Letters From Quotidia Episode 7

Letters From Quotidia Postscripts Episode 7 Sea Song, The Ship Song, Sidekick

Welcome to Letters from Quotidia Postscripts Episode 7 – a podcast by Quentin Bega for listeners who enjoyed that Irish phenomenon- the crack! in the 200+ Letters and Postcards from Quotidia over the past 18 months. Quotidia remains that space, that place, where ordinary people lead ordinary lives. But where, from time to time, they encounter the extraordinary.

When inspiration strikes it rarely comes as a bolt from the blue, rather, it is a laggard and begrudging epiphenomenon dredged from the turgid soup that lies beneath the conscious mind and soul. And so it was for this postscript, after a tedious trawl through the original letters brought nothing to the surface in my mental nets other than an old welly boot, part of a child’s bicycle, some seaweed, and a tangle of plastic waste.

Then my inbox pinged with an offering from the website Poem-a-Day, and I opened it to find the following marvel which had been published over a century ago by Rabindranath Tagore a Bengali polymath who won the Nobel prize for literature in 1913 for the unique lyrical verses of Gitanjali: here is part of it entitled Gitanjali 60,

On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. The infinite sky is motionless overhead and the restless water is boisterous. On the seashore of endless worlds the children meet with shouts and dances./They build their houses with sand, and they play with empty shells. With withered leaves they weave their boats and smilingly float them on the vast deep. Children have their play on the seashore of worlds./They know not how to swim, they know not how to cast nets. Pearl-fishers dive for pearls, merchants sail in their ships, while children gather pebbles and scatter them again. They seek not for hidden treasures, they know not how to cast nets./The sea surges up with laughter, and pale gleams the smile of the sea-beach. Death-dealing waves sing meaningless ballads to the children, even like a mother while rocking her baby’s cradle. The sea plays with children, and pale gleams the smile of the sea-beach./On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. Tempest roams in the pathless sky, ships are wrecked in the trackless water, death is abroad and children play. On the seashore of endless worlds is the great meeting of children.

Poem-a-Day tells us that Gitanjali was self-published in 1910. Later, his English translation of the book, Song Offerings, was published by the India Society of London in 1912, whereupon it won the 1913 Nobel Prize in Literature. W. B. Yeats wrote, An innocence, a simplicity that one does not find elsewhere in literature makes the birds and the leaves seem as near to him as they are near to children, and the changes of the season’s great events as before our thoughts had arisen between them and us. . . Indeed, when he is speaking of children, so much a part of himself this quality seems, one is not certain that he is not also speaking of the saints…Thirteen years later, Yeats, himself, was awarded the same prize. So, as far as outstanding poets go, it takes one to know one, eh? I took a medium-slow Band-in-a-Box jig in 6/8 time and used the words of Gitanjali 60 without amendment as the lyrics for the following composition entitled Sea Song. [insert song]

On the 14th of December 2014, I attended a Nick Cave concert at Sydney’s Capitol Theatre with my daughter, Cathy, who is a huge fan. It was a great show from a great showman, and we left feeling all was well with the world. This euphoria didn’t last long, for the next day a murderous, narcissistic thug held eighteen people hostage at the Lindt Café in Martin Place, not far from the venue which had given so many so much joy the night before. Unfurling a black jihadist flag, he brought terror and despair to the people of Sydney and beyond over two days before police stormed the café and shot him.

Tragically, the young man who managed the café, Tori Johnston, and Katrina Dawson, barrister, and mother of three also died in the incident. What brought all this back was a trip to the local library this week where I saw a book of Nick Cave songs on display. From it I have selected The Ship Song in remembrance of that time and as a reminder that love outlasts hatred as its light drives back the shadows. [insert song]

I will end this postscript by reprising a song I wrote some years back as I was contemplating fame and oblivion. Our poets may help us as we negotiate these waters. One of the best is Shelley, IMHO. He wrote a poem many will know:

I met a traveller from an antique land,/Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone/Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,/Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,/And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,/Tell that its sculptor well those passions read/Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,/The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;/And on the pedestal, these words appear:/My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;/ Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!/Nothing beside remains. Round the decay/Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare/The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

Wikipedia tells us that Shelley wrote the poem you have just listened to, in friendly competition with his friend and fellow poet Horace Smith in 1817, who also wrote a sonnet on the same topic with the same title, Ozymandias, the Greek name for the Egyptian pharaoh Ramses the Great. The poem explores the fate of history and the ravages of time: even the greatest men and the empires they forge are impermanent, their legacies fated to decay into oblivion. Alas, Horace Smith’s poem is almost unknown while Shelley’s poem graces many an anthology. But here I will resurrect the Smith sonnet for your delectation:

In Egypt’s sandy silence, all alone,/Stands a gigantic Leg, which far off throws/The only shadow that the Desert knows:—/”I am great OZYMANDIAS,” saith the stone,/”The King of Kings; this mighty City shows/”The wonders of my hand.”— The City’s gone,—/Nought but the Leg remaining to disclose/The site of this forgotten Babylon.//We wonder,—and some Hunter may express/Wonder like ours, when thro’ the wilderness/Where London stood, holding the wolf in chace/He meets some fragment huge, and stops to guess/What powerful, but unrecorded race/Once dwelt in that annihilated place.

Not bad at all, wouldn’t you agree? However, most of us are fated to be famous only in our dreams, or deluded imaginings, if you are like Walter Mitty, that great character invented by American humorist James Thurber. Sidekick represents the human condition- at least for most of us, and, as the conclusion of the song stipulates, not even heroes get to go to heaven.[insert song]

That concludes the seventh postscript. I think I have made up for the dearth of poetry in the sixth postscript, but in case you feel enough is not as good as a feast, may I offer this translation of an ancient Celtic greeting as we face uncertain times: May the road rise up to meet you./ May the wind be always at your back./ May the sun shine warm upon your face;/ the rains fall soft upon your fields/ and until we meet again,/ may God hold you in the palm of His hand. The next postscript will be published next week or the week after: I thought this one would not make the cut for publication this week as I was floundering for most of it until the last day or so. Until, again, the fountains of inspiration gush, I bid you peace and joy.            

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- 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 9 Extended used; Rubix 22 also used for mixing of microphone(s) and instruments. I use the Band in a Box/RealBand 2022 combo for music composition.

Letters From Quotidia Postscripts Episode 6

Letters From Quotidia Postscripts Episode 6 Summertime, Still on the Move, It’s Been Taken Away, Au Revoir, Monica

Welcome to Letters From Quotidia Postscripts Episode 6 – a podcast by Quentin Bega for listeners who enjoyed that Irish phenomenon- the crack! in the 200+ Letters and Postcards From Quotidia over the past 18 months. Quotidia remains that space, that place, where ordinary people lead ordinary lives. But where, from time to time, they encounter the extraordinary.

Hey, it’s deep in winter here in Australia- but summertime in Northern climes where I was born. And Summertime is the name of the first song on this podcast. It is a somewhat contested song: early in the piece, the similarity to an earlier black spiritual, Motherless Child was commented on, and the great Mahalia Jackson recorded the two together as a medley. Its lyrics are by DuBose Heyward, of whom Stephen Sondheim has written he has gone largely unrecognized as the author of the finest set of lyrics in the history of the American musical theatre – namely, those of Porgy and Bess.

The music, of course, was written by George Gershwin. In Porgy and Bess, set in Catfish Row, a dockside area of Charleston, South Carolina in the 1930s, Clara, a young, black woman, sings to her baby. Her husband Jake is a fisherman, and, like all the people of the settlement, they live hardscrabble lives. This scenario, of life, of death has been repeated throughout history and indeed prehistory. Through all the noise and nonsense, the conflict, the clash, we hear the soothing tones of mother to child as she seeks to shield her offspring from the unruly universe by resorting to a lullaby.

21-year-old Billie Holiday recorded the first cover of this song in 1936. She was part of the Harlem Renaissance spanning the 1920s and 30s including such important black artists as musicians Duke Ellington and Louis Armstrong and writers Langston Hughes and Zora Neale Hurston.  According to Wikipedia some people would argue that the Harlem Renaissance never ended and has continued to be an important cultural force in the United States through the decades: from the age of stride piano jazz and blues to the ages of bebop, rock and roll, soul, disco and hip-hop.

