And take it again in the evening.
Friday, 12 November 2010
Thursday, 11 November 2010
What a waste
I've been half heartedly following the story of landfill extension in Hong Kong. Don't ask me why. It's better than the other thing I do these days, which is try to coach my three proto-ladies in the etiquette of How to leave an argument you are losing.
This, as everyone knows, is simply to depart with your head held high, whilst uttering an incomprehensible statement as if that is your final word. Your moral ground assured, your dignity intact and your interlocutors momentarily silenced while they try and puzzle out what is going on, all gives you the necessary pause to collect your thoughts and your handbag and make for the door, which is hopefully the right one.
My three proto-type ladies are not doing that. Not at all. They are standing yelling at a situation until their faces turn blue and their lungs collapse. By that time, both parents are initiating lock down, the emergency vehicles are on stand by, and the neighbour is in hiding at the emergency nuclear bunker.
But I bet we are not alone. I bet there are similar scenes played out in Hong Kong power buildings everyday, over similar issues to who claims ownership of the paint brush and whose turn it is to throw Dolly off the roof.
Some of them are saying, Let's tear up the country park to dump sixty billion plastic bags in a pit! and I bet their opponents answer, No, that is a crap way to use land. We could build two hundred tower blocks instead! Then they both fall to fist fighting until the security forces are called and everyone gets sent to their rooms to think over how badly they just behaved.
What no-one in the Hong Kong government seems to me to be doing is pushing through any serious measures to reduce waste in the first place.
For example, Hong Kongers have a 50 cent tax on government approved plastic bags. Big deal. Each day shop keepers give away several thousand of the non-chargeable alternatives: one of the worst is a thick, bright orange plastic bag. It feels to your touch like a raw molten polymer squeezed straight out a squeegee plastic maker machine. They give away one of those for every two onions and a carrot.
Apart from fannying about with a biodegradable shopping bag, what else this Hong Kong government is doing to reduce waste I cannot tell. There is no serious investment in recycling facilities, no priority or commitment to waste reduction, no discussion of waste management that is reaching the consciousness of the shopkeeper with whom I am currently at war. There is nothing I can see that's going to change much, so sorry about the waste that this part of the world is currently dumping in your ocean, sky, and land.
I do something of nothing too. Each day, armoured with my old home-made cloth shopper, I head to the veg stall and make a grab for my carrot and onions from the weighing scales before that shopkeeper tips them in an orange plastic biohazard bag and hands them to me with a smug beat you to it, hippie!
If he does it again tomorrow, I shall merely depart the shop with my head held high. I shall say, Three flowers and an ostrich do not a triumph make.
Wednesday, 10 November 2010
It comes down to trust
Because so far, it's worked like this.
1) A child is beaten up/assaulted/killed by their parents. It matters not whether that child is educated from home, privately, at state school or in flexischool, but let's say the child is first withdrawn from school.
2) The national media pick up the story. They need to sell newspapers. If they can use an idea that sells, they do so, regardless of whether people think it's fair treatment. Mothers who kill. That sells. Lost children. That sells.
3) There is a 'public outrage' where 'something must be done'. Voices shout for government to take action. Large businesses, including charitable and private organisations, see an opportunity to lobby parliament or advance their agenda.
4) Government responds. We had a Labour government which was only too happy to oblige with another database that would extend state involvement in all our lives and simultaneously demonstrate to the public how seriously this matter is considered.
That was then. What will happen next, under a new regime? We have a 'bonfire of the quangos' right now, begun under the banner of an economic recession. The idea that 'we're all in it together' provides a start point from which to sweep away those Labour institutions, reduce local authority control, and bring in some Tory policies.
That process will result in guidance shift, administrative overhaul, legislative change. But we will still have cases come to court where a child has been beaten up/assaulted/killed by a parent. There are some mad, bad and unstable parents in this world, and it will happen, regardless of government change, social policy, and how or where the child is educated.
The newspapers will behave the same. They will select the ideas that sell. If the child is not in school, sure we risk headlines of lost child, home educated, death. Home educators will shout about the agendas. People who are trained to respond to the idea that the authorities will act will shout 'something must be done'.
But how will you want the government to respond?
My feeling is that it's time for you, people in the public, to trust home educators as parents. You should trust us the same as you would trust any parent. You have placed too much trust in the authorities. You've been trained to look to those authorities as if they have the right answers and any answers you come up with need to be authenticated by their safeguarding system.
