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Archive for November 3rd, 2008

November 3rd, 2008 • Posted in Uncategorized

In Ottawa, Autumn’s lease hath all too short a date.

In Ottawa, Autumn’s lease hath all too short a date. Two weeks maybe. Then all these brilliant colours fall.


I was able

to capture



of them. 


November 3rd, 2008 • Posted in Authors and Books

This Fly clearly no Woolf Moth


Several days ago a dirty great big housefly came bi-planeing its way over my keyboard. It cornered, smoothly turning itself around a j’s curve, just as any aircraft might, and settled in for what appeared to be a standard runway landing. Then it suddenly dropped, tits-up dead on my desk. 

Quite astonishing really. Old age must have done it in. No raging. Clearly this fly was no moth. Nothing like Virginia Woolf’s courageous, fight filled little hero/heroine here:

" The legs agitated themselves once more. I looked as if for the enemy against which he struggled. I looked out of doors. What had happened there? Presumably it was midday, and work in the fields had stopped. Stillness and quiet had replaced the previous animation. The birds had taken themselves off to feed in the brooks. The horses stood still. Yet the power was there all the same, massed outside indifferent, impersonal, not attending to anything in particular. Somehow it was opposed to the little hay-coloured moth. It was useless to try to do anything. One could only watch the extraordinary efforts made by those tiny legs against an oncoming doom which could, had it chosen, have submerged an entire city, not merely a city, but masses of human beings; nothing, I knew, had any chance against death. Nevertheless after a pause of exhaustion the legs fluttered again. It was superb this last protest, and so frantic that he succeeded at last in righting himself. One’s sympathies, of course, were all on the side of life. Also, when there was nobody to care or to know, this gigantic effort on the part of an
insignificant little moth, against a power of such magnitude, to retain what no one else valued or desired to keep, moved one strangely. Again, somehow, one saw life, a pure bead. I lifted the pencil again, useless though I knew it to be. But even as I did so, the unmistakable tokens of death showed themselves. The body relaxed, and instantly grew stiff. The struggle was over."

From The Death of the Moth