I saw somewhere that there are some 25,000 commercial covers in the years since the song’s première in 1935! I guess you could add a zero to that number to include the non-commercial covers- so this recording will perhaps take that total to 250,001.

In 1971, a month or so before I got married, my brother Brendan, who was my best man, organised a night for our family and friends at a small, cosy, hotel in Cushendall. We had a meal and retired for drinks to a small lounge area where a piano set against the wall. A pleasant-looking matronly guest who was staying at the hotel- not one of our little group- sat down and began to tinkle the ivories as I think they call it. Emboldened by wine, I asked did she know Summertime. The previous year I had devised a lead break for the song on my Burns short-scale jazz guitar instead of studying for my exams. I was rather proud of it and still had dreams of rescuing my first electric from the pawn shop where I had traded it for rent arrears. Historical note- I never got round to it. Maybe, that’s why I requested that song- I can’t remember now, but I remember with gratitude her rendition of this classic for a rather bleary-eyed young man. Memory renders it right up there with the great interpreters. And, for what it’s worth, here is my take on it: [insert song]

Summertime is a postscript to Letters From Quotidia Episode 23 Still on the Move published on 17th February 2021 where, apart from discussing the arrow paradox of Zeno and its refutation by Diogenes the Cynic, I referred to a brief blues song I had written some 40 year previously. Daddy was a jazz singer in the rain, Mama got wet was the first line that just popped into my head one day as I was noodling on my guitar in 1981. Was this an unconscious referencing of duBose Heyward’s with mammy and daddy standing by which finishes his classic lyric? Perhaps. I carry a lot of stuff around in my head: snippets of poetry, lines of songs, quotations from the Bible, a lifetime’s perusal of books and paintings- all the detritus of a liberal arts education (which, of course, includes a lot of science stuff, too). So, here’s Still on the Move [insert song]

In the last post I mentioned how the postscripts have a capacity to surprise, I should also add: not only are they able to resist my wrangling of them, but they, from time to time, bend me to their will! This one insists on a reference to one of the world’s great dance companies- Bangarra, which was established over 30 years ago here in Australia to tell the stories of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders. Its presiding genius is Stephen Page who, with his brothers Russell and David, created one of the most stunning and exciting dance ensembles in existence today. Russell was an amazing dancer whose physicality and grace left me spellbound. He took his life at the age of 32. His brother, David, was according to The Sydney Morning Herald the musical heartbeat of Bangarra, composing scores for 27 of the company’s 35 major works. He invented a pioneering modern soundtrack that embodied traditional language, song and instrumentation with the sounds of electronica, hip-hop, classical and nature, defining the Bangarra sound that would fill the theatre and leave audiences reverberating with hauntingly beautiful melodies. He took his life in 2016.

I mention these tragedies not from some ghoulish wish to shock or attract attention, but to emphasise that the burdens carried by indigenous people here, far exceed those of the colonisers and their descendants or of those migrants who have arrived here over the past two centuries. In 1996,  two years after arriving in Sydney from North Queensland, I wrote a song about the plight of the Aboriginal people, shortly after the Coalition under John Howard took power. Why, I thought, has so little progress been made in delivering justice? So, I wrote It’s Been Taken Away. [insert song]

There are stirrings of hope again. But I don’t want to be premature, as Prime Minister Paul Keating proved to be in his Redfern speech of 30 years ago. This great country of Australia seems to have to be dragged, inch by inch, or millimetre by millimetre, to use a more accurate metaphor, to a proper acknowledgement of the claims of a culture that is more than 65,000 years old. In words taken from the Uluru statement: Proportionally, we are the most incarcerated people on the planet. We are not an innately criminal people. Our children are aliened from their families at unprecedented rates. This cannot be because we have no love for them. And our youth languish in detention in obscene numbers. They should be our hope for the future.

Have you noticed that, unlike my usual practice, there is no poetry in this podcast? Oh, but there is: the words I have just quoted, and, indeed, the whole, gracious and accommodating text of the Uluru statement, is true poetry, I suggest.

Now to personal pain. My sister Monica, the youngest of our family of six children, passed away on 27th May this year. My brother, Brendan, the best man at my wedding all those years ago, had visited Monica earlier this year, and was left with the sad responsibility to convey this news to me in Australia. I last met with her here in our home in Sydney in the summer of 2010. She was once a trilingual secretary working for the  ILO, a branch of the UN, in Geneva, until her retirement. She resumed her love of the sea, a condition first caught in our shared childhood in Aruba and its fabulous Caribbean tropical waters.

She loved the ocean, the reefs and the fish and being able to float amidst a paradise of colour and life. She came to us bearing gifts and a CD showing her encounter with sharks circling as she sat amidst the coral underwater off Cairns in the outer Great Barrier Reef. Of course, the really dangerous sharks are not out there in the world’s oceans, but swim in your bloodstream as cancer cells ravenously seeking to destroy you from within. Both of my younger sisters, then, have been taken within little more than a year, by the blight that is cancer. Monica, my lovely sister, this song is for you. [insert song]

 Credits: All written text, song lyrics andmusic (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- 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 9 Extended used; Rubix 22 also used for mixing of microphone(s) and instruments. I use the Band in a Box/RealBand 2022 combo for music composition.

Letters From Quotidia Postscripts Episode 5

Letters From Quotidia Postscripts Episode 5: 51st Wedding Anniversary Song, Homebase, Born Under a Bad Sign

Welcome to Letters From Quotidia Postscripts Episode 5 – a podcast by Quentin Bega for listeners who enjoyed that Irish phenomenon- the crack! in the 200+ Letters and Postcards From Quotidia over the past 18 months. Quotidia remains that space, that place, where ordinary people lead ordinary lives. But where, from time to time, they encounter the extraordinary.

This letter will deal with anniversaries of one sort or another. For the first, I’ll have to refer to one of the guitarists who, as the saying went back then, blew my mind! This was back when I was a callow youth with pimples and pretensions in the year 1967. The guitarist was, of course, Jimi Hendrix. To be anywhere in the British Isles in those years of the mid-sixties as a music-loving teenager was to be in some iteration of heaven: I really do not exaggerate- just ask any boomer of my generation– and I use that phrase advisedly!

Hey Joe, knocked me sideways when first I heard it and Purple Haze knocked me completely out of the park! Visiting my brother in County Cork in the summer of 67 ‘, I went into a music store to buy Hendrix’s first LP, Are You Experienced? And the strangest thing happened: the girl behind the counter tried to talk me out of making the purchase: I kid you not! Apparently, the cover design with the flamboyant Hendrix with his band and what she had picked up from scuttlebutt and the usual puerile vapouring of presenters on local radio prompted her to attempt to save me from…who knows? I bought the LP after a brief tussle with the assistant- who obviously had yet to complete Retailing 101! I have no ill aftereffects to report more than 55 years later.

The B side of Purple Haze was 51st Wedding Anniversary and I had just started going out with my girlfriend, later to be my wife, and remember puzzling about what such an anniversary would be like for me, for us. I don’t need to puzzle any more as that very anniversary occurred on 3rd July 2022 just a week before this posting. Here is the song I wrote to mark the occasion- Our 51st Wedding Anniversary Song. [insert song]

I guess this song is a PS to a song I wrote upon returning to Australia in 1988 after a nearly 10-year stay in Northern Ireland. The song is called Homebase and I wrote it shortly after visiting Brisbane that year during the bicentenary celebrations which was the prelude to our moving to north Queensland the following year. The bicentenary is another contested occasion as many of Australia’s First Nations people consider it a time for mourning and label the occasion Invasion Day– the arrival of the 1st Fleet into Sydney Harbour on 26th January 1788. And Australia’s aboriginal people are still denied justice.

Mulling on anniversaries, as I seem to be doing, I realise that next year marks the 30th anniversary of 1993’s International Year of the World’s Indigenous People. I still remember the remarkable words of the Australian Prime Minister, Paul Keating at Redfern in December 1992: Didn’t Australia provide opportunity and care for the dispossessed Irish? The poor of Britain? The refugees from war and famine and persecution in the countries of Europe and Asia?

