And So It Began

It began with a queue, which was longer than expected, though she couldn't work out why she hadn't guessed.

Phase two, began with smokescreens, and An Entrance from The Man Himself.

And then the words came. It was inevitable. There were stories as yet untold to the world. There was the release of wisdom and secrets, which fizzed statically across the room. And she soaked it p; the words, their hidden meanings, and the vibe.

And there was doodling in books to be treasured forever, befor ethe secrets, the potential held within the air, was released unto the streets.

She left with a new sense of togetherness and purpose, a thousand old ideas bubbling to the surface to meet with the new.

The next day she would buy a new notebook, for this new beginning. For it was blessed.

And so began the new life of a writer.

Unfinished

Pirates By Day...

A while ago, Rachel sent me this:

Hey you guys - I though this was an interesting review: http://www.lrb.co.uk/v29/n09/jone01_.html

Personally I *love* typewriters and I feel prone to the kind of fetishization of them that the reviewer characterises as masculine... when I grow up and get rich I'm going to have shelves of the beautiful things, just wait. And all the staying-up-late, rolled-up sleeves and bourbon strikes a chord with me too, but all of that has clearly been encoded as masculine in our general culture too. Don't people often claim there's no need for lots of books with girl characters, because both boys and girls will identify with the boy leaders, but boys would never identify with a girl? The guy clearly thought there was no point concentrating on the 95% of typewriter users in 1930 who were female, because what they were doing wasn't so interesting (to him!!) and everyone would love to hear about Hunter S. Thompson and William S. Burroughs. Well, yes, but I want to read about the women too... and the male secretaries and the hard-drinking women as well - there had to be some! (Hint: Sarah, that's you and me. And Mum - I can never forget your advice not to let on that I can type. I'm still not convinced it's irrelevant yet.) Hmph!

Thoughts?

--
And it's had me thinking, on and off. I started formulating a reply the weekend that Pirates of the Caribbean came out, and it's festered, but refused to grow into something complete. I suspect it's a lengthly short story, but thus far, besides the notion of where it's going (a strange tale of imagination/dream-pirates and outlawed story-keepers who keep the tales alive. Not as sad as it sounds, at least, I don't think it is), this is as far as I've got with my reply:

That’s almost as beautiful an image as Keira Knightly playing pirate, which is what I woke up to this morning J. I now have this image of the pair of us in smart, hard-worn office wear, in a spacious, large-desked office, several storeys up. It has low lighting, and a window-wall overlooking the sparkling cityscape. It’s more burgundy than sepia.

And as the lights dance below us, it plays out something like this:

“You nearly finished, babe?”

“Not even close,” Ginger exhaled forcefully as she pushed back a wayward strand of hair, still staring at the page before her, “you?”

Daisy scoffed. “No.”

The pair turned their attention back to their work, and for a while, all you could hear, besides the odd heavy sigh, was the clacking of key and the judder of moving ribbon.

*

Hearing the gentle clink of two glasses being lifted from the bottom drawer, Ginger pulled herself and a dusty, battered file, out from the deep filing cabinet. Daisy had already crossed the room when she turned.

“Here,” she passed Ginger one of the glasses.

“Thanks.”

Ginger leaned against the desk, flicking through the file absentmindedly as she swirled the heavy liquid in her other hand.

“Y’know,” she mused, “sometimes, I wonder why we do this.”

Daisy grimaced.

“I know. But who else is there?”

Ginger dismissed this hastily. “Nobody’d notice if we, sort of faded into the background.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Cue: Write about the Silent Treatment

I've been giving it the silent treatment,
my sorrow, but it does not let me be.
It sits there in the gloom,
watching.
Like the ill-invited party guest, it scowls,
from the corner,
waiting for the moment
where its awkward , stunted movements
can ruin everything.

Jelly and Ice-Cream.

Or, Who's The Adult Here?

It was mentioned here that I spent my birthday doing cool stuff with one of the coolest people on earth.

Erm, it was instigated by my Dad, andSkip back a couple of days, and I was a) roaming the new forest and naming everything in sight. though I'm not exactly sure why, it quickly escalated into hilarity. The rain which lashed down upon us, incidentally, was called Rupert.

Then I spent a civilized morning bargain-shopping with my grandmother.

So, back to my birthday. I leave my grandparents' house and hop onto a train, to look around bath spa campus and meet The Pest for lunch and fun.

The tour was rather pointless. My department was closed and the student leading the tour was clueless. Completely clueless. However, it's a beautiful place with good vibes, and the course does look great.