I don't think public trust in authorities has been rewarded, personally. We have a recent history related to safeguarding children in which some of those authorities have behaved appallingly. They've squirmed, lied, backtracked, sought to remove blame from themselves, loaded it onto others, exploited legal anomalies and blamed their own system.
Meanwhile, the Labour government responded to the cries that 'something must be done' by turning every adult into a villain, every children's author into a predator, every parent into a potential abuser. They showed you 'how seriously they took matters' by seeking to vet and bar every adult who went near a child, subjecting parents to continuous scrutiny and judgment, defaming home educators, and issuing red flags to identify abuse in children which included stuff like messy hair and dirty clothing. (Into which categories I'd say every parent should fit, if they are doing a proper parenting job. Add categories: grazes on both knees, mud to the eyeballs, and look of determination while holding a stick.)
We'll see what happens next, under this government, and no doubt soon.
I assume there are some children, living close to us all, attending school or not, however they are educated, who suffer crap parents and who need the support of other agencies. Those agencies are there for all kids and any responsible person can use their eyes and judgement and call them. But you cannot assume guilt on any group of people; you cannot single out for special examination home educating parents, any more than you can demand special examination of parents of religious or philosophical viewpoints. The fact that bad things happen does not equate to a compulsory register for all home educating parents with safeguarding inspections, automatic monitoring and home visits. We had that clamour, and that proposed response, and we need to think how it impacts on everyone.
Really, I think it's time to look at the home educating parent who lives next door and stop demanding action on all home educators. Use your own common sense. Take responsibility for your own judgments. Trust in your own thinking. You don't need to have a local authority inspector come round and show you they ticked a box for your neighbour simply on the basis that they home educate.
And if you don't trust any parent, that can't be my responsibility to resolve.
1) A child is beaten up/assaulted/killed by their parents. It matters not whether that child is educated from home, privately, at state school or in flexischool, but let's say the child is first withdrawn from school.
2) The national media pick up the story. They need to sell newspapers. If they can use an idea that sells, they do so, regardless of whether people think it's fair treatment. Mothers who kill. That sells. Lost children. That sells.
3) There is a 'public outrage' where 'something must be done'. Voices shout for government to take action. Large businesses, including charitable and private organisations, see an opportunity to lobby parliament or advance their agenda.
4) Government responds. We had a Labour government which was only too happy to oblige with another database that would extend state involvement in all our lives and simultaneously demonstrate to the public how seriously this matter is considered.
That was then. What will happen next, under a new regime? We have a 'bonfire of the quangos' right now, begun under the banner of an economic recession. The idea that 'we're all in it together' provides a start point from which to sweep away those Labour institutions, reduce local authority control, and bring in some Tory policies.
That process will result in guidance shift, administrative overhaul, legislative change. But we will still have cases come to court where a child has been beaten up/assaulted/killed by a parent. There are some mad, bad and unstable parents in this world, and it will happen, regardless of government change, social policy, and how or where the child is educated.
The newspapers will behave the same. They will select the ideas that sell. If the child is not in school, sure we risk headlines of lost child, home educated, death. Home educators will shout about the agendas. People who are trained to respond to the idea that the authorities will act will shout 'something must be done'.
But how will you want the government to respond?
My feeling is that it's time for you, people in the public, to trust home educators as parents. You should trust us the same as you would trust any parent. You have placed too much trust in the authorities. You've been trained to look to those authorities as if they have the right answers and any answers you come up with need to be authenticated by their safeguarding system.
I don't think public trust in authorities has been rewarded, personally. We have a recent history related to safeguarding children in which some of those authorities have behaved appallingly. They've squirmed, lied, backtracked, sought to remove blame from themselves, loaded it onto others, exploited legal anomalies and blamed their own system.
Meanwhile, the Labour government responded to the cries that 'something must be done' by turning every adult into a villain, every children's author into a predator, every parent into a potential abuser. They showed you 'how seriously they took matters' by seeking to vet and bar every adult who went near a child, subjecting parents to continuous scrutiny and judgment, defaming home educators, and issuing red flags to identify abuse in children which included stuff like messy hair and dirty clothing. (Into which categories I'd say every parent should fit, if they are doing a proper parenting job. Add categories: grazes on both knees, mud to the eyeballs, and look of determination while holding a stick.)
