Welcome to Letters from Quotidia: Hologram 1. You are, whatever you may have been told hitherto, back in Quotidia where ordinary people occasionally encounter the extraordinary. This is one of a series of Letters where each continuing Letter will be linked to one of the existing Letters, showing other facets of the original. This may manifest itself poetically, musically, thematically or some combination of them all.
As is to be expected, given the unreal nature of holograms (of which there will be 12 Letters attached), fractals (ditto), simulations (ditto), images (ditto) and singularities (ditto), there will be underlying and underpinning aspects to each of these surreal Letters which may not be immediately evident. However, these elements do not interfere with the meaning of the Letter but serve to add structure to it, the way a rhyme scheme gives structure to a sonnet, for example.
And talking of examples, a good example for every writer is the Roman poet, Horace, who wrote, in short: whether a peaceful old age waits for me/ or death circles with black wings, / rich, poor, at Rome, or if thus chance bids, an exile, / whatever the complexion of my life, I will write. // And so, like Horace, I will continue to write, notwithstanding the clarion call in the previous Letter that stipulated a final anchorage for the whole series! But I must tell you that writers dissimulate as though compelled by the very activity of putting words down upon a page.
Is that how you justify your about-face, I hear you ask? Well, yeah, nah, look, these holograms, fractals, simulations, images and singularities, aren’t real, are they? The names suggest they are mere insubstantial fabrications, after all. And your reply? Weasel words! Maybe. Perhaps what I do, then, is similar to what the carpenter in the Book of Wisdom does with a piece of wood,
A carpenter may cut down a suitable tree /and skilfully scrape off all its bark, / And deftly plying his art / produce something fit for daily use, / And use the scraps from his handiwork /in preparing his food and have his fill; /Then the good-for-nothing refuse from these remnants, /crooked wood grown full of knots, / he takes and carves to occupy his spare time. / This wood he models with mindless skill, / and patterns it on the image of a human being / or makes it resemble some worthless beast. / When he has daubed it with red and crimsoned its surface with red stain, / and daubed over every blemish in it, / He makes a fitting shrine for it / and puts it on the wall, fastening it with a nail. //
Or, as the first stanza of Horace’s satire, Priapus, has it, There was a time when I was nothing but / A useless figwood log. Some carpenter / Couldn’t make up his mind which I should be, /A stool or a Priapus, but finally he / Decided to make me a god. I am a god, /Chief scarer-off of birds and also thieves. / My right hand warns off thieves and so does this /Big red obscene pole sticking out of my crotch. /As for the mischievous birds, they get scared off / By the flapping reed attached to the top of my head. / It frightens them all away from the garden I guard. // I have written a song based on the preceding words from the Book of Wisdom and Horace called Idols of Wood, [insert song]
“They say,” is a phrase that, if not exactly weasel words, has the power to suggest verisimilitude in the clauses that follow. We met Adam Lindsay Gordon in the first Letter from Quotidia, who left us a fragment of poetry that is an example of this, They say that poison-sprinkled flowers / Are sweeter in perfume / Than when, untouched by deadly dew, / They glowed in early bloom // They say that men condemned to die / Have quaffed the sweetened wine / With higher relish that the juice / Of the untampered vine. // They say that in the witch’s song, / Though rude and harsh it be, / There blends a wild, mysterious strain / Of weirdest melody. // And I believe the devil’s voice / Sinks deeper in our ear / Than any whisper send from Heaven, / However sweet and clear. //
The song that closes out this Letter has two sources of inspiration. First, the lines from Adam Lindsay Gordon you just heard, and second, the song that featured in the first Letter from Quotidia, Everybody’s Story, where a son visits his father in a nursing home who asks to see his grandkids, and who admits to the efficacy of wine as a prompter of reminiscence. The new song is from the point of view of the son’s partner who has her own views on what should transpire and who, perhaps, has taken steps to achieve her aim. Shades of Lady Macbeth! Here is Sweeten the Wine, My Love. [insert song]
And oftentimes, to win us to our harm, / The instruments of darkness tell us truths, / Win us with honest trifles, to betray’s / In deepest consequence. So says Macbeth’s best friend, Banquo, who is wary of the witches’ alluring words promising Macbeth the Scottish crown. A little water clears us of this deed, Lady Macbeth coolly observes after her husband has murdered King Duncan in his bed. Turns out not to be the case, though, as Macbeth sets out on a killing spree in which the torrents of blood unleashed on the land are memorably captured in the lines where he says. I am in blood / Stepped in so far, that should I wade no more, / Returning were as tedious as go o’er. The fruits of victory turn to ashes in his mouth, and that of his wife too. The mistake too many human beings make is thinking that they can negotiate with the forces of darkness and come out in front. Soul for sale anyone? Best not, eh!
