Some ponderings through tears in the middle of the night. And a poem.

 I wonder if this is why my father drank in the middle of the night? Goon wine - Fruity Gordo to be exact - in a coffee cup. The inability to stop the brain. The echos of dreams - nightmares - and their special kind of torture. The pain of past wrongs, the worry about future ones. Wondering if, in spite of paddling fiercely, all this is in vain. "Be the change you want to see in the world". What if the world is simply too full of hurt, making change impossible? What if making your immediate world a better place is an ideal we hold onto because we have to hold onto something? What if the small things do not actually make a difference?

As I try to find my own way out of dependence, I wish more than ever he was still here. I wish he could share in the successes of his grandchildren - his legacy. I wish I could talk to him about his own struggles. The demons that haunted him in the middle of the night. Of how to cure the pain you, to carry part of some else's load without being buried beneath the total. Maybe he would have some insight into how put your own failures to the side. Somehow I doubt it though. The coffee cup held the solution.

My Aunty's voice

I heard my aunty sing yesterday,
    though I am assuming which voice was hers.
I never heard her sing like that.
So I sat, listening for a certain tone,
    something in the voice that told me "that is her".
I think I found it.
Mind you, I also think I am deluding myself and am purely guessing.

I will ask my cousin and then I will know.
Knowing will be nice.
It is now the only way I can know her voice.
And today, today is the last day of "her" place.
By the end of it, it will no longer be Ruth's.
It will be cut from me, yet embedded so deeply into who I am
    it will be a missing limb for as long as I take breath.
It will be an itch I cannot scratch.
A home that no longer has to take me in.

All I have left is some fencing wire, opened bottles of sherry, and random bric-a-brac.
And the voice I am guessing is hers.

From a Father and a Teacher

I have been putting off writing about the state of the world for several weeks now. The events in New Zealand left me inarticulate. I do not have answers that actually will make a difference. I have felt angry and lost. While there has been much commentary pointing fingers, I know that does nothing but perpetuate hatred.

Today in class, one of my students asked me about the bombings in Sri Lanka. He was so angry. We spoke about it at length or, at least, he and others asked questions and I tried my best to answer them. The only way I could answer them is with what I do know.

I know that when someone feels superior than someone else it becomes easy to treat the other as less. As someone not of worth. Eventually someone disposable.

I know that when people cannot see that there is a future for them, they do destructive things. Either to themselves or others.

I know that often in these cases of great violence like we have seen, there are those, in the background, whispering hatred.

I know that when people are feeling lost, they look for something to hold on to. Something greater than themselves.

I know that all that hatred brings is more hatred. Violence more violence and revenge more revenge.

I know that it is not always the evil person that does the evil thing.

I know that the world is yet again on a precipice. That history tells us that great war comes as those around us tell us and themselves that it is not possible.

I know that if and/or when the next major conflict comes, unless there is some sort of international awakening, it will be the students I was talking with today who will be dying. It will be my boys. It will be my athletes. It will be my rugby team bleeding on a foreign soil because we as a people believe in hatred.

I know that if we keep on treating people, of talking about religions and races, the way we do, the soil may not be foreign. It might be right here in our wonderful country.

I know that I feel helpless. That my belief in words being important is not shared by the majority. That talking about what “they” did generalises evil to whole communities. That we set ourselves up way too often against things rather than for things.

I know that this will not be the last night that I cannot sleep, that I write with tears in my eyes, because my babies, both of my blood and of my heart, face such uncertainty. A world with so much hate. Hate that rises up like it was in the boy that sat before me today. Hate that, like hate does, lashes out – blindly, unthinkingly, destructively – destroying both the source and the target.

On this ANZAC Day morning, I hope that at least some of what “I know” does not eventuate. That I do not have to mourn the loss of my children and students as many have both recently and in the past. Tonight, after the last few weeks, it seems almost too much to hope for. A dream too big, but, hopefully, at least shared.

So it has been a hectic end to the term, with little time to dedicate functioning brain power to write about the things flowing through my head. The world is an amazing place, yet capable of great horror. I have been incredibly angry with the world and people who can only see things from one point of view.

There may be more to write about that at some stage if I can provide the time to consider my thoughts and words. In the meantime, I have had the opportunity to discover Katherine Mansfield who has a wonderful ability to paint a scene with words. It was a pleasure to write the essay below, though I am hopeful I am not restricted to 500 words too often in the next couple of years.
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Journeying to The Bay with Katherine Mansfield

Modern literature does away with the rules surrounding narrative structure and plot. The works of Katherine Mansfield are a wonderful example of this. Mansfield has used a palette of literary techniques to create the scenes within the world of At the Bay. While Mansfield’s works may often seem plotless, she is quite successful in painting a narrative portrait of a place and time. A vignette full of colour.

