Einstein's Goldfish...

... that's right, Einstein's goldfish - he's my little star of the week. And what a week it's been in the jewel of the north; never a dull moment.

At the top end of town, 'The Play That Goes Wrong'  has been wooing audiences at the Opera House, inducing near-calamitous fits of laughter nightly at the accident-prone antics of the Cornley Polytechnic Drama Society ; while at the bottom end of town, the farce that is 'The Club That Goes Wrong' has been bemusing long-suffering fans of Blackpool FC because of the latest near-calamitous antics of the House of Oyston...at which we no longer know whether to laugh or cry. Actually both reactions seem appropriate in equal measure - though anger and frustration outweigh them in the end.

Why is Einstein's goldfish a star? Because with many a plucky flick of fin and swish of tail, he continues to evade the marauding clutches of Schrodinger's cat (of course).


 

There is a definition of insanity as "doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results..." that is frequently attributed to Albert Einstein. Almost certainly he didn't say it at all. (Ditto Oscar Wilde, Mark Twain and other prominent quipsters of renown. It's origin probably lies in a novel by the mystery-writer Rita Mae Brown.)

 

One compelling reason that Einstein wouldn't have said it is that he was far too intelligent. If anything, he would probably have said "insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting the same result" in the spirit of Herakleitos 2,500 years earlier who stated: "you could not step twice into the same river". Why? Because all is flux or change in space-time; put more simply: no two moments are the same no matter how similar they appear to be.

 

It is that thought principally which keeps Einstein's goldfish happy as he swims interminably round the universe of his little glass bowl; that and his musing about quantum super-positioning... and his confidence that he has the wherewithal to keep evading the claws and jaws of the shadowy cat.

 

To today's brief burst of contradictory poetics, then:

Poxymorons
Long story short,
Round World Square
A great little gang
Rented to repair
Multiplying divisions
In the disparate whole
Sets up a chant
Like a heathen prayer,
Muttering: "Nothing is real,
Nothing is real."
Of course,
But a pyrrhic victory
For the weak force.

Thanks for reading. Keep swimming against the tide, S ;-)

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Goldie - and Other Fish

 I’ll be honest with you; I’ve never had much interest in fish.  

Let me rephrase that (with apologies to pescatarians):  if the fish is before me on a plate with a crispy skin, a scattering of salt, a quarter of lemon and the promise of soft, fragrant flesh beneath the surface, then I’ll admit to feeling a frisson of excitement.  Other than that, fish, in my world, are neither here nor there.  Don’t get me wrong, if I actually think about fish I’m happy that they exist, and would never advocate cruelty to one, which, despite what the seasoned fisherman might say, includes catching one on the end of a hook.  I suppose there’s quite an element of hypocrisy there, and I know I would be shot down in flames by vegetarians, but in the interest of honesty, it has to be said: I find fish pretty boring.  

I’ve sat in waiting rooms with huge aquariums, and between bouts of anxiety about the appointment/interview ahead, I must admit I’ve admired the beauty and grace of some of the specimens. However, my over riding feeling is sorrow that these creatures are confined to a water filled glass box, however spacious it might be, and however well stocked with weeds and ornaments.  There are only so many circuits you can do and only so many dinky little bridges you can swim through before you want to get out, wrap yourself in a towel and get yourself a brew from the coffee machine.  Well, not quite, but you get the idea.

It was a different story with my first goldfish, whose name has sadly been confined to the depths of my diminishing sixty odd year old memory.  I loved that goldfish.  If I remember rightly, there were three, one each for my brothers and me.  I’m not sure we could tell which was which but that was no deterrent to our belief that we were the luckiest kids on earth.  Pets, apart from very small ones such as mice, fish or hamsters, or very slow ones such as tortoises, didn’t feature in our childhood.  My mum and dad had both had dogs as children but there were always tragic tales, and I don’t think either of them was prepared to go through years of  fights and loss, and the inevitable stress and sadness.  In these days of ipads and x-boxes and Macbooks and smartphones, it is probably incomprehensible to today’s youth that three tiny orange fish swimming round a glass bowl could hold such interest to 1950s children.  Granted, it was 1960 before we got a TV.

Everything changed when we went to stay with our cousins at the seaside.  We didn’t realise when we returned that it wasn’t Goldie who was happily swimming that tiny circuit in the bowl, occasionally bobbing to the surface for food, but a substitute, bought after a frantic dash round local pet shops by my dad who had been left behind to work, and was in charge of said pets.

Apparently, poor Goldie had floated to the surface one morning and was still there when my dad got home that evening.  By the time we were told the devastating news, years later, we found it hard to feel much sympathy for a fish, true ownership unknown, that had been unceremoniously dumped down the lav in 1959 and no doubt ended up at the end of the sewer as fish food himself. 

Despite my lack of enthusiasm for fish (apart from a couple of months in 1958 when, mesmerised by their activities, I lavished love and attention on Goldie and his compatriots), I realised something rather odd yesterday, as I reluctantly lay back in the dentist’s chair.  On the wall was a print that I found quite beautiful.  It was a shoal of fish (they looked like goldfish but it was difficult to tell as the whole picture was overlaid with a soothing blue wash, for obvious reasons).  I stared at it as I suffered the horror of the drill, the sprayer and the sucker and two pairs of hands pulling my mouth into hideous shapes, whilst I desperately tried not to swallow or gag.  Strangely, I found the picture quite calming.