That was a time before Australia became a bit of a pariah state over its treatment of refugees since the turn of the new millennium. Keating also said: We took the traditional lands and smashed the traditional way of life. We brought the diseases. The alcohol. We committed the murders. We took the children from their mothers. We practised discrimination and exclusion. It was our ignorance and our prejudice. And our failure to imagine these things being done to us. It was an inspiring and uplifting speech- indeed, it prompted me and my family to take out Australian citizenship at the beginning of 1995. Keating ended his speech with these words: There is one thing today we cannot imagine. We cannot imagine that the descendants of people whose genius and resilience maintained a culture here through fifty thousand years or more, through cataclysmic changes to the climate and environment, and who then survived two centuries of dispossession and abuse, will be denied their place in the modern Australian nation. We cannot imagine that. We cannot imagine that we will fail. And with the spirit that is here today I am confident that we won’t. I am confident that we will succeed in this decade.

Oh dear! Just imagine. Almost 30 years later, and we have not yet succeeded in delivering justice or recognition, but there are glimmers of hope because a new government in the mould of leaders like Paul Keating is again in power. Here’s Homebase with its optimism for the future of Australia written in the same era as Keating’s Redfern speech. It comprises the something old component of this post as it is a reprise of the song I released on the podcast of the same name on 3rd May 2021. [insert song]

The striving for justice seems to be in vogue at the moment, and long may it continue. In the United States Juneteenth became a federal holiday in 2021 when President Joe Biden signed it into law. Juneteenth marks the anniversary of the announcement by Union Army General Gordon Granger on June 19th, 1865, proclaiming freedom for enslaved people in Texas. It has been observed annually, first somewhat surreptitiously and later more or more openly as African Americans gained greater voice and wider rights throughout the United States as state after state acknowledged the importance of Juneteenth.

That admirable site Poem a Day published verse by an 18-year-old Paul Lawrence Dunbar to celebrate Juneteenth. Entitled Emancipation, its first stanza exuberantly proclaims, Fling out your banners, your honours be bringing,/Raise to the ether your paeans of praise./Strike every chord and let music be ringing!/Celebrate freely this day of all days.// I have quoted from the work of this admired poet in previous posts. His parents were formerly slaves and he was born  on June 27 1872, dying in 1906. This year is the 150th anniversary of his birth. His sesquicentennial will be celebrated across the US and especially in Dayton, Ohio where he was born. He used his mastery of dialect poetry to delineate the wisdom and wry wit of his people.

I used one of these dialect poems, Philosophy, in  Letters From Quotidia  Episode 118Slipjig Philosophising.  His poem is a fine example of the genre. He was aware of his talent as were many others. But that talent was held back by racism as well as the bad luck that attends every life. He contracted TB and became depressed, becoming dependent on whiskey which some doctors of the day prescribed as an ameliorant for TB- mmm, I wonder if I could persuade my doctor for a similar prescription. At any rate, he was dead at the age of 33.

I like to think, though, that he would be amused at the song I am going to borrow now from Albert King as the final component of this Postscript- Born Under a Bad Sign. It was released, and I first heard it in that annus mirabilis for me, 1967. Another King, BB was a guitarist that I especially revered and he had a song with the lines, Nobody loves me but my mother, but she could be jivin’ too. I was one of the many teens of that era that sought out the genuine American art form that was the blues, in the wake of our heroes hailing from Britain: the Beatles, the Stones, John Mayall, Cream, and  the original Fleetwood Mac among many others, and from Ireland, Rory Gallagher with Taste and Van Morrison with Them. I used to play this final song on my first electric, a Burns short-scale jazz guitar that I ended up pawning to pay my rent arrears- could write a blues song about it but instead, I’ll just leave you  with this: [insert song]

The Postscripts are genuinely surprising. I think I know where I’m going, and I start out with a clear direction in mind, but somewhere along the line, things get fuzzy. Dylan knew all about it when he wrote, How does it feel? To be on your own? With no direction home, like a complete unknown, Lie a rolling stone. How, I wonder, do mid-teens today cope with what seems to be a musical wasteland. I know there is a lot of great music out there but it is not front and centre as it was in the mid-sixties and for maybe twenty or thirty years after that. So until our next meeting?

Credits: All written text, song lyrics andmusic (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- 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 9 Extended used; Rubix 22 also used for mixing of microphone(s) and instruments. I use the Band in a Box/RealBand 2022 combo for music composition.

Letters From Quotidia Postscripts Edition 4

Letters From Quotidia Postscripts Edition 4 A Brief Encounter, Dixie, Two Love (2 versions)

Welcome to Letters From Quotidia Postscripts Episode 4 – a podcast by Quentin Bega for listeners who enjoyed that Irish phenomenon- the crack! in the 200+ Letters and Postcards From Quotidia over the past 17 months. Quotidia remains that space, that place, where ordinary people lead ordinary lives. But where, from time to time, they encounter the extraordinary.

One of the  sites I frequent when hoping a passing poem might solicit me is allpoetry.com. And so it was when I sought out an appropriate verse to accompany a song I had written from the depths of memory. Like most guitarists (and I use this term very loosely in regard to myself!) I have a large store of riffs and chord sequences built up over the years. One sequence from, oh! Good Lord! it must be… forty years ago, popped into my head the other week trailing remnants of text behind it.

This was the chorus, of the song, A Brief Encounter, you are shortly going to hear. I was able to stitch together the words with a modicum of mental exertion and invention. The image of an old man with a suitcase, waiting in the rain on the side of the road surfaced- and that was me off and running- or should I say, driving. [insert song]

That was the something new of the triad that defines these postscripts. The poem that was passing by on the allpoetry site was The Latest Decalogue by Arthur Hugh Clough [pronounced ‘cluff’] who was born in 1819, the same year as Queen Victoria and who died in 1861 at age 42, when she had been on the throne a mere 24 of the 61 years of her reign. Like so many Victorians of his ilk, he led a life jam-packed with travel, incident, and endeavour.

He was a fine poet whose experiments in extending the range of literary language and subject were ahead of his time. This poem remains one of my favourite pieces of verse because it exposes the hypocrisy of those who cloak their venality in pious platitudes. Here is  The Latest Decalogue by Arthur Hugh Clough

Thou shalt have one God only; who/Would be at the expense of two?/No graven images may be/Worshipp’d, except the currency:/Swear not at all; for, for thy curse/Thine enemy is none the worse:/At church on Sunday to attend/Will serve to keep the world thy friend:/Honour thy parents; that is, all/From whom advancement may befall:/Thou shalt not kill; but need’st not strive/Officiously to keep alive:/Do not adultery commit;/Advantage rarely comes of it:/Thou shalt not steal; an empty feat,/When it’s so lucrative to cheat:/Bear not false witness; let the lie/Have time on its own wings to fly:/Thou shalt not covet; but tradition/Approves all forms of competition.

Some things never get old- the sentiments expressed here apply with as much force now as back in the high Victorian era in which they were written! An American near contemporary of Clough was Ambrose Bierce. Wikipedia informs me: He was the tenth of thirteen children, all of whom were given names by their father beginning with the letter “A”: in order of birth, the Bierce siblings were Abigail, Amelia, Ann, Addison, Aurelius, Augustus, Almeda, Andrew, Albert, Ambrose, Arthur, Adelia, and Aurelia.  

Now, I don’t know if that shaped who he turned out to be, but he left us  his version of Clough’s poem. However, he is best known for the acerbity of definitions in his masterpiece, The Devil’s Dictionary. Here are a few of them for us to ponder: Christian- noun, one who believes that the New Testament is a divinely inspired book admirably suited to the spiritual needs of his neighbour. Fidelity- noun, a virtue peculiar to those who are about to be betrayed. Love- noun, a temporary insanity curable by marriage.

Bierce, like his English counterpart lived a full and adventurous life. And he lived a lot longer. He served with distinction in the Union Army during the Civil War, receiving newspaper accolades for his daring rescue under fire of a gravely wounded comrade at the battle of Rich Mountain. He sustained a traumatic brain injury at the battle of Kennesaw Mountain in 1864, but he survived and thrived, to an admirable extent. Wikipedia tells us, Bierce wrote realistically of the terrible things he had seen in the war in such stories as “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge”, “A Horseman in the Sky”, “One of the Missing”, and “Chickamauga”. His grimly realistic cycle of 25 war stories has been called “the greatest anti-war document in American literature”.