Perhaps the most prominent literary technique utilised in At the Bay is the continually changing point of view. This begins with the narrator in direct conversation with the reader as the scene is set, traverses the lives of a number of the bay’s occupants – including Florrie the cat – before finishing with an exchange that leaves the reader wondering if it actually occurred. This, at times abrupt, transition between characters keeps the reader moving through the world Mansfield has created in a ghostlike fashion, briefly considering the lives on display before them. During (41-42) highlights the effect of these transitions, when considering that from the character of Lottie to her Aunt Beryl, noting the disorientating effect on the reader. The reader is left unsure of the place of the characters in the story as well as their own position in relation to the narrative.

Mansfield’s characters inhabit the bay and, following them throughout the day, the reader gains insight to their lives and that of the bay itself. Characters are shown to be the product of their choices, the effects of which can be seen in their interactions. Linda feels trapped by her marriage, “Oh, the difference, the relief to have the man out of the house” (Mansfield 213). It is a conversation with Jonathon in a later scene, that this idea of a prison is explored more fully. Jonathon’s words resonate with Linda’s own experience, “it must be awful” (Mansfield 236) she responds with the reader being aware that she feels the
same about her own existence. Though, in the end, Linda is happy with her cage, smiling at the trinkets brought home by her captor while at the same time unmindful to the cause of their purchase. Hers is a gilded cage.

Symbolism is used throughout the story, the use of pink throughout the day, highlighting that it is the women’s time, being but one. This use of symbolism is present even in Mansfield’s own writing (Woolf 184-187). Beryl dreams of having a man of her own, living the life of desire she feels is represented by the Kembers. Beryl is intoxicated in their presence, yet feels that “she was being poisoned” (Mansfield 220). This intoxication and desire is symbolised as she enters the water. The warmth, the golden sand between her toes and the waves reaching her breasts, hint at a sensuality that is missing from Beryl’s life. This sensuality is ultimately rejected by Beryl.

While just a sample of the literary techniques used by Mansfield to populate her landscape, it can be seen that she is remarkably adept in their usage. On the surface, it could be considered that Mansfield has failed to construct a short story in the traditional sense. Through the use of point of view, character development, and symbolism – and many more besides – she has created a narrative that fully engages the reader, staying with them long after the story’s end. Mansfield has allowed readers to inhabit scenes full of colour.

Contemplating a mid-life crisis, but not sure I have the time or inclination

I am dying. So are you so that’s okay. It is just a thing we do. If you did not know, my plan is to live to 956. It seems a reasonable sort of time in which to get some reading done. Apparently that might take some work. As of this morning I can no longer ignore the question “Are you on any regular medication?” I cannot quite convey the hatred I have for this. The fire that is raging now, ready to burn myself and the world. That bit is probably not too good for the blood pressure the medication is trying to sort out, but I have been getting my health sorted. I have lost weight, been eating better, drinking less, moving more. It is okay though. I will get this shit sorted.

 So…

I believe, traditionally, that it is times like this, being made aware of the fragility of one’s existence and the idea that perhaps you are getting closer to the end than the start, is supposed to lead to one more desperate bid to recapture, or hang to, the youth that is being left behind. In a number of ways I am a bit of a traditionalist, a progressive one but still a traditionalist (I am sure that is not quite the contradiction that it appears to be), so the idea of a mid-life crisis needs to be considered, however I am not quite sure I can find the time. What would I do? How would I go about it? When would I fit it in? These are the existential question that confront me as I prepare for the day on this day of days.

The idea of a torrid affair holds the obvious initial appeal. More of what is good can only be better and different has the novelty factor. The problem lies in the further consideration that surely must come before engaging in such activities. I am not interested in the betrayal side of things, worrying about getting caught, or any of that. That is all just details that post coitus counselling and begging would fix eventually (My wife reviews my writing. Apparently begging would not do it). It is more: “could I actually be bothered? What would the benefits actually be?” Sure, first kisses are pretty special, but I am fortunate enough to have had the same woman in my arms these past 23 years. We know each other. She is amazing. Anybody else would simply not be worth the energy. So, not happening.