Then, beginning with tea and art appreciation, The Pest and I took in the city. Quickly however, we slipped from adult tourism to childish fun. We discussed how to defeat the satanic power of the toddler's scream as we walked along the crescent. We sat under a tree in a circle of green, surrounded by beautiful stone architecture, listening to music and perusing Cambridge literature. And then we found this...


This playground has everything, from giant slides and climbing frames to an array of swings (including 2 for disabled kids), sandpits to those aerial tyre runs, a wonky spinning disc which was imposible to stay standing on, and a tyre see-saw on which we got stuck.

Naturally, I accepted the place at Bath Spa :-)

And summer just keeps on getting better. This week, three more of my favourite-but-rarely-seen people - my uncle, and 7-year-old cousins - came to stay.

It looked a little like this:


Eureka is a fantastic labyrinth of stuff for kids to explore and experiment with. 'Kids' not determined by age, obviously.


Mum triumphed over mud, tree roots and narrow pathways on our walk through woods and fields. Everyone got a little wet.

Much of their stay was not photo-documented. I spent one glorious late-evening at a pub, with my favourite jazz band playing, talking - properly talking - to my uncle. Just us.

The girls discovered artichokes, and Marion tried prawn curry.

We examined potato plants and wheat in fields beside the woods. We swung over the river. We skipped and hopped and jumped.

We spent 2 hours in Borders Bookstore searching for the perfect Birthday Books. And the girls each read one as we snuggled on the sofa that evening.

We played hide and seek, read monster poetry, and tried out their new game, cranium cadoo. We played the piano with more energy and randomness than you'd imagine.

I am never growing up.

It's a mystery.

How do you send an egg on a voyage down a river, or over the edge of a cliff, without it breaking? These are just 2 of the questions we'll be asking the 25 unfortunate teens whom we shall have captive in a nearby wood tomorrow evening. There will be compasses, and logic-questions, and mud. Lots of mud.

I hope we don't disturb the nearby campers.

Bwahahahahaa.

In Too Deep.

I feel like I'm drowning in a callous sea of green. Oh, there are starfish in the water, who kindly push me to the surface, where the sun shines, and the albatross glide contentedly upon the softened air, but then the rubber grip of silken weeds takes hold, and back down I go, with hardly any air at all. I love the sea, with all my heart. It's beautiful, no matter what its mood, and I wouldn't be without it. but it hurts like hell.

---

Things are weird right now. On the face of it, things are sorting themselves out, as things generally do, one way or another. But somehow, when I stop examining this fact, it slips out of sight, replaced by the knowledge that I am in fact, in too deep.

One, small sliver of an example, is the progress made today for Snehalaya. I received an email from The Boss, agreeing to the basic idea that all parties involved need a functioning training and support scheme. And though I know what's needed, and it got me all excited and relieved for a while, now I'm not so sure I want the responsibility, not sure I'm the right person to be developing it. I don't know how or where to start. I'm sinking beneath it, because I can't remember how to swim.

Rambling Bits.

Everything in my life, is falling apart. I'm can feel the skin of my sanity winched tighter every day that I'm not working. Every day I clean, I walk the dog, I watch mindless tv, and I wait for any of several people to tell me that my life can be something more again.

Admin at The Agency screwed up again and I have yet another month-or-two to wait for work with them. TNR await a seperate CRB, and in all probability, since they appear to know what they're doing, they'll have it before The Agency get theirs, despite T.A having a 2.5month headstart.

Universities are slow at responding, and India's call is getting louder and more frequent, but I know that uni is the better option, long term.

It's not just the act of my life that's broken. The List Of Broken Things in the house this week is as follows:
My stereo
My MP3 player
The cable to my laptop
The hot tap in the kitchen
The washing machine
The oven
The tumble dryer
The washing line outside
The roof - although this is now fixed, thanks to the clever workmen.

It's ridiculous. We're running out of stuff that works. Some of it's just too expensive to fix, some dad's determined that he or I should be able to sort, but he never gets around to explaining how, and I'm not the most adept at DIY tasks.

No time for a longer post. I must hand-wash some laundry and lay it out on the patio to dry(radiators are taken up with other people's clothes; I should have got up earlier). Thankfully the sun's out, so I can relax as I stand guard over my clothes, lest the locals decide to take off with them.

You Don't Mind If We Re-schedule?

I realised something this week, something I guess I've always known, but somehow tried to ignore: most people's world revolves around them.

People expect everyone else to view their lives as important as we'd like to believe it. We like it when people take an interest, when they remember the details; of course we do, it validates the human God-complex. What makes me sad - and rather confused if I'm honest - is that for most people there's very little give and take.

