing atop the first flight yesterday’s image had taken on a different shape. In addition to the wall, door and mat there was a pair of joggers. They were multi-toned grey joggers of a generic style that were trying to be something they were not. They were both scuffed on the outer heel indicating that their owner’s foot rolls in, and they were dusty. The lace of each was untied and hung loose, while the tongues laped upward and out as though thirsty. They were placed together beside the outer edge of the mat, facing towards the door, leading me to imagine that their owner was in no hurry. In no hurry, and patiently certain of what would occur once the door was been unlocked and opened to allow entry.

So I ascended my own flight, entered, ate and fell asleep.

In the evening as I left the building the joggers were still there, just as they were when I arrived home.

On Wednesday morning there was a further change. The new arrangement was quite alarming. The mat was forward from the doorway and askew on the landing, allowing light to flow from the room. The joggers were there again, but they too were in a state of disarray. One was up-turned and had small stones caught in the tread. Both had their laces still tied. Neither faced towards the door as before, but appeared to have been kicked off as though in a scuffle. The contrast to yesterday’s neat, orderly display caused my imagination to gush forth a torrent of wild scenarios. Eventually I settled on the most likely that saw the joggers discarded in an excited rush as the owner tumbled inside to bathe, then engage for eight hours alternating between passionate embrace and idyllic slumber.

So I wearily climbed my own flight, entered, ate and applying great effort to avoid major frustration at my solitary existence, eventually fell asleep.

In the evening, as I left the building, the joggers were still there, just as they were when I had arrived home at four-thirty that morning. Perhaps the passion lasted longer than eight hours. I needed to move on from that conclusion before it stretched into the realms of fantasy.

Thursday morning brought an entirely new dimension to my deductions that caused me to catch my breath in fearful anticipation. Only one jogger is on display. It exhibited exactly the same appearance as did the pair when I saw both on Tuesday. What had become of the second? Nothing in the scene was out of place but this. Has my wearer lost a shoe, a foot, maybe even a leg? Wait! There was a red stain on the mat! And a few tiny drops spattered on the bottom of the door. Should I call in the police? Should I knock to check what help I can offer? What disaster has taken place while I have been away? My imagination accelerated in overdrive. The longer I allowed it full rein the more frightening the plot became. Eventually I find meager comfort in the realisation that the second jogger had been taken inside to be cleaned after being used to bludgeon a mouse that had frightened the lovers as it attempted to escape through the opened door.

Relieved by that explanation I sighed while climbing my own flight, entered, ate, and following a brief moment of investigative uncertaintity, slowly fall asleep.

In the evening as I left the building both joggers were there, cleaner than they had been so far in the week, and the stains are gone from the mat and the door. This evidence suggested that my theory could well have been precisely correct. Another day, another crisis resolved.

But then, there was Friday morning. A mild antiseptic odour superimposed by the faint suggestion of burnt paper permeated the stair well. The mat was standing against the wall indicating that the landing had just been swept. The sliver of light squinted under the door lighting the floor of the landing. There were no joggers. This new circumstance produced an entirely fresh portrayal of living and loving in my apartment building. Where could my wearer be? What fate has been dealt my leading character that has caused the joggers to have gone? Do twenty-first century people with size eleven feet get kidnapped? Do they get dragooned or impressed? Suddenly a startlingly obvious version of the truth revealed itself, destroying my burgeoning day-dreamesque, even theatrical reality. After a futile attempt to fire up the oil burner in the unit below, Size Eleven Joggers had proceeded to the markets to purchase a bottle of wine. It’s simple, really! Anyone with even half an eye for detail could have deduced that.

Feeling proud of my investigative acuity I bounded up my own flight, entered, ate and, to the melodic meanderings of Albenoni that wafted in through my open window, soon fell asleep to dream, contented.

Seven-thirty rolled around and again I set off to my shift. One flight down I could see the joggers had returned. They were neatly stacked as they were on Monday. I must have been right again. It was good to believe that peace reigned once more and that harmony had returned to the universe. But the mat was still leaning out of its proper place and light still squeaked out under the door. Never mind. They were two trivial, unessential details in an otherwise idyllic setting.

On Saturday mornings, instead of going straight home, I usually catch the bus to the mall, do some shopping for groceries, then walk the short distance through the park to my home. This Saturday was no exception. But it did produce some surprise. Entering my building and climbing the first flight I was greeted by total silence, or should I say almost total silence. The two joggers were tied by their laces and were hanging together across the door handle. The mat was in its customary and intended position, neatly blocking the sliver of light from escaping under the door.

Standing still and listening hard I could hear the gently trickle of running water. My mind wandered as it sometimes does away from empirical analyses to other far-off worlds. They were probably engaging in a shower, I say to myself. Or perhaps their cistern is filling. Climbing to my own door I found solace in the memory of earlier days under the shower with a friend. That last flight of stairs seemed to take forever.

Hypnotised by such pleasant memories, however blurred by time, I entered, ate then fell asleep. The work-night week was at an end.

Traffic is not so heavy on the street outside through late Saturday afternoons. It is a good time to replenish depleted stores of energy by sleeping the sleep of the dead. As the sun sets I am sometimes tempted by habit to pack a night-lunch and dress for the coalface, an error of judgement I have actually made on one occasion. This week though I had shown close to my best display of super-alert attentiveness and have interpreted the sharpest of observations with considered wisdom. My mind has acted like a steel trap. There was no way I would make that mistake while in this state of mental clarity.

On Sunday I sleep more, then wake and go to the café for coffee. Today, as always, I planned to meet with three other self-anointed sleuths to exchange our observations of the week. Each member of the group has spent five work-nights detecting real truths from careful observation and analysis of every-day evidence, just as I have here described. The meetings are a way of honing our skills to a point where we claim to contribute to the nation’s silent security. We call ourselves “The Watch-Dog Quad”.

Passing a news stand I buy the Sunday tabloid. One story catches my eye. It talks of a police raid on my building that took place during Saturday afternoon. Six hundred and thirty five hydroponic hemp plants were seized, along with thirty-eight kilos of gravel, one litre of liquid fertilizer, two jars of sealing wax stained with henna, lighting equipment, a sound system and a pair of grey joggers only ever used inside the apartment.

I reach for my mobile, call in sick and miss “The Watch Dog Quad” meeting this week.

most recent cyber-graffiti added on 26.01.07