 In October 1913, Bierce, then age 71, departed for a tour of his old Civil War battlefields. According to some reports [ he made his way to Mexico and] joined Pancho Villa’s army as an observer…Bierce’s ultimate fate remains a mystery. He wrote in one of his final letters: Good-bye. If you hear of my being stood up against a Mexican stone wall and shot to rags, please know that I think it is a pretty good way to depart this life. It beats old age, disease, or falling down the cellar stairs. To be a Gringo in Mexico–ah, that is euthanasia! A remarkable man, I think you’ll agree.

Now for the something old component of the postscript: since I’ve spent a bit of time in America in the Civil War era already, what about a song that captured the milieu of all sides of the conflict- Dixie. A contested song, in lots of regards, I suppose the song prefigures the popularity of  Lili Marlene composed as a German love song during World War One which became popular among Allied and Axis troops in the Second World War.

Dixie was written by Daniel Decatur Emmett (October 29, 1815 – June 28, 1904) an American songwriter, entertainer, and founder of the first troupe of the blackface minstrel tradition, the Virginia Minstrels. He is most remembered as the composer of the song “Dixie”, probably written in 1859. Much to the chagrin of Emmett, who was anything but a Southern sympathiser, the song became identified as a Southern anthem and was used as a campaign song against Abraham Lincoln’s run for President and was played by General Pickett during the Confederate charge at Gettysburg.

Both Union and Confederate composers produced war versions of the song during the American Civil War. These variants standardised the spelling and made the song more militant, replacing the slave scenario with specific references to the conflict or to Northern or Southern pride. After the South surrendered to the Union, President Lincoln had the song played by the White House band in an effort to support the reunification of the United States. 

Indeed, Emmett’s song was a favourite of Lincoln’s, who said after the war ended in 1865, “I have always thought that ‘Dixie’ was one of the best tunes I ever heard… I insisted yesterday that we had fairly captured it.” Its popularity is enduring and a testament to the power of music to move people and I offer it here in the spirit of Lincoln- one of the best tunes. And thanks to Wikipedia and the Songwriters Hall of Fame for most of the material on this fine song. [insert song]

Which leaves only the something borrowed bit to do. And this is borrowed from the repertoire of Jim, who as well as sea songs, sang many of the ballads in our folk group, Banter. This song concerns a bunch of young soldiers discussing their sweethearts- long a favourite in Irish pubs and clubs. Not sure of its provenance or whether it has much of a life outside Ireland and the diaspora, but when Jim sang it in the clubs here in western Sydney it had some of the older women in tears. Here’s a couple of  versions- I couldn’t decide which was better so I give you both- first a swung version with full band, the second is more subdued in even eights: [insert songs]

No point in my trying to predict, at this stage, where the next postscript may go in search of attachment. Instead, here are lines on the waste of war by American poet Ella Wheeler Wilcox, born in  1850, her first poem published when she was just 13. Here are lines from Woman and War. We women teach our little sons/ how ignoble blows are, school and church/ support our precepts and inoculate/ the growing minds with thoughts of love and peace…Oh men, wise men, superior beings say,/ Is there no substitute for war?/.If you answer “No”/Then let us rear our children to be wolves. And teach them from the cradle how to kill.

Credits: All written text, song lyrics andmusic (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- 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 9 Extended used; Rubix 22 also used for mixing of microphone(s) and instruments. I use the Band in a Box/RealBand 2022 combo for music composition.

Letters From Quotidia Postscripts Episode 3

Letters From Quotidia Postscripts Episode 3 The Lifeboat Mona, Wynken, Blynken, and Nod, Donegal Danny

Welcome to Letters From Quotidia Postscripts Episode 3– a podcast by Quentin Bega for listeners who enjoyed that Irish phenomenon- the crack! in the 200+ Letters and Postcards From Quotidia over the past 17 months. Quotidia remains that space, that place, where ordinary people lead ordinary lives. But where, from time to time, they encounter the extraordinary.

Flip a coin, the sky or the sea. Both are in my mind and dreams. Like all Celts, I look skywards fearing, in an atavistic corner of my soul, that the firmament may crash down on me. Here on earth trolls, goblins, and monsters storm over the land despoiling as they go. Far above the world there is no respite: it seems only billionaires may soar over the polluted atmosphere of the ravaged earth, for however short a while they are able to big-note themselves.

But look out to sea and, like many hundreds of generations of human beings before, there is the promise of something better lying over that beckoning far horizon. That is, if you can look beyond the assortment of trash and smears of oil washing in on the tide that seems to advance just a little further each time- just ask any islander of the South Pacific micro nations. Or better still, listen to this poem, Seawall soliloquy number two: she built a seawall  by Kathy Jetñil-Kijiner, climate envoy for the Marshall Islands:

My cousin/ had a nightmare /that we kept /building seawalls /higher and higher /all around /our island / up to /the sky /until suddenly /we were /at the bottom/ of a wishing well/looking/ up /at the world.  Kathy writes, seawalls have, inevitably, become a part of my life—these walls that our community builds in our backyards to protect ourselves from the incoming tides.

You can experience the full impact of the poem at that great site, Poem-a-Day for 31 May 2022 where the poem is shaped like a well on the screen.  At the conclusion of the last podcast, I promised listeners that the blue tinge characteristic of the Postscripts would, on this occasion, assume a more serene, Uranian tint.  Wikipedia helpfully defines it thus: a bright neon azure colour having an approximate luminance of 85%. It has a hue value of 202° indicating that this is a cold colour. You may judge how successful I have been in lightening the colour palette of the Postscript at its end. I’ll start by reciting that staple of school poetry anthologies, James Reeves’, The Sea, which is basically an extended metaphor:

The sea is a hungry dog, /Giant and grey. /He rolls on the beach all day./With his clashing teeth and shaggy jaws/Hour upon hour he gnaws/The rumbling, tumbling stones,/And ‘Bones, bones, bones, bones! ‘/The giant sea-dog moans,/Licking his greasy paws.//And when the night wind roars/And the moon rocks in the stormy cloud,/He bounds to his feet and snuffs and sniffs,/Shaking his wet sides over the cliffs,/And howls and hollos long and loud.//But on quiet days in May or June,/When even the grasses on the dune/Play no more their reedy tune,/With his head between his paws/He lies on the sandy shores,/So quiet, so quiet, he scarcely snores.//

Seems appropriate that we should have a song about the sea now: but first let me set the scene from my store of memory. My father, in the front room at home where he had his desk, books and audio equipment: he is doing paperwork for the RNLI as honorary secretary of the Red Bay branch of this worthy institution. RNLI stands for the Royal National Lifeboat Institution founded in 1824 to provide a search and rescue service for the coasts of Britain and Ireland. Made up of 95% volunteers, separate from the coastguard and independent of government, this venerable organisation, which has royal patronage, has rescued countless thousands of  people over almost 200 years of operation. But sometimes at tragic cost, as the next song, written by Peggy Seeger, relates. The Lifeboat Mona is the something old offering of this podcast: [insert song]

For the something new component, I will be offering something that is bound to attract shouts of Cheat! Fraud! Imposter! from an assortment of purists, pedants and the puerile. You see, once again, I am setting lyrics written by yet another American poet, to music and melody written by me. Eugene Field, whose whimsical poem Wynken, Blynken and Nod featured in an earlier Letter, gets a posthumous co-writer’s credit as I use it in its entirety here! But , hey, I’m not Robinson Crusoe in this regard, either: artists who have used this little gem for their own songs include, Donovan, The Irish Rovers and Carly Simon.

Back to Eugene Field: his father, Roswell Martin Field, was an attorney who attained some fame, in 1857, after serving as lawyer to Dredd Scott before Scott’s trial went to the Supreme Court. Scott was a slave who agitated for his freedom, and this was sometimes referred to as the lawsuit that started the Civil War. Eugene Field endures as a famous childhood poet to this day. But he was also an inveterate practical joker from his schooldays where according to Wikipedia, he was not a serious student and spent much of his time…playing practical jokes. He led raids on the president’s wine cellar, painted the president’s house school colours, and fired the school’s landmark cannons at midnight. 

