Raking over things

I want to be Rake

 Not your common old garden variety autumn leaf, debris collecting implement, nor the opera in three acts (with epilogue) of Ivor Stravinski. 

Neither do I want to be  Hogarth’s Rake the subject of a series of 8 pictures commenced in 1735 showing Tom Rakewell, the son of a rich merchant, who wastes all his money on luxurious living, whoring, and gambling, and ultimately finishes his life in  Bedlam.

I don’t want to be the rake of Gavin Gordon’s 1935 ballet either.

I want to be the ABC TV, Cleaver Greene, Richard Roxburgh sort of Rake.

Mind you, I don’t want all of it. 

While I probably could use the sex magnet characteristic, I can’t imagine a past or present state premier that I would care to have rough and ready engagement with in the back of my BMW down behind the Hyperdome. And as for potential leaders, I really would only consider liaising with a budgie smuggler if I could be assured it would lead to the same political demise it did for the mythical Toni Colette figure. 

That would be a civic duty and I’d lie back and think of England. 

I don’t want to be the debauched Cleaver either. I think I’ve already done my share of disheveled hangovers. Forget waking up on the lawn with the governor’s sprinkler giving me a good soaking after a night on the tiles and wondering where the hell I am. Likewise I can probably do without experiences like being drunk at a public outing and making interjections loud enough for patrons to call for my ejection. Too many painful folk festival memories.

The bit of Rake I crave is the wit and erudition that comes from beautifully conceived, written and directed, ideas and language.

On reflection, I really want to be Peter Duncan or Andrew Wright -the two brilliant writers. If only I could drop in a clever line like Australians always like to root for the underdog when next I am at a dinner party and am inclined to defend  the exploits of a public figure whose weekend entertainment has been exposed (sorry the pun) as romping with the family dog. I want to cleverly use behove in a sentence, and while my friends and colleagues bandy around bawdy and scientific names to describe the male appendage I’ll happily drop in whatnot as a polite alternative.

And I want to be the brains behind the concept that so unbelievably cleverly parodies everything from dirty party politics to freedom of speech and access to information; that questions the public v the private image; that challenges nature/nurture theories, ethical behaviour, status and standing. And that is peopled by bogans, prostitutes, cross dressing lawyers, drug taking corporate cheats, manipulative school girls with  Hitchcock fixations, swingers, pseudo terrorists, ex-lovers, ex-spouses, adulterers and the mummy mafia.  

But for all my lofty desires , if the fairy godmother taps me on the shoulder with her wand, the bit I will probably get is the locked-away Rake - a victim of my own folly.

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If you missed last week's post you missed my take on Julie-Anne Davies's article The Mysterious Case of the Disappearing Woman  that appeared in yesterday's Sydney Morning Herald.  I was just a week too early to be topical!

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  This week's Art Work