Vagueness and the Aftermath - A sporadic diary

[RED-DOG]

We're here!

Lunch on the terrace anyone?

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[TightEnd]

exciting. which City are you starting off in?

[RED-DOG]

exciting. which City are you starting off in?

Starting in New & old Delhi.

When I was asking for advice about coming here someone said I'd love it or I'd hate it, well I love it.

Seen so much unforgettable stuff already.

I'll post a few pics for now, and try to add some words later.

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[tikay]

Great photos Tom, love the one of Mrs Red in her nightie.

[Kev B]

Super pics. Wish that second one was in smellyvision.

[simonnatur]

Great photos, glad you're enjoying it. A bit jealous, brings back memories. Although I had a great time when I went, I clearly remember enjoying being able to walk along a pavement in safety when I returned.

[Eck]

Sure this was the diary for cool pics:

http://news.distractify.com/pinar/wildlife-photos-of-the-year/?v=1

Hope Mrs Red and you are having a great time.

[BigAdz]

We're here!

Lunch on the terrace anyone?

Click to see full-size image.

Hope you partook of the Chicken Lolipop.

Never a place I would want to go to, or allowed to go to for that matter, but love the fact that any curiosity I have can be enjoyed through your adventures.

Have fun Tom.

[RED-DOG]

I've been a great admirer of Robert Service ever since I heard a bouncer recite one of his poems on a channel 4 documentary . it was called 'The men that don't fit in'. (Easy to find on google) We all know someone like that, and if you read his wiki page  I think you will agree that Robert himself was a prime example.



Robert W. Service was born in 1874 in Preston, Lancashire, England and was the eldest child of 10. He composed his first poem at the age of 6 while living with his paternal grandfather and maiden aunts in Scotland. A mischievous youth, Robert always dreamt of adventure and going to sea.

Following in his father's footsteps, Robert trained as a bank cashier. His regular income afforded him enough time to write, earn extra money, and read Browning Tennyson Thackery and Keats. He attended the University of Glasgow and studied English Language and Literature. After a promotion at the bank, Robert began working on his physical condition while saving money away and dreaming of some day being a cowboy in Western Canada.

In 1895, at the age of 21, Robert announced his intentions to emigrate to Canada, and resigned his position at the bank. He set sail for Montreal with one suitcase and a copy of Robert Louis Stevenson's "The Amateur Emigrant". From Montreal, he travelled by train across Canada until he reached Vancouver Island. For six months he learned to milk cows, weed gardens, make hay, work an axe and cross cut saw, pick apples and ride horseback.

The next few years saw a lot of travel and odd jobs for Robert throughout Western Canada and the Yukon. He met a lot of interesting people, and fell in love with their stories. He heard the story of a prospector who cremated his partner one day, and his lyrical version of it ended up in a collection that he sent to his father. While Robert had intended the collection to be published for "vanity", only to be given to friends & family as gifts, the publisher offered him a check along with terms for publication rights - and his career as a writer was established.

During his lifetime, Robert published six novels, two autobiographical works, over 45 verse collections and 1,000 poems. After World War I, he married Germaine Bougeoin and they spent the remainder of their lives together, mainly on the French Riviera.

[RED-DOG]

I'm going to post one of Robert's poems to see if it will make a small dent in Tony's proseproof armour.



The Cremation of Sam McGee by Robert W. Service.


There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee,
Where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam
'Round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold
Seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way
That he'd "sooner live in hell".

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way
Over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold
It stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze
Till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one
To whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight
In our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead
Were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he,
"I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you
Won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no;
Then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold
Till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead -- it's my awful dread
Of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair,
You'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed,
So I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn;
But God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day
Of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all
That was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death,
And I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid,
Because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say:
"You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you
To cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid,
And the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb,
In my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight,
While the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows --
O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay
Seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent
And the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad,
But I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing,
And it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge,
And a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice
It was called the "Alice May".
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit,
And I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry,
"Is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor,
And I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around,
And I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared --
Such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal,
And I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like
To hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled,
And the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled
Down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak
Went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow
I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about
Ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said:
"I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; . . .
Then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm,
In the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile,
And he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear
You'll let in the cold and storm --
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee,
It's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
      




   

[tikay]

Needs to be a bit longer Tom.

I read the first 912 verses, then got bored.

Quite liked the bit I read actually, reminded me of a Johnny Cash lyric, but wayyyyyyyyyy too long for me. My attention span for that sort of stuff is not very long.

When did you get home, & how was the trip? How long were you in Dubai, or was that just a stopover?

How were the flights?

Did Mrs Red enjoy the holiday?

Was Kizzy pleased to see you when you got home?

[tikay]

I skipped to the end (in case you got cross with me for not reading it all) & thought this was sort of OK-ish.


I do not know how long in the snow
I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about
Ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said:
"I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; . . .
Then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm,
In the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile,
And he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear
You'll let in the cold and storm --
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee,
It's the first time I've been warm."

[RED-DOG]

I skipped to the end (in case you got cross with me for not reading it all) & thought this was sort of OK-ish.

Sigh...

So you didn't read it all in case I got mad with you for not reading it all?

[Woodsey]

More pics of India please when you have time  

[tikay]

I skipped to the end (in case you got cross with me for not reading it all) & thought this was sort of OK-ish.

Sigh...

So you didn't read it all in case I got mad with you for not reading it all?

Well by reading the end bit, I could make out I'd read the lot, see? But then I had an attack of conscience, & so decided to fess up.