When I got home, nursing a sore and sagging mouth, I glanced in the mirror to ascertain the damage, and noticed that I was wearing fish earrings.  Reflected in the mirror was not only my lopsided face, fish dangling from my ears, but the fish wallpaper that I’d chosen a few weeks previously – and regarded with horror by the decorator, who seemed strangely reluctant to paste it to the walls.  In the kitchen was the pack of salmon that the husband had got out for tea….

It was all getting a bit Tales of the Unexpected…..

Goldie, I’m sorry I lost interest in you after a very short period of fascination.  I’m sorry your end was undignified, and that I wasn’t there to comfort you.  And I’m sorry you ended up as fish food.  Now, Goldie, can you please RIP, wherever you are?

 My Life as A Goldfish (as told to Jill Reidy)

Round

And round

And round

And round

And round

Food

Bob up

Back down

Turn around

And round

And round

And round

And round

And round

And round

Thanks for reading, and if you've enjoyed it, please leave me a comment or a like - Jill

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Goldfish - All the Fun at the Fair

I remember the goldfish. It probably had the shortest life of any pet. We already had the dog, the ever-pregnant cat, so we also had a couple of kittens; a budgie and now a goldfish. I was thrilled to win it at a fairground attraction though I’ve completely forgotten what skills won me the prize. I carried it tightly in the water-filled plastic bag and took extra care in the back of my friend’s father’s car where at least four of us were jammed in for the journey home. No restrictions in the good old days. It was the beginning of the summer holidays. Our primary education was over and the prospect of going to secondary school was a million light years away and certainly not worth mentioning.  We’d had a great day out. I’d eaten parched peas for the first time and we’d all had a hotdog and a toffee apple. We were hot, tired and squashed and we soon got bored of thinking of a name for my goldfish. It became Goldie. In spite of all the wriggling and shoving on the back seat, not a drop of water was spilt and I got Goldie home in one piece.

No, of course we don’t have a goldfish bowl or a fish tank, and no, Mummy, I hadn’t considered any of the points you’re making right now…and I was having a lovely day. Was.

Goldie was temporarily housed in a crystal punch bowl, which was part of a set and apparently my Nanna would go mad if she knew about it. Despite having such a posh home and the best food from the local pet shop, Goldie only lived for two days.

I thought it was just resting, I’d never seen a dead goldfish before. It was floating on its side at the top of the bowl. My mother was full of sympathy and explained that from her own experience, goldfish from fairs didn’t always last very long and that was why she had bought it food but not a proper container. I could have another one from the pet shop if I wanted. I didn’t bother.

 Goldie was a living memory of the wonderful day I’d spent at the fair with friends and the generosity of someone else’s parents. We were moving on into different schools, staying friends, but there would be changes ahead. Another goldfish wouldn’t mean the same.

The punch bowl was returned to the sideboard and as far as I know, Nanna never found out.

I couldn’t choose between these two poems, so here they both are.

Privacy  Oh you who are shy of the popular eye, (Though most of us seek to survive it) Just think of the goldfish who wanted to die Because she could never be private.   There are pebbles and reeds for aquarium needs Of eel and of pike who are bold fish; But who gives a thought to a sheltering spot For the sensitive soul of a goldfish?   So the poor little thing swam around in a ring, In a globe of a crystalline crudity; Swam round and swam round, but no refuge she found From the public display of her nudity; No weedy retreat for a cloister discreet, From the eye of the mob to exempt her; Can you wonder she paled, and her appetite failed, Till even a fly couldn't tempt her?   I watched with dismay as she faded away; Each day she grew slimmer and slimmer.   From an amber hat burned, to a silver she turned Then swiftly was dimmer and dimmer.   No longer she gleamed, like a spectre she seemed, One morning I anxiously sought her: I only could stare - she no longer was there .  .  .     She'd simply dissolved in the water.   So when you behold bright fishes of gold, In globes of immaculate purity; Just think how they'd be more contented and free If you gave them a little obscurity.   And you who make laws, get busy because You can brighten the lives of untold fish, If its sadness you note, and a measure promote To Ensure Private Life For The Goldfish.

By Robert William Service

White Ash

 

 THERE is a woman on Michigan Boulevard keeps a parrot and goldfish and two white mice.

She used to keep a houseful of girls in kimonos and three pushbuttons on the front door.

Now she is alone with a parrot and goldfish and two white mice … but these are some of her thoughts:

The love of a soldier on furlough or a sailor on shore leave burns with a bonfire red and saffron.

The love of an emigrant workman whose wife is a thousand miles away burns with a blue smoke.

The love of a young man whose sweetheart married an older man for money burns with a sputtering uncertain flame.

And there is a love … one in a thousand … burns clean and is gone leaving a white ash.
…

 And this is a thought she never explains to the parrot and goldfish and two white mice.

by Carl Sandburg

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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