Idols of Wood (words and music Quentin Bega) Intro: Gmaj7 Cmaj7 G2 E7sus
V. 1,2,4: Am D7 G Bm A7-2 C G C G C G Bm D D7
Bridge: Eb Bb Eb Bb Eb Bb F Eb Bb Eb Bb Eb Bb F D D7
Greetings to my brother who is nailed up on this wall
Likewise to another watching these surrounding fields
Why do you seem useless, disregarded and uncalled
Does anyone else know how it feels
You once could proudly claim a justly honoured place
You once were reverenced as icons in this home
Now you vacantly wait here staring dimly into space
Now you have lower status than the garden gnome
At one time you were cared for as garlands in festoons
Draped your painted forms under full moons
You were offered libations of finest wine and choicest food
Now there’s nothing for you to do but brood
Call to mind all those times when people paid you praise
Call to mind all those times when central to the story
Of this family’s history when you were in their gaze
You were part of that time of fame and glory
But that was long ago and there is nothing left
Now I regard you as foretellers of my fate
I am fading to grey now I am also bereft
And I am approaching my use-by-date
Sweeten the Wine, My Love (Words and music Quentin Bega)
Intro: C2 Am7 Abmaj7 G7sus
Verses: C Dm F G-2 Am Em Dm G F C Dm G
He asked for the kids you say he misses their soft smiles
But I’m damned if I will send them in to him again to hold
Why is he hanging on so long what’s in it for us all
The cost of that elders’ home I tell you leaves me cold
Assisted dying is in vogue I saw it on the news
Why doesn’t he keep up-to-date like we all have to do
Next time you visit you should bring the subject up
After all he may just need another point of view
Listen to the witches sing as widdershins they spin
Around the bubbling cauldron as they invite you in
To their charmed circle to embrace you as their kin
Listen to the witches sing as widdershins they spin
(intro interlude)
There isn’t that much point to him I think you would agree
His incoherent rambles are embarrassing to hear
That’s why I won’t go back there and neither will the kids
We can’t go on like this I think that much is clear
(Instrumental chorus)
So next time you go back there bring in this jug of wine
I know he likes full-bodied reds and that will be your task
Encourage him to drink deep as much as he can take
Leave the wine jug with me now is all that I will ask
Listen to the witches sing as widdershins they spin
Around the bubbling cauldron as they invite you in
To their charmed circle to embrace you as their kin
Listen to the witches sing as widdershins they spin
Listen to the witches sing as widdershins they spin
Credits: All written text, song lyrics and music (including background music) written and composed by Quentin Bega unless otherwise specified in the credits section after individual posts. Illustrative excerpts from other texts identified clearly within each podcast. I donate to and use Wikipedia frequently as one of the saner sources of information on the web.
Technical Stuff: Microphone-songs Shure SM58; (for the podcast spoken content) Audio Technica AT 2020 front-facing with pop filter); Apogee 76K also used for songs and spoken text. For recording and mixing down: 64-bit N-Track Studio 10 Extended used; Rubix 22 also used for mixing of microphone(s) and instruments. I use the Band in a Box/RealBand 2023 combo for music composition.
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