And whilst I go out of my way to put people, other people and their needs ahead of my own shit, whilst I try to make people feel valued, to do what I can to help whether I know a person or not, and to do it when I say I will, the rest of the world continually shunts things-to-do, shunts other people around to fit their very important lives. I don't get it, it doesn't make sense. As far as I'm concerned, other people's problems, other people are always important, always worth spending the time on, and stuff that's just for me can be juggled around. But it seems the rest of the world would disagree; their latest trauma, the person they'd rather be with, or that thing that they'd rather be doing, is always going to come first. 'People'll understand, right? I mean, unless my stuff isn't important to the person, unless I'm not important; in which case why should I waste my time on them?'

I could never presume that my stuff matters more than someone else's, but I do wish that, once in a while, I could be seen as something other than the person you can put off, because I'll understand, and I'll always be there. I'm getting sick of being shunted around. I wish that I occasionally made it onto the priority list, that you'd make me important too.

One day, I might not be here for you, either. What would you do then?

Just enough education...

I promised an informative, heart-through-a-mangle post, which explained my decision to apply for an International Education degree, with special-needs and NGO-affected modules.

In the very, very briefest of terms, I want to facilitate less of this:


and more of this:
.

Obviously, there’s more to it than that.

Can you imagine a girl so terrified, so neglected, so unaware of the good parts of the world, or of herself, that it’s all she can do to stand in front of you and quake? Can you imagine being beside the same girl, when she looks up at the paintings on a wall, and reaches towards them, taking three independent steps to run her hands along the contours? She stops, realising what she’s done, unsure, but she can’t contain her joy. I don’t have to imagine. I know.

Can you imagine a boy for whom everything is literal, being told that he ‘can’t tell’; a boy who, from that moment believes that he can’t speak? Can you imagine the frustration as he tries to communicate? Or the excitement over an awkwardly formed word, understood?

I have hundreds of these stories, of giving people chances; children and adults who need a little understanding, a little faith until they can find it for themselves. Capable, beautiful people whose needs are as ‘special’ as yours or mine. People whose tiny, gargantuan developments will lead to another, and another. It’s slow. There will be setbacks, and difficulties (how many times as a school-kid did you *think* you understood that rule of trigonometry, until you tried to apply it to another problem?) but there will be hundreds more moments like this. And each one makes the struggle worth it.

It’s not all about people with disabilities though. Far from it.

Worldwide, children are being left behind because of their gender or social position. Can you imagine getting up everyday, watching your brothers go to school, whilst your world does not extend beyond the village well? Can you imagine being told that, because your father cleans toilets, you’re going to clean toilets, too, for the rest of your life? What if your neighbours were the ones telling you? Your best friend? Your father and brothers? You want to be a teacher, a truck driver? So what; it’s not your place. How would you feel? It still happens, far, far more often than it should. And thus far, attempts at changing something so ingrained into people’s psyche, have made little more than a small dent in the way things are.

Often hand in hand with social class issues, come financial issues. Education is expensive in its own right, as westerners seeking higher education know. But not everywhere offers even basic primary education. Tuition fees, books and pens, uniforms and the cost of travel for those who cannot walk the distance between home and school, it all adds up. And what if your child brought in the few extra pennies which allowed the family to eat? Performed a vital part of the family’s workforce? Provided care for the smaller kids so that you yourself could work? What then?

And it shouldn’t stop when you reach 11, 16, 30. Imagine what a difference it would make to the street-cleaner who’s suddenly allowed the schooling he’s always dreamed of; the chance to learn a new profession, perhaps develop his own business. And would you rather be treated by the doctor with access to up-to-date research, or the doctor who’s not been sent so much as a single document, never mind refresher courses, for the last 20 years?

There are issues beyond getting people into education; there’s little point doing that if the service provided isn’t up to scratch.

Education will only provide opportunity, will only be accepted in the long term, if it’s relevant to the individuals and communities to whom it’s offered. What’s the good of trying to teach a group of people conversational English, before they have grasped their mother tongue? Or of lifting English curriculum into a rural African environment? Are they going be able to access the computers you talk about, afford their own cars to practise mechanics on? What will they gain from learning English history?

But what if you were to teach sustainable agricultural methods, teach business skills, teach African history, provide opportunities for developing minds to explore/ experiment with their own environments? What if you were to show the 'unteachable, dumb' population how their world works, how to relate to it and function within it to their maximum potential? What if you provide alternative methods of learning for those who can't focus on books?

Of course, to do any of this it has to be ensured that resources are in place; that they are not only there (you can’t learn to read without books, or to lay bricks without the materials to mix cement), but are used. I’ve worked in a limited-budget environment where, initially, every classroom resource was locked in the storeroom, because if items were finished, or broken, or lost, then management could no longer claim to be able to provide them. Backwards, maybe, and definitely missing the point, but a very real concern for many similar establishments.