We'll see what happens next, under this government, and no doubt soon.
I assume there are some children, living close to us all, attending school or not, however they are educated, who suffer crap parents and who need the support of other agencies. Those agencies are there for all kids and any responsible person can use their eyes and judgement and call them. But you cannot assume guilt on any group of people; you cannot single out for special examination home educating parents, any more than you can demand special examination of parents of religious or philosophical viewpoints. The fact that bad things happen does not equate to a compulsory register for all home educating parents with safeguarding inspections, automatic monitoring and home visits. We had that clamour, and that proposed response, and we need to think how it impacts on everyone.
Really, I think it's time to look at the home educating parent who lives next door and stop demanding action on all home educators. Use your own common sense. Take responsibility for your own judgments. Trust in your own thinking. You don't need to have a local authority inspector come round and show you they ticked a box for your neighbour simply on the basis that they home educate.
And if you don't trust any parent, that can't be my responsibility to resolve.
Tuesday, 9 November 2010
Photoblog Hong Kong: Lei Cheng Uk Han Tomb Museum
Cheer myself up by dragging the kids to a tomb.
This gravesite dates from the Han dynasty. We're told it may be the tomb of an officer, come down from central China to the wild, seabeaten shores of the southern China coast. How do they know? This grave, we learn, contains pottery items in a style typical of the mighty Han Dynasty, and not items of the local Yue culture, which would have been mostly three-legged bronze vessels.
If you're lost, English reader, jump two thousand years back, when the families of England were offered the option: accept Roman administration, or fight out your tribal days in the spirit of Boudicca.
We're told that this tomb is particularly important, for it shows the reach of a dynastic power. It was discovered by accident when hill slopes were levelled to provide housing. The site was recognised and preserved, and today you can see a fine brick building behind glass. We can't get into it. Probably in case we breathe on it, walk in it, or chip bits off for good fortune. It seems to have an air conditioner unit driven into the ground of the central portion. We're informed this is for temperature control and required to preserve optimum humidity.
Fifty eight grave items were found in the tomb and some are displayed in the museum next door. Considering that at this time you can take anything with you, I thought fifty eight doesn't sound like much of a commitment to a comfortable afterlife.
Me, I'm rebelliously taking more than my due, with two thousand books, knickers, comfy chair, roll up mattress, spare glasses, my biggest ladle, electricity and clean water supplies, selection of crockery and the saucepan that Dig calls the tribal cooking pot. I'm also shoving in my green shawl (the one that works like an ID document to being British). It is useful to sit on for picnics, wrap round you if it gets chilly and, in those everyday emergencies, doubles up as an arm sling and a handbag.
No dead bodies though. That's a shame; it would have given the archaeologists something to poke their fingers into. I suppose it leaves us the question Why isn't there a body in the tomb?
Grit and the gritlets provide plenty of answers to that as we peer into the empty tomb. I offer the unimaginative grown up response, 'there is probably another grave elsewhere' but prefer the more interesting 'he was beaten to death on the road to Beijing by a giant albatross' (Squirrel). Wherever he is now, I bet he had his work cut out down here, in these difficult lands and seas of mountains and boats.
Go, if you are in town. The displays are useful, the video introduction helpful, and the guards over attentive. I think that in the west we are told China has a long and purposeful history of order and continuity. Disorder is treated as an aberration and deviation from the norm. While a story of continuous control and Confucian harmony can be told, I bet you could also tell a story of rebellions, confrontations, divisions and internal fighting.
Anyway, before we leave, we have the required argument over who is allowed to stand where when looking at the brick tomb and broken pottery; who always gets the best sightline; who never gets what they want; who is right; who called whom a baby etc. etc.
Maybe the best bit of the tomb visit for the squabbling triplets is the running about in the sunshine, at the Han Dynasty inspired garden next door. Here it is quiet and peaceful. I take the advantage of the sitting area in the pavilion to read aloud extracts of Chinese history two thousand years ago while the not-so-small argumentative mouths are busy with bread and biscuits.
Then the kids run about, probably raising the eyebrows of the elderly folk who may have been sitting like this for two thousand years themselves. Amongst this busy suburb of Hong Kong, they come to the quiet stone seats in the pavilions by the curved paths and sea sculptured rocks of the garden to chat and take gentle refuge from the busy streets and noise outside.