There is always the idea of a flash sports car of some description. I have a friend who did that. Was fun for a while, but then he crashed it and has gone back to something that is actually reasonable. Anyway, I am not that interested in cars. I am frequently asked by students what powers my ute. They are surprised when I tell them that I don’t know because I don’t care. “Does the car do what I need it to?” Yes or no are the only answers that matter. Besides, I cannot afford it. I would like another motorbike – I had to sell mine a couple of years ago due to cost cuts – but I cannot afford that either. A tractor would be nice.

What else? I have had too many careers to actually change one for mid-life crisis reasons besides, I love my job. I will eventually write a book, once I figure out what it will be. I did have an idea though… hopefully more to come on that soon. I would sort of like to jump from a plane or something one day, but I am not particularly in a rush. I could pull out the skateboard but my knees are dodgy as it is. My not wishing to be part of the crowd precludes me from many other activities. Besides, I am not sure where I would actually fit any of this stuff in.

Maybe this is the benefit of being busy; no time for the frivolous crisis as it constantly feels like the ice is about to break anyway. Currently I fit in the following hats: full time English teacher, rugby coach, athletics coach, lifting coach, four kids (three with ASD), fifteen pigs on 100acres, studying Master of Arts – English at 0.5, household duties shared with my wife who works about 13 hours a day 6 days a week in her business, trying to get the garden going, being an occasional thrower and weightlifter, and trying not to cry when people tell me how busy they are. I feel like I am missing something.

I do not have the inclination for a midlife crisis because my life is awesome. My wife keeps me sane-ish, my kids at home are turning into truly amazing people, and my school babies keep me young and old at the same time. I cannot fit it in because my life is awesome, though I have a bit on, and I see no benefit for me or those I love. I definitely do not have time for high blood pressure, the medication that is currently making me feel tired and lightheaded, or the potential for heart attack and stroke that threatens to destroy all the above.

When my wife comes home tonight and the kids are in bed, I will have a little cry because I am scared and want to do and see so much. I feel threatened.

Tomorrow, I will see the doctor and start to figure out a way to destroy that which would keep me from my future. And destroyed it will be. I do not have time for it to be otherwise.

How do I avoid turning this into a clumsy life affirming metaphor?

Some serendipitous reading and listening this week. I am reading Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own for uni. That is coupled with getting my head around the walking contradiction that is Jordan Peterson. I also stumbled across the article in the link below. The link between the first two is the most immediately clear. Between Woolf and the article is fairly obvious if you are familiar with Woolf’s own meandering through the opening chapter of the book. All three tie together in a way not immediately apparent, but in way that fits with the place my head is in and the purpose of this little blog. The ABC’s Radio National offered some added flavour to my thinking.

I have been struggling with my thoughts on Peterson since I first starting hearing and reading about him. On the one hand, he offers much food for thought on the way our modern society is structured and how we arrived at this place. On the other, he comes to some rather odd conclusions based on some fairly dodgy, academically speaking, grounds. I giggled (in a bookstore) to myself when I opened his book to a random page and read that we should be open to new thoughts and ideas as the world has changed and we must change with it. Considering his fame-making stand on pronouns alone, it seems that his mind is heading in two directions at once. I wish to explore his ideas further at some stage, so will leave that there.

A Room of One’s Own could very simply, with an updated setting, be written now and apply equally to a number of disadvantaged groups. The weight of historical disadvantage is a real thing. Woolf is writing in a time when, finally, women are beginning to be treated as equals. In this time, she explores why there is no female Shakespeare, why the Jane Austens and Brontes are historically few and far between. Why, in her own time, there were still so, comparative to men, few female authors. Her own situation, living on a fairly generous inheritance, is an uncommon thing for the women of her time.

This “power of privilege” is highlighted by Woolf’s situation and its current iteration explored on The Roundtable. That inherited wealth leads to privilege is hard to argue against. If an individual gets a head start not available to all, by nature they are automatically in front. This is not to say that this needs to be stopped. My personal issue with this is that it seems to be offensive, normally to those with the head start, to even acknowledge the fact. The issue we have as a society, is that the head start is growing exponentially. Look to the growing inequality in most western countries to see this at work.

So, to the tenuous link to the desire paths article and an attempt to avoid the metaphor issue. I probably can’t do the second. There is something wonderful about this article. That human nature seeks the path of least resistance is hardly a remarkable new finding. It leads into the other idea I heard discussed, this time Ben Okri on The Book Show, that we, as humans seek simplicity. While these together explain the sad nature of national and international politics, they also offer hope for the future. They explain why politicians who disregard nuance poll incredibly well, “here is the problem (simple), here is how we deal with it (direct)”. It explains Trump, Peterson, Brexit and many other things.