Whatever ‘courses’ are provided, it has to be done in an appropriate, accessible way. Which means that the people heading any given course, must be properly trained. Teachers need to know their material and how best to present it. It’s no good expecting adults to do the same activities as a group of three-year-old’s, they tend not to view things in the same way. It’s no good trying to teach a practical skill with nothing but bookwork. Individuals have different learning styles, all of which need to be accommodated for. Information has to grab people’s attention, it has to stick. And presenting it in a variety of ways which promote independent discovery is not only more motivating for students, but develops analytical, problem solving skills valuable in the world today.

Learning by rote is heavily relied on in the majority of developing-countries’ schools. It disallows individual expression, knowledge which reaches further than the syllabus, or easy transferral to differing situations. It is, frankly, not only boring, but detrimental to persistently learn this way.

Having recently returned to the UK, I'm frequently brought close to tears - alternately elated and saddened - by the opportunities made available to individuals here; opportunities you will not find elsewhere. I'm not saying that the western world has it right. Far from it. I’ve worked with enough people whom the British systems have failed to understand and accommodate. But whilst not there yet, the western world is moving in the right direction. These people, amongst others, want to ensure that the rest of the world goes the same way. So do I.

This Transmission Is Interrupted...

A few days back, I wrote a post which was described as 'obviously you talking things around for yourself'. This had me slightly dismayed, for although there is of course a place for these posts, it's not what it had been meant to be. It was supposed to be an explanation of my choice to study further (if they'll have me). It was supposed to get people interested in what is or is not going on in the world, in the same way it had me. In 6 short paragraphs.

Sadly, it failed to even start to do these things. It was poorly, hastily constructed. It lacked heart. When I find the appropriate links and photographs, I will reformulate it into a bigger, badder, able-to-bring-you-to-tears version.

Circles

Circles; an examination in verse.

People, move in them.
Like sneakers.
Comfortable, worn in;
The new kind scorned, uncomfortable.
Rarely shared, or mix-and-matched.

---

The polka-dot queen moves in,
Bouncing jolly, coloured bright,
No-one can resist her powers
They grin, they giggle, they rush out to buy
Her novelty tie, boxers,
but they cannot grasp her wiles,
in pastel or poster-paint hues.

--

A shape, bold and endless,
Symbolic of the human psyche,
Life.
Whether stone circle or maypole,
cursed roundabout on Monday mornings,
or a tendency to repeat ourselves,
Circles hold ritual more ancient than we know.

Spirit Of The Season.

Terry Pratchett is, at least, a Demi-God. And whatever you may think of me for reading and re-reading his works of genius, I will not apologise. Nor will I stop. They’re witty and poignant and so cleverly written that they allow you to escape the world, whilst knowing at the same time that you’re not escaping at all. Pratchett is an observationist of the highest order. And whilst his examination that “we need to train ourselves on the little lies, so that we can fall for the big lies, like justice, mercy, things like that”, it is hidden amongst the strange, believable fiction of the disc. Point proved.

There’s no praise high enough for the creature that is Pratchett.

And today, I discovered this parody of ritual, this analysis of belief, has been brought to life with the likes of David Jason. Perhaps some of the humour, which Pratchett exhumes so well in his descriptive paragraphs and built up dialogues, is lost. But the spirit of the thing is good. Very good.

Nevertheless, the man can’t act.

Once, with another woman...

Once, I had a different voice inside my head.

I guess it's the same for everyone, or most at least. Something, someone, in a second you cannot determine, or slowly and discreetly over time, takes hold of your mental vocal chords and twists.
Next time that voice appears inside you, its sound is unexpected, it jars, makes you stop and think, but whatever angle you examine it from, it's undeniably you, you just don't know how it's you, when you started to sound like that.

My own inner voice, once laid back and amenable has became harsher, more often. The steely notes have been there all along, but somewhere, the fight's become more permanent. I don't know if it's a good thing.

And there's this tinny resonance within which won't allow for natural thoughts of sadness, or frustration or loss. 'What right do you have?' it pipes,Sure, everyone should be reminded of the fact that there are people worse off, but on the hour, every hour? And what about when all the crap in your head is linked to the fact anyway? Oh, I can tell it to shut up, but it never does for long. It's actually rather annoying.

Cue: Close your eyes. Write what you see.