This gravesite dates from the Han dynasty. We're told it may be the tomb of an officer, come down from central China to the wild, seabeaten shores of the southern China coast. How do they know? This grave, we learn, contains pottery items in a style typical of the mighty Han Dynasty, and not items of the local Yue culture, which would have been mostly three-legged bronze vessels.
If you're lost, English reader, jump two thousand years back, when the families of England were offered the option: accept Roman administration, or fight out your tribal days in the spirit of Boudicca.
We're told that this tomb is particularly important, for it shows the reach of a dynastic power. It was discovered by accident when hill slopes were levelled to provide housing. The site was recognised and preserved, and today you can see a fine brick building behind glass. We can't get into it. Probably in case we breathe on it, walk in it, or chip bits off for good fortune. It seems to have an air conditioner unit driven into the ground of the central portion. We're informed this is for temperature control and required to preserve optimum humidity.
Fifty eight grave items were found in the tomb and some are displayed in the museum next door. Considering that at this time you can take anything with you, I thought fifty eight doesn't sound like much of a commitment to a comfortable afterlife.
Me, I'm rebelliously taking more than my due, with two thousand books, knickers, comfy chair, roll up mattress, spare glasses, my biggest ladle, electricity and clean water supplies, selection of crockery and the saucepan that Dig calls the tribal cooking pot. I'm also shoving in my green shawl (the one that works like an ID document to being British). It is useful to sit on for picnics, wrap round you if it gets chilly and, in those everyday emergencies, doubles up as an arm sling and a handbag.
No dead bodies though. That's a shame; it would have given the archaeologists something to poke their fingers into. I suppose it leaves us the question Why isn't there a body in the tomb?
Grit and the gritlets provide plenty of answers to that as we peer into the empty tomb. I offer the unimaginative grown up response, 'there is probably another grave elsewhere' but prefer the more interesting 'he was beaten to death on the road to Beijing by a giant albatross' (Squirrel). Wherever he is now, I bet he had his work cut out down here, in these difficult lands and seas of mountains and boats.
Go, if you are in town. The displays are useful, the video introduction helpful, and the guards over attentive. I think that in the west we are told China has a long and purposeful history of order and continuity. Disorder is treated as an aberration and deviation from the norm. While a story of continuous control and Confucian harmony can be told, I bet you could also tell a story of rebellions, confrontations, divisions and internal fighting.
Anyway, before we leave, we have the required argument over who is allowed to stand where when looking at the brick tomb and broken pottery; who always gets the best sightline; who never gets what they want; who is right; who called whom a baby etc. etc.
Maybe the best bit of the tomb visit for the squabbling triplets is the running about in the sunshine, at the Han Dynasty inspired garden next door. Here it is quiet and peaceful. I take the advantage of the sitting area in the pavilion to read aloud extracts of Chinese history two thousand years ago while the not-so-small argumentative mouths are busy with bread and biscuits.
Then the kids run about, probably raising the eyebrows of the elderly folk who may have been sitting like this for two thousand years themselves. Amongst this busy suburb of Hong Kong, they come to the quiet stone seats in the pavilions by the curved paths and sea sculptured rocks of the garden to chat and take gentle refuge from the busy streets and noise outside.
Monday, 8 November 2010
Photoblog Hong Kong: Museum of Coastal Defence
Hold my hand; we'll walk around this very interesting museum. Located on the sticky-out-bit at the east-top-end of Hong Kong.
Trust me. I have this geography sorted. And shut up about holding hands. No one else holds hands with me unless I've knocked them out first. Let's arrive by the scenic route.
It's a very fine museum building isn't it? Now on the site of which previously there was a pile of bricks, some concrete and some jungle.
That's probably a more imaginative building than I could muster given the starting point. It was once a training ground for the British Army, maybe until they had to give up Hong Kong gracefully. Or have it wrestled off them with a diplomatic incident and the world staring at them. Wise decision, I'd say. Are you listening, kids, regarding the pack of crayons?
Anyway, outside on the heritage trail we can stare at some lumps of concrete scattered about with metal bits stuck in them. This is practical weaponry. Like, Here are the remains of the Central Battery Depression Range Finder. I pretend it is fascinating history. I don't know why. I feel obliged, in case it is educational. We all look mournful.