Now, this is a predilection that I’ll admit to having succumbed to from time to time in my younger days, when I was not so empathetic as I am in these my, um, senior years. According to the Denver Public Library, Eugene was known throughout Denver for his practical jokes. His office at the Denver Tribune included a chair with a false bottom. An unsuspecting person would attempt to sit in the chair and fall to the floor instead. Ouch! Today, lawsuits would, doubtless, follow! But back to the song- I have used a melody I derived from a Band-in-a-Box Irish jig setting in 6/8 time. [insert song]

Now, to the final component of the Postscript: something borrowed. Of course, borrowed is such a weasel word. Often the item or idea borrowed is not so much borrowed as, purloined, pilfered, filched or finagled, by a feloniously inclined footpad, perhaps? In the etiquette of folksingers, it is only right and proper to accord to fellow musicians, with whom you are in consort, the courtesy of not making off with their material. Don’t steal their thunder and for goodness’ sake! whatever you do, don’t sing songs from their repertoire. You know, of course, from this long-winded  prolegomenon, that that’s exactly what I intend to do!

The song I will present as the final offering of this Postscript is Donegal Danny. Regular listeners to the site will have encountered the song before in Letters From Quotidia Postcards Edition 19 published on 21st May 2021.  Sung in that instance by Sam Beggs, who put his dibs on this song years and years ago before Jim, who usually sings songs about the sea in our group Banter, was able to claim it! But Sam didn’t like its length and would, typically, leave out one of the middle verses- not that our audiences ever noticed, as I recall. But we would rib him about it as you can hear from the, ah, banter, before the song in Postcard 19. Donegal Danny was written by Phil Coulter, and this is what Phil had to say about the song from his lockdown podcast of 9 January 2021:

Many years ago, when on holiday in West Donegal, I was told the story of a local fishing boat that had been lost at sea and how that tragedy had reverberated around the community, with so many families affected. That incident was the starting point for writing the song. As a songwriter I was in the happy position of having The Dubliners on hand as one of my recording acts, so I tailored the song to suit Ronnie Drew. It was released on the album PLAIN AND SIMPLE in 1973. All these years later I’m pleased that the song is still alive, thanks in no small measure to balladeers like Roy Buckley who have been keeping the tradition alive. Yes, Phil, and overseas as well, thanks to singers like Sammy Beggs. But here is my version. [insert song]

So, Quotidians, have I managed to lighten to colour palette of this post? In any case, I look forward to speaking to you all again in a mere fortnight’s time. Until then, take care, stay safe and try not venture out onto those wild & stormy seas.

Credits: All written text, song lyrics andmusic (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- 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 9 Extended used; Rubix 22 also used for mixing of microphone(s) and instruments. I use the Band in a Box/RealBand 2022 combo for music composition.

Postscripts From Quotidia Episode 2

Postscripts From Quotidia Episode 2 The Diamantina Drover, Fiddler Jones, Sprawling Blue Bell

Welcome to Letters From Quotidia Postscripts Episode 2– a podcast by Quentin Bega for listeners who enjoyed that Irish phenomenon- the crack! in the Letters and Postcards From Quotidia Quotidia remains that space, that place, where ordinary people lead ordinary lives. But where, from time to time, they encoun+ter the extraordinary.

In the introductory Postscript, I defined, as I tend to do, what a postscript is, in tedious detail. But I will spare you any repetition. But I must tell you, in Quotidia, things refract and splinter in rather strange ways. The Pee-eSSe’s can bifurcate and attach themselves to two or more Letters or Postcards From Quotidia. And this seems to have happened here. What I thought was a simple matter of continuing a conversation about American poet, Lee Edgar Masters, from the first Postscript- blew up in my face, metaphorically.

When the latest war in Ukraine broke out on February 24th, I sent for a book of poetry entitled Words For War, New Poems From Ukraine, published by the Ukrainian Research Institute at Harvard University. I had read online several poems from the war that, in fact, had started in 2014- eight years before the conflict erupted into the world headlines by Putin’s full-scale invasion of the neighbouring country to the south. The book took some weeks to arrive, and when it did, I was able to put a face to the name of one of the poets- Borys Humenyuk, whose poetry had an immediate effect on me at that time. I still don’t know if he lives or dies. I pray he lives. But when I read some more of his poetry when the book arrived from America, I knew I had to make room for it in this Postscript. And I will, a bit later on.

Listeners to the previous post will be aware of the template I have adopted for these Postscripts: something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. The final component, something blue, is always subsumed in the general tenor of these Postscripts. And the other components may get mixed up- as it proves to be now. The order is reversed- the something borrowed is first cab off the rank! Now, one of the  splintered PS’s attaches to the very first Postcard From Quotida, published on 15th of January 2021. These posts featured the group I was a part of for over 25 years- Banter. We sang and played in various venues out here in Western Sydney from the mid-1990s down to the present.

One of my favourite songs, sung back then by Sam Beggs of our wee group, is The Diamantina Drover. This song looks at the Australian outback experience. The drover is an iconic Aussie character and here, the persona reflects upon the landscape, his regrets, and longings, in a uniquely Antipodean way.  Written by Hugh McDonald, who performed and recorded with a number of Aussie folk bands, this is one of our favourite songs. Hugh lost his battle with prostate cancer in November 2016, a real loss to Australian folk music. This song has, by far, the most listens of any of the items on my website. And now I present my version: [insert song]

Now to the something new. Well, sort of new. I mentioned about continuing the conversation about the poetry of Lee Edgar Masters from the previous post. So, I shall! Back in 2021 on the 12th of January, I evinced a connection with Fiddler Jones, a character from Masters’ magnificent, Spoon River Anthology, originally published in 1914. I recited his poem, The Hill a couple of weeks ago and ended up using it as the inspiration of my original composition. So, I have taken his poem, Fiddler Jones, and put it to music. Is this really new, you cry? New enough, I reply. [insert song]

Birthdays are wonderful in the truest sense. Suddenly, there is a new consciousness in the universe- oh, limited at first, but with any luck, developing and blossoming over years and decades. And unrepeatable. Unique. I have watched this with each of our children over many years. Parents all over our world will relate to the agonies we go through to select and wrap and assemble those gifts that will make our children’s eyes gleam with glee as they behold the marvels we have placed before them for their delectation- fearful always that our best efforts may not be up to one of the only  marks that count- that of our child’s approval! What’s brought that on, I hear you ask? Three birthdays. My daughter, Cathy, turned fifty just over a week ago- a significant milestone. I’m still trying to work out how this has happened! I mean, I can remember the day of her birth in the Royal Victoria Hospital, Belfast, in May 1972. I was drinking  in a student pub nearby on the Falls Road, called The Beehive, dazed and confused, as I think some rock artists of the time may have termed it.

But sometimes birthdays are not so wonderful. I will not be able to send birthday greetings today to my sister, Mary, who died of cancer last year on 13th March. Nor will I be able to send birthday greetings to my sister, Monica, on June 16. I received an email last week from my brother telling me that she died, like her sister, from the ravages of cancer. Neither of my younger sisters reached three score and ten. But what I will do is commemorate Mary’s passing in a postscript reprise of the song Sprawling Blue Bells. For my sister, Monica, I will find a fitting way to mark her presence and value to the world.

I mentioned Borys Humenyuk before. In 2014, he joined a volunteer group of Ukrainians resisting the attacks by separatists on his home. If he still lives, he will be opposing the full might of the Russian military who employ thermobaric weapons. But poets, like this man keep us informed knowing that the language of dissent and remembrance in verse form will live on long after the recorder of it perishes. Here are four stanzas from his poem, It’s Normal: When HAIL rocket launchers are firing/Over residential neighbourhoods/Be they Lebanese, Syrian, or Georgian/ Or those in Mariupol, Artemivsk, Antratsyt-/There is something normal about it//It’s normal when HAIL fire balls/Hit nurseries/Where children are sleeping/It’s normal when they strike/Supermarkets full of people/Railway stations and airports/It’s normal when civilians die/By hundreds and thousands/Because it’s normal when civilians/Die in war- but of course/Only as much as war itself is normal// It’s normal that children run to playgrounds/Where they find blood-spattered toys of children/Who were taken to the morgue yesterday-/Kids being kids-/They clutch the blood-spattered toys/Parents attempt to pry the toys away/The children cry/Our toys are not as nice./And this is normal./Just so normal//It’s normal when a shell drops on a cemetery,/levels the graves of our parents./It’s normal when soldiers dig trenches/and build bunkers there./The cemetery is strategically located/We will never know who ends up buried in those trenches./This is the war of all against all-/It touches everyone-/The dead, the living, and those not yet born//

My podcast, Letters From Quotidia, Episode 196, published on April 15, 2022, has more material from this poet. The final component of this podcast is the something old, taken from Letters From Quotidia Episode 123, published, on August 27th, 2022, in remembrance of my sister Mary. Here is Sprawling Blue Bells. [insert song]

I hope the next Postscript is not as splintered as this one. I hope, also, that the subsumed blue component is not quite so dark. I’ll aim for a more serene, ethereal shade, such as Uranian blue. Uranus, the seventh planet from the sun is a seriously cool place- as you might expect, with temps as low as -224 degrees Celsius. It has things about it I like: it’s tipped over on its side with an axial tilt of 98 degrees- as am I, from time to time! I like its quirky, retrograde rotation. I like that its name derives from a Greek rather than a Roman god.  I like that some of its moons are named after Shakespeare’s characters, too. Miranda, the beautiful, innocent, and wonderful daughter of the magician Prospero from The Tempest and the fearsome and  imperious King and Queen of the Fairies, Oberon, and Titania, from that magical play,  A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The next Postscript from Quotidia drops, as they say, in two weeks’ time.