I am hopeful though. Simple answers can be a good thing. People are struggling; let’s help them. If a law is wrong; fix it. Similarly the direct path can cut through the rubbish, the bureaucracy of our existence. Maybe I am overly optimistic. It seems quite possible as it is generally my nature. I agree with Peterson when he talks about humans having, or developing, the solutions to human problems. That fixing things locally, the clean room, can be a launching pad to fix the big issues. While human nature is destructive in many ways, the ability to develop our own creative path forward cannot be overstated.

I will finish with a wonderful gift from Woolf. These lines: Alas, laid on the grass how small, how insignificant this thought of mine looked; the sort of fish that a good fisherman puts back into the water so that it may grow fatter and be one day worth cooking and eating.

I am hoping that some of my ideas, that I am placing, sometimes throwing, into this stream might be the same.

https://www.theguardian.com/cities/2018/oct/05/desire-paths-the-illicit-trails-that-defy-the-urban-planners?CMP=fb_gu&fbclid=IwAR0trzzY-C7_xVXk_KX7C0SfSGVIYSwhHYMIWFnunk_6WUE5fVpK5fUOfQo

Curiosity and the expression it leaves

“I pretty much try to stray in a constant state of confusion just because of the expression it leaves on my face” Johnny Depp

That probably explains his issues with Australian quarantine laws, but, when I read this, many years ago, I could not help but think that this was an appropriate way of life. Of course my expression is way prettier than his, but even if it wasn’t it seems a reasonable starting point to build a philosophical approach to living.

One of my favourite commercials ever is The Discovery Channel ad of a few years ago (see link below). We are surrounded by amazing and beautiful things both natural and man-made. To go through life blind to this is to miss out on experiencing great wonder on a regular basis. Tonight I will be woken by the full moon as it crosses to the west and begins shining directly onto my head. Sure I could close the blind — such as it is — but that would mean blocking the air flow which is as valuable as sleep in the North Queensland summer. Besides that, it is beautiful. A moon so bright it casts long shadows making torches redundant. Angled right, I could read by it. So instead, I will have a little whinge, then lie there, basking in its glory as my mind plays with the thoughts that skitter through.

A book I read most years is Bill Bryson’s A Short History of Nearly Everything. It is something I recommend to everyone. The world is truly astonishing for the curious minded. Even Bryson’s ever constant cynicism is caged by the majesty and the humbling minutiae of the universe we are lucky enough to exist in. The journey he takes me on, from the big bang, through to our bacterial grandparents, to the physics, science and mathematics that govern our very existence, leaves me with a renewed sense of awe as I focus back on the world around me.

So, Johnny had it almost right. It is right to be confused, but to simply leave it there is to stumble blindly, if still prettily, through an existence bereft of substance. There is enough in the world to be blown away by something amazing every day. A dear friend just recently called me “a nerd who reads lots of weird shit”. I was quite chuffed with this however I am well aware that perhaps this is not a goal for everyone. Perhaps there is a need to let the brain switch off with The Married at First Sight Bachelor Party Special. But when it is time to wake it up again, wake it up with the realisation that your senses have the ability to take in something astounding then do something about it.

None of us know enough about the world. So be curious. I am sure it will leave a wonderful expression on your face.

#curiosity #billbryson #ashorthistoryofnearlyeverything

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4mg-Rx5K2DQ

Teaching poetry

I know teachers who, when knowing a poetry unit is coming up, begin to hate it before it even starts. One of things we have introduced in the last couple of years is having the students write and analyse their own poem as part of a portfolio. Initially, this caused even more dread. I have found that one of things an enthusiastic teacher of poetry can achieve, is encourage students to explore their ideas and even feelings in new ways. I know of one student who received his first pass, a B, in many years through this task. Through poetry he was able to express aspects of his life that others had never heard of.

 Of course not every student is going to open themselves up in this way. That is okay. Poetry also challenges students in other ways. It gets them thinking analytically. Poetry is a puzzle that can be solved, you just need to find the pieces. Poetry can expose students to new ideas, times in history, lives other than their own. The same can be said about novels - which I love teaching as well - but poetry can do this in a concise lesson. Given that we are open to a variety of interpretations, it also gives students an opportunity to take risks in their creation of meaning.

 Part of every lesson is some kind of warm-up activity that recalls prior learning and/or gets the students. Below is the complete activity I use to get them started writing in a poetic form. It also works nicely to get them thinking about word choice and sentence structure. Having year 9 and 10 students clap out syllables is great fun and this warm up is probably my favourite out any other I do. Have a go.