Here's a tree growing out of a chimney.
It's either that, or the 6-inch Disappearing Gun No 1 and the North Caponier Concealed Defence Structure.
Give me credit, I tried. I think, if I work harder, I might see the excitement of guns and warfare.
Because I like to try and please everyone, I could run a reenactment of the Battle of Bosworth on the front room carpet with puffins. Truthfully, I have failed to show any interest in any military career whatsoever. I am one of those feeble pointless types that would burst into tears and cry But why can't you be nice to each other?
I console myself with the knowledge that concrete and metal memorabilia of how we can blow each other up is ultimately less fascinating for my children than a set of worthy information panels about seventeenth century naval fleets from Portugal. Maybe I am bringing them up OK. Shark seems quite taken with the academic history on the inside of the building.
I'm cheering up now, because once we're in this building, Tiger says she likes the uniforms because they give her ideas for hats the dollies might like to wear.
She also finds some shipwrecked items which require taking home in note form. (I'll just include this photo for the local authority, to prove home educated kids can hold pencils.)
Anyway, I become enthused by this bit of history and politics.
It's a story we encounter quite a bit over here. I bet the National Curriculum in England doesn't include it. The Opium Wars came about because the Brits sold several million ordinary Chinese citizens heavy quantities of a highly addictive drug. Needing to protect that trade they then sent battle ships up the coastline to threaten Beijing, and in time grabbed Hong Kong, a stash of cash, the New Territories and the lucrative drug dealing profits of Asia.
So, a mixed bag of a museum for the gritty world view, with some parts that were bright and shiny and interesting, and other parts that made the best of an old torpedo. If you are interested in armaments, that is the Brennan Torpedo invented in 1877 which was steered by cables.
By the way, do not throw yourself off the lookout walk.
Just enjoy the views.
Which are stunning. There. All the info you need. Do not come in the rain. The inside is better than the outside if you are a feeble non-military type. The history is comprehensive and the panels genuinely work hard to communicate. The building is spacious with a great kid and computer area.
Now, time to avoid the predictable tat in the gift shop and go home.
And thank you for holding my hand all the way round.
Trust me. I have this geography sorted. And shut up about holding hands. No one else holds hands with me unless I've knocked them out first. Let's arrive by the scenic route.
It's a very fine museum building isn't it? Now on the site of which previously there was a pile of bricks, some concrete and some jungle.
That's probably a more imaginative building than I could muster given the starting point. It was once a training ground for the British Army, maybe until they had to give up Hong Kong gracefully. Or have it wrestled off them with a diplomatic incident and the world staring at them. Wise decision, I'd say. Are you listening, kids, regarding the pack of crayons?
Anyway, outside on the heritage trail we can stare at some lumps of concrete scattered about with metal bits stuck in them. This is practical weaponry. Like, Here are the remains of the Central Battery Depression Range Finder. I pretend it is fascinating history. I don't know why. I feel obliged, in case it is educational. We all look mournful.
Here's a tree growing out of a chimney.
It's either that, or the 6-inch Disappearing Gun No 1 and the North Caponier Concealed Defence Structure.
Give me credit, I tried. I think, if I work harder, I might see the excitement of guns and warfare.
Because I like to try and please everyone, I could run a reenactment of the Battle of Bosworth on the front room carpet with puffins. Truthfully, I have failed to show any interest in any military career whatsoever. I am one of those feeble pointless types that would burst into tears and cry But why can't you be nice to each other?
I console myself with the knowledge that concrete and metal memorabilia of how we can blow each other up is ultimately less fascinating for my children than a set of worthy information panels about seventeenth century naval fleets from Portugal. Maybe I am bringing them up OK. Shark seems quite taken with the academic history on the inside of the building.
I'm cheering up now, because once we're in this building, Tiger says she likes the uniforms because they give her ideas for hats the dollies might like to wear.
She also finds some shipwrecked items which require taking home in note form. (I'll just include this photo for the local authority, to prove home educated kids can hold pencils.)
Anyway, I become enthused by this bit of history and politics.
It's a story we encounter quite a bit over here. I bet the National Curriculum in England doesn't include it. The Opium Wars came about because the Brits sold several million ordinary Chinese citizens heavy quantities of a highly addictive drug. Needing to protect that trade they then sent battle ships up the coastline to threaten Beijing, and in time grabbed Hong Kong, a stash of cash, the New Territories and the lucrative drug dealing profits of Asia.