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- 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 9 Extended used; Rubix 22 also used for mixing of microphone(s) and instruments. I use the Band in a Box/RealBand 2022 combo for music composition.

Postscripts From Quotidia Episode 1

Postscripts From Quotidia Episode 1 Let Them Not Fade Away, Days Like This, The Hill

Welcome to Letters From Quotidia Postscripts Episode 1– a podcast by Quentin Bega for listeners who enjoyed that Irish phenomenon- the crack! in the 200 Letters and Postcards From Quotidia published between 11 January 2021 and 8 May 2022- Quotidia remains that space, that place, where ordinary people lead ordinary lives. But where, from time to time, they encounter the extraordinary.

So, what is a postscript? Well, my trusty internet dictionary tells me that it is 1) an additional remark at the end of a letter, for example, he added a postscript “Leaving tomorrow.” Or, 2) an afterthought; that is, an extra piece of information about an event that is added after it has happened: for example, “as a postscript to this, Paul did finally marry”. …and, of course, we wish them well! One or both of these definitions will apply to each the Postscripts. As to how many there will be- I don’t know, but probably more than a few. As to how long each will be- I can’t be sure but each one will, no doubt, be of between 15-25 minutes duration- give or take.

But why? I hear some cry. How much time do you have? I reply. Short answer is what I had to say when I set up my website on WordPress quite a while back: Quentin Bega was born in the middle of the last century, and then stumbled into the present one with something more to say. If you chance to visit Quotidia, a customs official, dressed in motley, will say to you: “Welcome to Quotidia- you don’t need a passport to get in here… but if you have one, we will make sure your visa is stamped ‘entry always permitted’”.

One of the wonderful things about the writing game, is that you can, should you so choose, re-visit what you have previously produced, whether to amend, to add, to frankly contradict, or just generally blather on. Unlike life which remorselessly follows time’s arrow- with no going back! So, this postscript is attached to Letters From Quotidia Episode 2: Let Them Not Fade Away.

I will use that old rhyme for newlyweds Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue as a template for the Postscripts. The something old component will be a reprise of a song and/or verse extract from the original Letter. The something new will be an original song composition as well, obviously, as the new prose component of the Postscript. Something borrowed will comprise a cover of a song and/or verse borrowed from the great and the good. Something blue will be the predominant hue of the Postscripts.

As my wife reminds me: from our teenage years she was and is personified by the sunny vibe surrounding the song Build Me Up Buttercup by The Foundations whereas I was and am personified by the gloomier tones of Born Under a Bad Sign by Albert King. I presented an acoustic demo in the trailer to this postscript a while back but here it is as the something old component: [insert song]

I remember with fondness letters I exchanged over many years with my sister-in-law, Dympna before she died. We were great friends. She was ten years my senior, but we formed an immediate connection when we first met and when I was sixteen years old, we often shared a surreptitious cigarette in my mother’s kitchen.  The song  you just heard describes those times. When, with my girlfriend, now wife, I visited Dympna and my brother Jim, a veterinarian in their home in County Cork in subsequent years we always had a great time listening to music, drinking Sherry from the wood, and playing poker.

After we moved to Australia in 1972, the correspondence struck up, Dympna writing on whatever spare paper surfaces that were to hand, be it quotes for drugs for ailing cows or sundry sheets of paper passing her way that had a blank surface. Her wonderfully parochial and incisive insights into matters of common interest to us both reminds me powerfully of the American poet I referenced in my second letter from Quotidia: Edgar Lee Masters, an American poet writing in the late 19th-early 20th Century.

Here is his poem, The Hill Where are Elmer, Herman, Bert, Tom and Charley,/The weak of will, the strong of arm, the clown, the boozer, the fighter?/All, all are sleeping on the hill./One passed in a fever,/One was burned in a mine,/One was killed in a brawl,/One died in a jail,/One fell from a bridge toiling for children and wife—/All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill./ Where are Ella, Kate, Mag, Lizzie and Edith,/The tender heart, the simple soul, the loud, the proud, the happy one?—/All, all are sleeping on the hill./One died in shameful child-birth,/One of a thwarted love,/One at the hands of a brute in a brothel,/One of a broken pride, in the search for heart’s desire;/One after life in far-away London and Paris/Was brought to her little space by Ella and Kate and Mag—All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill./ Where are Uncle Isaac and Aunt Emily,/And old Towny Kincaid and Sevigne Houghton,/And Major Walker who had talked/With venerable men of the revolution? —All, all are sleeping on the hill.//They brought them dead sons from the war,/And daughters whom life had crushed,/And their children fatherless, crying —/All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill./ I identified with Fiddler Jones when first I wrote episode 2 of Letters From Quotidia. I find that, now, years later, that identification is even stronger! And he gets pride of place, here in the final stanza of The Hill Where is Old Fiddler Jones/Who played with life all his ninety years,/Braving the sleet with bared breast,/Drinking, rioting, thinking neither of wife nor kin,/Nor gold, nor love, nor heaven?/Lo! he babbles of the fish-frys of long ago,/Of the horse-races of long ago at Clary’s Grove,/Of what Abe Lincoln said/One time at Springfield.//

That this literary work is still of relevance, may I cite the following: On March 13, 2021, ‘Spoon River Anthology’ was presented as online verse reading by the Oxford University Dramatic Society. Wow! Good on them- I wish I could have heard that. I referenced, also, Van Morrison in the song Let Them Not Fade Away: he was the singer in “that Belfast band, Them” Here comes the something borrowed, my cover of his song- Days Like This. [insert song]

You know, the older you get the more gaps you perceive in your life. I have listened to Van the Man since the sixties and gone to see him sing jazz standards in Belfast in the 80s. I’ve also purchased vinyl records and CDs over the years, not to mention streaming lots of his songs- yet this is the first of his songs I have ever sung! Go figure. Way back when I started these podcasts, I queried how different was I from Procrustes, the monster of Greek legend, who fitted travellers to a bed where he cut off limbs or stretched to agonising death those who did not precisely fit the bed he had arranged for them. I asked then: Are not all artists Procrustes? Here am I, shaping a journalistic narrative around a series of songs by selecting and editing bits and pieces from the world of letters. But, unlike the original Procrustes, I hope that any idea for a song that is passing by survives the smith’s hammer of my imagination as I struggle to shape it into something pleasing. So, I said then. And now, here I am again, chopping and stretching a story to fit my newest narrative bed. Am I a monster, or what?

I have to tell you: the pressure of composition makes me a rather sad monster, indeed. The something new component remains to be, at the time of writing this section of the postscript- actualised- is this really a word? I set myself a strict-ish regime of reading poetry for inspiration, especially from Edgar Lee Masters’ Spoon River Anthology. After several days enjoyable but wearisome toil, I came up with a song that claims as its inspiration the poem by Edgar Lee Masters I recited earlier- The Hill. This completes the triad of components that comprise the Postscripts- it is something new.

So, you may judge for yourself- is this a truly inspired composition or is it just some Band-in-a-Box boilerplate I put together with the help of an Artificial Intelligence bot that I purchased from the dark web to boost my numbers in the relentless quest for clicks and comments and commendations? As always, you will be the judge. Here is The Hill.  [insert song]

Credits: All written text, song lyrics andmusic (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- 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 9 Extended used; Rubix 22 also used for mixing of microphone(s) and instruments. I use the Band in a Box/RealBand 2022 combo for music composition.

