MOODS AND PRASES

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 2, 24 March 1927, Page 8

MOODS AND PRASES

Written for THE SI

vi T E are living: through strange times. Life passes in swift transitions. The mode, the mood and th manner of to-day lie in the dust of forgetfulness of to-morrow. All is change!

It is interesting, this modern life of ours; but there are moment when one grows a little weary of it all. The mad rush and whirl of events, they batten on my mind like tiny hammers, or the eternal questioning of a group of little children.

Sometimes I wish for a surcease of this clamour; seek Some sanctuary where I could commune with myself in quiet contemplation. Such is my mood —a momentary lapse—a mood when I realise that the procession of my days has been a long one; a mood when a sense of passivity lies on my mind like a shadow.

The human brain is a curious thing. It is capable of such mighty achievements. In those grey cells, which lie scattered under the bony crust of my skull, are hatching the most stupendous schemes. Ideas arise like winging birds carrying messages to my voluntary centres. Such ideas! There is an urge within that brainbox of mine driving towards the highest pinnacles of ambition. I prepare my plan, marshal my mind, and soar towards the objective of achievement. Anything is possible —anything! Concentration upon the idea. A single purpose in view; Success is inevitable. I would be a great financier, controlling a world of commerce; a great orator, swaying thousands by the magic of my words; a poet, a painter, or a musician. Anything any one of these things, is within the orbit of my attainment . . . and yet, I fail in achievement. Why: I will tell you.

The world is a vast place, and “full of a number rf things.” I want to do everything, see everything, cast the tentacles of my inquisitive brain toward the uttermost corners of existence, and bring back every'hing to the storehouse of my mental experience. I want to have nine lives, like the proverbial cat . . .

My days are broken up into snippets. I work. I play. I read. I write. I paint. I listen to music and, in secret, work out the adagio movement of a Beethoven sonata. I walk far into the country and, from the top of high hills see the beauty of the world like an enamelled plaque at my feet. I bathe, and then, in some secluded spot, lie naked to the sun. Its warmth filters through me like a drug, stirring my senses to pagan thoughts. Walking with my face set to the keen wind and rain my mind is tuned to fresh excitements. In a quiet garden, under the deep shadow of an elm tree, I lie in a hammock and feel the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle flowers pour into me. The bees droning, and the common birds chattering, make a gracious contrast to my own laziness. I am content.

Some day we shall all mingle with the dust; kings, prelates, millionaires, artists, and the mighty hordes of lesser men. Then we shall become one with the homogeneity of the earth —all one substance. The ambitions, the achievements—the fruits of our life-long toll —will be as little things which men forget. The sage murmurs: “Sic transit gloria mundi,” and I, with my challenging mind and chameleon moods, cry out; I HAVE INHERITED THE EARTH AND THE FULNESS THEREOF! John Cam Duncan. Rotorua.