So, a mixed bag of a museum for the gritty world view, with some parts that were bright and shiny and interesting, and other parts that made the best of an old torpedo. If you are interested in armaments, that is the Brennan Torpedo invented in 1877 which was steered by cables.
By the way, do not throw yourself off the lookout walk.
Just enjoy the views.
Which are stunning. There. All the info you need. Do not come in the rain. The inside is better than the outside if you are a feeble non-military type. The history is comprehensive and the panels genuinely work hard to communicate. The building is spacious with a great kid and computer area.
Now, time to avoid the predictable tat in the gift shop and go home.
And thank you for holding my hand all the way round.
Sunday, 7 November 2010
Then Dig got up and moved.
I sat on the ferry the other day and got quite angry.
Scowling, muttering, eyeball rolling, and finger-in-the-air jabbing is exactly how you can tell.
Fortunately, this time Dig was sitting next to me, so I wasn't surrounded by a widening space and people peering from behind their newspapers.
Today, they probably assumed I was cross with Dig. Like, he fails to put out the rubbish! It should be his job! What else does he do around this house? (Apart from earn all the family income.)
But I was not cross with Dig. No. I was cross because sometimes I do not feel I have a voice.
Incidentally, if I did have a voice, no-one would listen. People lose all consciousness the moment they see The Hair. I wish I could say that my hair looks as generous and fulsome as a pair of Pamela Anderson strap-on breasts, and that is why most people are struck dumb on meeting me for the first time. It is not. Looking at my hair is like looking into a scaled model of the Big Bang. One that has gone terribly, horribly, wrong.
Now even I'm getting distracted by The Hair. Forget The Hair. That is not the point of this post.
The point of this post is that I read a discussion a little while ago, about whether small groups working together can create ideas and act upon them in such a way to impact society for the better.
The writer invited suggestions about how community groups can be encouraged. The first comment to appear in that discussion was of the nature 'teach community involvement in school'. I thought, that is so totally the wrong way round, I could smash up the monitor screen so I never had to read that comment ever again.
Then I wanted to write a comment about the communities I am part of, and say things about how they work in society. But I knew there was no point in adding to that discussion anyway, because no one there would listen. They had already wandered off into how schools could help teach a community how to be a community. My voice would be way out of that discussion, discounted, and lost.
So I thought maybe I should put some of my comment into my own blog, because that is my place for a voice, even though it is sometimes weepy, self-pitying, rambling, incoherent and downright odd.
So here it is.
One of the groups of people I listen to and talk to is the home educating community. I do not know sometimes if I am part of it or not, nor sometimes whether I should call it a community.
Astonishing diversity characterises this group of people. Rich, poor, middle income, on benefits, professional. School-at-home; autonomous; flexi-school; natural learners; learners with very specific needs and qualities and gifts, and kids who just want to draw horses (hello Tiger!). We're all there, swilling about.
Of course we don't all simply agree. Sometimes, when there is a political issue afoot (like whether to draw up new guidelines for local authorities or not) you could lock two home educators in a room together and fifteen minutes later one will emerge with a black eye and the other with a fistful of hair. If we're lucky they might have agreed to disagree.
In a way, that is how it should be. The voices are diverse, chaotic, yelling to be heard, arguing that no-one represents an individual better than an individual themselves.
But from it I can see two things. First, the most incredible qualities. Resourcefulness, strength, wisdom, and bloody minded determination. You will receive a hard and fast welcome somewhere here. Open hands, straightforward talk, and generous warm hearts will help you on the way.
Second, you'll find a willingness to react to social challenge. That might be because, if you home educate, you simply throw your kids in the face of society. You parade them to the library at 10.30 on a Monday morning. You stand arguing in front of the museum exhibit on iguanas for an hour. You march them to the shops while one kid is dressed as a skeleton, and the other has experimented with the blue face paint again. When society notices us, which they do, then believe me, we aren't going to wither and creep away under your gaze. We're going to stand up and tell you what we do.
From that, I'm going to assert that people in this home ed world are natural innovators, both in education, and in society. We push at the mainstream because we face it daily. You can see us everywhere presenting different agendas, a different approach to living and learning, different educational thinking, and different resourcing. That type of innovation should be supported and encouraged. The previous government reacted to it by attempting to control it, micro manage it, and measure its life-blood against a list of dead tick-sheets nailed to the coffin lid of a clipboard.