Trailer for Postscripts From Quotidia

Trailer for Postscripts From Quotidia

The Letters From Quotidia are Dead: Long Live the Postscripts From Quotidia!

That great online resource, Wiktionary, defines a bad penny thus: A person or thing which is unpleasant, disreputable, or otherwise unwanted, especially one which repeatedly appears at inopportune times.

Not for me to determine but I hope that this definition does not apply to me. And while the Letters From Quotidia are no more- like that parrot in the Monty Python sketch from TV of many years ago- there is a follow-up series of posts on the way. The next six paragraphs will appear in the first post of the new series. And you will recognise the introductory sting:

Welcome to Postscripts From Quotidia Episode 1 a podcast by Quentin Bega for listeners who enjoyed that Irish phenomenon- the crack! in the 200 Letters and Postcards From Quotidia published between 11 January 2021 and 8 May 2022- Quotidia remains that space, that place, where ordinary people lead ordinary lives. But where, from time to time, they encounter the extraordinary.

So, what is a postscript? Well, my trusty internet dictionary tells me that it is 1) an additional remark at the end of a letter, for example, he added a postscript “Leaving tomorrow.” Or, 2) an afterthought; that is, an extra piece of information about an event that is added after it has happened: for example, “as a postscript to this, Paul did finally marry”. …and, of course, we wish them well!

One or both of these definitions will apply to each the Postscripts. As to how many there will be- I don’t know, but probably more than a few. As to how long each will be- I can’t be sure but each one will, no doubt, be of between 15-25 minutes duration- give or take.

But why? I hear some cry. How much time do you have? I reply.

Short answer is what I had to say when I set up my website on WordPress quite a while back: Quentin Bega was born in the middle of the last century, and then stumbled into the present one with something more to say

One of the wonderful things about the writing game, is that you can, should you so choose, re-visit what you have previously produced, whether to amend, to add, to frankly contradict, or just generally blather on. Unlike life which remorselessly follows time’s arrow- with no going back! So, there you have it- the intro to the Postscripts.

I hope to publish the first of these artefacts sometime before the winter solstice here in Australia- and quite a bit sooner if I can find the requisite inspo (for those in tank tops) or afflatus (for those more accustomed to wearing top hats).

PS(!) As a teaser, I am including a demo version of one of the songs which will feature on the first Postscript From Quotidia. Let Them Not Fade Away. It’s just me with an acoustic guitar.

Letters From Quotidia Episode 200 It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Bleedin’), Everybody’s Story

Letters From Quotidia Episode 200 It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Bleedin’), Everybody’s Story

Welcome to Letters From Quotidia, episode 200– a podcast by Quentin Bega for lovers of music, poetry, and the Crack- that most Irish of nouns which may encompass, news, gossip, fun, entertainment, and enjoyable conversation. Quotidia is that space, that place, where ordinary people lead ordinary lives. But where, from time to time, they encounter the extraordinary.

This is the ultimate podcast! But please, before ordering your troll farmers to attack me with digital flails, may I share with you the following instructive definitions from the internet dictionary.

Ultimate adj. 1.a. Being last in a series, process, or progression: 

“As the ultimate arbiter of the Constitution, the Supreme Court occupies a         central place in our scheme of government” (Richard A. Epstein) Mmm, worthy.

1.b. Eventual: as in They hoped for ultimate victory. Sure. That’s clear to me.

2. Fundamental; elemental: as in the phrase an ultimate truth. OK, I get that.

3.a. Of the greatest possible size or significance; maximum: for example, the ultimate act of courage. Many of these recently, I think.

3.b. Representing or exhibiting the greatest possible development or                     sophistication: the ultimate bicycle Look, this is the quirky example given by my internet dictionary, a bit of bathos at play here, perhaps…and finally,

3.c. Utmost; extreme: So then, how would you like to be the recipient of the ultimate insult. This meaning will feature towards the end of the letter.

Now, attracted as I am to all of these definitions, modesty prevents me from owning any but the first- that is, being the last in a series. I publish this ultimate post on Sunday, 8th May, which is Mother’s Day for Australians, as well as Russians, Ukrainians, Americans  and citizens of several other countries this year. Which brings me to the first song of this last Letter. There are many, many, beautiful songs sung to, for and about mothers and motherhood. Additionally, this year, it is also, International Women’s Day, which is celebrated on 8th May every year, so you might think that it would be entirely serendipitous were I to find a song that also included all women for a harmonious rendition extolling their multifarious virtues and achievements over time.

Alas, my muse is a cruel mistress. And, although I trawled through list after list of songs about mothers and songs about women, reaching out for this one or that one- she kept yanking me back to one song in particular. Not that I dislike it, far from it- it is a great song by one of the greatest songwriters. It was written in 1964 and recorded in 1965. I first heard it from a friend’s LP at Trench House in 1968 in my first year as a student in residence there. But I’ve never sung it or recorded it- until now.

These snippets from Wikipedia help to define it, “a grim masterpiece.” The lyrics express… anger at the… hypocrisy, commercialism, consumerism, and war mentality in contemporary American culture… the song addresses “the possibility that the most important (and least articulated) political issue of our times is that we are all being fed a false picture of reality, and it’s coming at us from every direction.”  

Good Lord! The song is as relevant today as when it was first written almost sixty years ago. There is no one, in my opinion, comparable to the writer of this song, who has released music of enduring quality and influence in each of the last seven decades! It is, of course, Bob Dylan, to whom I refer, and his song It’s Alright Ma, (I’m Only Bleeding) fits right in with the times we are living through now. And that must be the reason my muse kept me from all the other worthy candidates for this, the– and here comes that adjective again- ultimate song cover. [insert song]

So, OK, not your typical song involving a mother. But it has been observed that soldiers, in extremis, cry out for their mothers, as the dark ferryman Charon approaches to take them over the River Styx to Hades. Rudyard Kipling recognises this special bond between a mother and son in his poem, Mother O’ Mine. A short poem of eleven lines, the second and fourth line of quatrains one and two is, Mother O’ Mine, Oh, Mother O’ Mine Here are the other lines: If I were hanged on the highest hill,/ I know whose love would follow me still//If I were drowned in the deepest sea,/I know whose tears would come down to me//The final tercet is, If I were damned of body and soul/I know whose prayers would make me whole./ Mother O’ Mine, Oh Mother O’ Mine//

But the final poem about mothers must be from a woman’s perspective. Followers of the Letters will know the high regard I have for Sylvia Plath. Her poem, Morning Song, starts this way, Love set you going like a fat gold watch/. This brilliant opening line sets the standard for the rest of the poem about her confused feelings after the birth of her first child. I’m no more your mother/Than a cloud that distils a mirror to reflect its own slow/Effacement at the wind’s hand// The penultimate stanza combines love and self-mockery, One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral/In my Victorian nightgown. The final lines of the poem combine a sense of foreboding with an apprehension of joy, The window square whitens// and swallows its dull stars. And now you try/ Your handful of notes;/ The clear vowels rise like balloons//.

I think we can agree that mothers are- to use yet another adjective- superlative. I am now floating on an icefloe towards Ultima Thule, that northernmost land of ancient storytellers. Or, am I, instead, encased within a space capsule hurtling and tumbling through an interstellar void towards the object known to science as 2014 MU69? One way or another, the Letters From Quotidia are a long way from their planned trajectory when I started to transform a series of online diary entries, written years before, into the podcasts of this name which commenced publication on January 11, 2021. I thought, like some dandy or dilettante, that  I would wander effortlessly through an intellectual maze of my own construction, composed of poetry, song, art, history and- that Irish formulation that starts and ends each of the Letters- the crack!

But, just as manifestations in spacetime are bound by  universal rules which determine that objects of lesser weight are subjugated by those of greater heft- so, too, my course sees me bending back to that place where I first began. Subject to the relentless force of geopolitics that is distorting the gossamer filaments of my flimsy fabrications, I need now, like the uroboros, to swallow my own tail- and like Shakespeare’s magnificent construction of Prospero and The Tempest– vanish like the remnants of a dream.

But before I do- and with your indulgence- may I summon yet another avatar of  the adjective ultimate? I mean the noun, ultimatum! And in a thought-experiment, or dream like that mentioned by Bob Dylan in the final chorus of It’s Alright, Ma, might we demand that all of those who favour violence, discord, division, and mayhem, as ways of dealing with the problems of the world we live in- could we give them all an ultimatum: mend your ways or accept  permanent banishment to Ultima Thule!