I close my eyes and I see her, dusty-haired and tear-stained; terrified, flinching, wincing at the thought of touch. And I see them, laughing, leering, in the background.
I see him, hyperactive, violent, shunned by everyone. They don't see the hurt in his eyes, but I do.
I close my eyes and I see him, peering at the world through a porthole none but him will ever view, shying away from the chaos; rebuked, forgotten, because he doesn't respond the way they think he should.
I see blood, and pain, and scarring so deep it will never heal. I see the beatings of old, the confusion and longing. I see misery.

But I also see her, squealing with joy at the touch of grass beneath her feet. I see him sitting at a desk, focussed. I see change, slow and methodical, but definitely there.
I see unbounded hope, I see smiles beneath the dirt. I see passion and acceptance; future.

It doesn't take a lot. It's why my eyes open again, every day.

Cue: This Is Not About...

"This is not about you!" she screeched.

Taliesin choked on her words, "not, not about me!? How could you- every bit of it is about me! It's me who works day in, day out; me, who brings in the money. Me, coming home to a cold, empty apartment. And you, you're nothing," he spat "nothing to this relationship. You're never here to make yourself a part of it!"

She stared at him, wide eyed in terrified disbelief. "never-" she slumped into a chair. "You cancel every appointment we have together. I tried ignoring it, I tried to busy myself. I even got a hobby, like you suggested. Several. I tried cooking, but you were never there to taste my tortellini. I tried writing, but romance comes hard when you're starved of it. I tried the gym, but you didn't notice; likewise a beautician's course...And now I've finally found something to keep myself occupied, and you want to snatch it from me. Thank you very much!"

"Yes, but, honestly... International LARPing? "

---
It probably gives away more about me than I should allow, to tell you that I actually think this would be rather cool.

Cue: Just beyond the edge of the woods...

Just beyond the edge of the woods, the nodding snowbells gave way to harsh red rocks which jutted from sparse dry earth, all the way to the city below. Tanokk sighed, as his gaze fixed upon the grimy buildings, a halo of smog hovering proudly over the towns-folk's heads. When would people learn that this was not the answer, that their high-flying, desktop lives came at a price. That the earth would remember in the years to come.

Gingerly, he stroked the bark of the young tree. It saddened him.

Cue: Write what's under your house.

Under my house, are secrets. Brittle, they creak like cartilage-free joints in December, easily flaked and fractured once exposed. Secrets, rust; they gather a crust of lurid orange; picking is irresistible. It stains.

Under my house are secrets; thick, liquid secrets, slowly running down the crevices of souls, suffocating, until breath, and space and air are the only option.

Under my house, are secrets. When they escape, will walls fall down?

Where Go My Boats?

I'm replacing real posts, witty, intelligent, emotional posts, for an old, dusty, substandard poem. It will have to do, I'm afraid, until I have more time to do things properly,

WHERE GO MY BOATS?

A Lament For Indian Ideals

Where go my boats?

Across the sea;

Across the waves to you, from me.

Where go my boats,

‘Cross fathoms deep,

Bearing my soul

For you to keep.

For slowly, each and every day

I stay here, my soul’s worn away;

Compassion’s absent from this race,

All wanting life at easy pace,

A life where graft’s a foreign term,

And only on paper they have to learn.

So go my boats,

Across the sea,

Across the waves to you, from me.

There go my boats,

‘Cross waters churned

Bearing my soul

‘Til I return.

Write About Memories Underfoot:

I remember, when we were small enough to hide beneath the shed, she did it then, too. Never any proof, of course, except the malice in her eyes, hidden from parents' view. But I knew it was her. We all did, really, but the ever loyal parents preferred to believe that I was 'mistaken' than their pride and joy less than angelic.

It's not about the things, it never was, though spending 4 hours trying to find your clean underwear, whilst you're watched in half amusement from the other bed in the holiday-cottage room, finding your new CD, caseless and scratched beyond functioning, or trying to explain why you can't lend a much-discussed comic to your best friend, is, shall we say, annoying. No, it's not about the things. It's the fact that something, some apathy, some pure disrespectful hatred, makes her think that it's alright. It doesn't matter, because she'll crawl back to me anyway; I'm great.

Thing is, I always do.

Warning; Clear The Area.

It's happened again; reunited are two insane, hyped up individuals, each doing a damned good impersonation of a five-year-old, although they're rather larger now, and can cause far more damage. There's to be a lot of giggling, bouncing on the bed to a sesame street soundtrack, and a Pirate party. All compounded by big hair.

This could result in several minute disasters. Not least the destruction of a mattress, the loss of toothbrushes, or the creation of disturbing literature which just might find its way into the teeny tiny hands of James - the next generation to be warped and twisted into something manic by this tea-fed duo - who's fast approaching One.

You have been warned.