A nice thought, of course. And one that the cynical will disparage and reject. But maybe, just maybe, in this merry month of May, which is the month of Mary, after all, we could try channelling the upwellings of peace that spring from the hearts of good people everywhere to try to make a difference in a world that wants- and needs- peace. So, here we are, back at the start.

My name is Procrastis, and procrastination’s my game, I proudly boasted. But I’ll not do that now. The song I will reprise for this, the ultimate original song of the series, is Everybody’s Story which I wrote more than half a lifetime ago. But the sentiment expressed was true back then- and way before time immemorial as well! It’s true now and will be as long as humanity holds sway in our little bit of the universe. And the sentiment?- everybody’s story’s got a point. The fictional detective, Harry Bosch said, everybody’s important- or no one is. And I’m pretty sure a non-fictional guy in Palestine over 2000 years ago said something very similar. So, to end the Letters From Quotidia, here is, Everybody’s Story. [insert song]

Credits: All written text, song lyrics andmusic (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- 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 9 Extended used; Rubix 22 also used for mixing of microphone(s) and instruments. I use the Band in a Box/RealBand 2022 combo for music composition.

Letters From Quotidia Episode 199 As I Roved Out, Oblivion Mountain

Letters From Quotidia Episode 199 As I Roved Out, Oblivion Mountain

Welcome to Letters From Quotidia, episode 199– a podcast by Quentin Bega for lovers of music, poetry, and the Crack- that most Irish of nouns which may encompass, news, gossip, fun, entertainment, and enjoyable conversation. Quotidia is that space, that place, where ordinary people lead ordinary lives. But where, from time to time, they encounter the extraordinary.

The penultimate Letters From Quotidia is being sent out on May Day. This ancient traditional greeting of the resurgence of life in the northern hemisphere has been celebrated for thousands of years: in Rome, Floralia, held from 27 April through 3 May venerated the goddess of flowers, Flora. In Germanic cultures, Walpurgis Nacht was celebrated on the night of April 30 into the first of May and commemorates the canonisation of the abbess Walpurga, and the movement of her relics on 1 May 870 AD to Eichstatt, in present day Bavaria. Wikipedia informs me that she could ward off rabies and witches who have been rumoured to cavort around cauldrons on this day.

The Celtic festival of Beltane occurs at this time and is celebrated by contemporary neopagans and wiccans- although, in the southern hemisphere, their counterparts celebrate on November first. May Day was chosen, in 1889, by socialists and communists of the Second International as International Workers Day and is marked by labour activists around the world as a day to celebrate the advances made in wages and conditions from that time. Mayday is also the international distress signal used primarily by aircraft and shipping to alert others of their peril. So, all in all, a day that is laden with meaning, both auspicious and dire.

The song I have chosen to open this letter is also set in the month of May and also laden with meaning. It’s called As I Roved Out and I first heard it sung back in the 1970s by Andy Irvine when he was with Planxty– one of my revered, ah,  influencers I guess you have to say nowadays. The title is shared by other songs, but I like this one for its melancholy and, also, its frankly puzzling final verse- which I don’t really mind, being increasingly OK with not quite understanding what I sing, view, read or consume. If you want to explore the topic further- go for it, but I find, at my age, I have to be more judicious with my use of time.

Potted summary, a man goes out for a wander and meets the young woman he previously gave a ring to as a token of his love and promise of marriage. But, he admits, in a moment of weakness, he went and married the lass with the land. And he regrets it. This bring us to the final verse which I will leave to you to puzzle out. [insert song]

Ah, the trials and tribulations of love. In the wake of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine there have been many examples of love in all its guises. Three examples gleaned from YouTube recently: we see a young woman planting carrot seeds in Eastern Ukraine as the hollow boom of artillery sounds in the near distance- she explains that her mother refuses to leave their home and so she will stay too. That’s love.

A commander of forces in the besieged Azovstal complex in Mariupol pleading for help from any source to evacuate civilians, especially children ranging from four months to seventeen years as they face annihilation at the hands of an implacable foe- that’s love.

Desperate family members of Russian soldiers they have lost contact with, phone into a Ukrainian site set up for just that purpose: I listened as they pleaded for any news, good or otherwise, of the fate of their sons, their husbands, their brothers, not too proud to speak to the enemy, to plead with their foe for information- that’s love.

Earlier in this letter, I mentioned the 1889 conference that instituted International Workers Day: those were heady days of optimistic yearning for solidarity that would transcend petty nationalistic  divisions. In the twenty-odd years that followed, as the world grew more and more interconnected through burgeoning innovations in transport, communications and media, the intelligentsia declared that wars were a relic of the barbaric past.

Michael Portillo in his travels by train through Europe for his popular BBC series, brandishes his Bradshaw’s tourist guide of 1913 as he criss-crosses the continent. In that traveller’s guide, you can hear the sincere belief in progress and fellowship as we sample the delights to be found in all corners of the continent.

Of course, it all came crashing down in 1914 with that bullet in Sarajevo that ushered in the First World War, the war to end all wars, they said. Yet some of the soldiers of that bloody conflict found themselves enlisting for the Second (and bloodier) World War a little over twenty years later. And that war was ended by two devices that, according to some, have ushered in the Anthropocene, which some say should be more properly termed the Apocalypse.

Up until now, using nuclear weapons again had been unthinkable: an unspeakable obscenity. Madness- which found an acronym in MAD- mutually assured destruction during the Cold War. But bland sociopaths have recently given voice to their use if they do not get their way. On the 16th of July 1945, Robert Oppenheimer watched the Trinity test near Alamogordo in New Mexico where the detonation of the first atomic bomb took place and it brought to his mind words from Hindu sacred scriptures, the Bhagavad Gita “Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.”

It’s sad to reflect that profound minds such as Robert Oppenheimer, or Richard Feynmann, who also assisted in the development of atomic weapons during World War Two, or Albert Einstein, who wrote to the American president, Franklin D Roosevelt urging research into nuclear weapons because the Nazis were making progress in this area and whose famous equation, E=mc squared underpinned the tremendous power available with atomic fission;  yes, it’s sad to reflect that these men of intellect and conscience seem to have been superseded by stumblebums and incompetent buffoons for whom the tying of shoelaces is a problem too complex for their feeble comprehension.

You know, I am reminded of an episode of Star Trek where a seemingly malign superior entity causes havoc for Captain Kirk and the intrepid crew of the starship Enterprise. But the problem turns out to be an alien toddler with poor impulse control from a super species. And stability is restored when its mother intervenes to stop her child’s destructive tantrums. Dear Lord, if only the predicament we find ourselves in had such a solution!

But, just as the 19th Century intelligentsia thought war was a thing of the past, succeeding generations have expressed astonishment that war was carving its horrific path through their time and their place. It’s certainly what I thought when the Balkans exploded in the first half of the 1990s. I wrote a song then which I will reprise here. It’s from episode 42 of the Letters, published just over a year ago. It’s called Oblivion Mountain and I present it now. [insert song]

That prolific poet, Anonymous has left us a poem with the title, The Humours of May Day  and I present it penultimately to lift the gloom: What Frolicks are here/So droll and so queer/ How joyful appeareth the day/ E’en Bunter and Bawd/ Unite to applaud/And celebrate first of the May// We need poetry and prayer more than ever now, so, I present a poem by a favourite of mine, the American Sara Teasdale. Here is her poem, May Day which, with its gossamer film of sadness is an appropriate poem to end this letter:

A delicate fabric of bird song/Floats in the air,/The smell of wet wild earth/Is everywhere.// Red small leaves of the maple/Are clenched like a hand,/Like girls at their first communion/The pear trees stand.//Oh I must pass nothing by/Without loving it much,/The raindrop try with my lips,/The grass with my touch;//For how can I be sure/I shall see again/The world on the first of May/Shining after the rain? So, I wonder, which May Day will prevail in the times which lie ahead of us all, the resurgence of life and hope marked by the poetry just heard. Or will that universal signal of distress, Mayday, Mayday, Mayday, echo around the only world we possess.

Credits: All written text, song lyrics andmusic (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- 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 9 Extended used; Rubix 22 also used for mixing of microphone(s) and instruments. I use the Band in a Box/RealBand 2022 combo for music composition.