If you doubt me, compare your mainstream educational provision. There, you're hidebound by years of rules, guidelines, vetting procedures, checks, more checks, inspections, tick sheets. No-one can move from one classroom to another without massive organisational and timetabling input from several members of staff. How inefficient and unresponsive to change can that be? How can you teach community growth, wisdom, innovation, from that?
So you should listen here. People in the home educating community may be very diverse and seem to argue a lot, but we are distinguished from the mainstream, and that is our very great strength.
We have a very different relationship with state authorities; we come to those authorities with different demands, expectations, ideas and resources. We are not going to simply accept what we are told or given. We do not need to be 'taught' how to create a community. We do that already, based on our shared interests, outlooks, and kids.
And as for the mainstream? We will shape your expectations. We will shape your schools. We will shape your educational future. We are already doing that. We do it because we are committed to what we do. We are doing this visibly in your neighbourhood community every single day of the year.
That is why the commentator who immediately reaches for mainstream school as the place to teach community involvement is looking in the wrong direction. Look the other way, to home educators: we are showing you a way forward. And it is another reason why you should take Grit very seriously and stop staring at the damn hair.
Scowling, muttering, eyeball rolling, and finger-in-the-air jabbing is exactly how you can tell.
Fortunately, this time Dig was sitting next to me, so I wasn't surrounded by a widening space and people peering from behind their newspapers.
Today, they probably assumed I was cross with Dig. Like, he fails to put out the rubbish! It should be his job! What else does he do around this house? (Apart from earn all the family income.)
But I was not cross with Dig. No. I was cross because sometimes I do not feel I have a voice.
Incidentally, if I did have a voice, no-one would listen. People lose all consciousness the moment they see The Hair. I wish I could say that my hair looks as generous and fulsome as a pair of Pamela Anderson strap-on breasts, and that is why most people are struck dumb on meeting me for the first time. It is not. Looking at my hair is like looking into a scaled model of the Big Bang. One that has gone terribly, horribly, wrong.
Now even I'm getting distracted by The Hair. Forget The Hair. That is not the point of this post.
The point of this post is that I read a discussion a little while ago, about whether small groups working together can create ideas and act upon them in such a way to impact society for the better.
The writer invited suggestions about how community groups can be encouraged. The first comment to appear in that discussion was of the nature 'teach community involvement in school'. I thought, that is so totally the wrong way round, I could smash up the monitor screen so I never had to read that comment ever again.
Then I wanted to write a comment about the communities I am part of, and say things about how they work in society. But I knew there was no point in adding to that discussion anyway, because no one there would listen. They had already wandered off into how schools could help teach a community how to be a community. My voice would be way out of that discussion, discounted, and lost.
So I thought maybe I should put some of my comment into my own blog, because that is my place for a voice, even though it is sometimes weepy, self-pitying, rambling, incoherent and downright odd.
So here it is.
One of the groups of people I listen to and talk to is the home educating community. I do not know sometimes if I am part of it or not, nor sometimes whether I should call it a community.
Astonishing diversity characterises this group of people. Rich, poor, middle income, on benefits, professional. School-at-home; autonomous; flexi-school; natural learners; learners with very specific needs and qualities and gifts, and kids who just want to draw horses (hello Tiger!). We're all there, swilling about.
Of course we don't all simply agree. Sometimes, when there is a political issue afoot (like whether to draw up new guidelines for local authorities or not) you could lock two home educators in a room together and fifteen minutes later one will emerge with a black eye and the other with a fistful of hair. If we're lucky they might have agreed to disagree.
In a way, that is how it should be. The voices are diverse, chaotic, yelling to be heard, arguing that no-one represents an individual better than an individual themselves.
But from it I can see two things. First, the most incredible qualities. Resourcefulness, strength, wisdom, and bloody minded determination. You will receive a hard and fast welcome somewhere here. Open hands, straightforward talk, and generous warm hearts will help you on the way.
Second, you'll find a willingness to react to social challenge. That might be because, if you home educate, you simply throw your kids in the face of society. You parade them to the library at 10.30 on a Monday morning. You stand arguing in front of the museum exhibit on iguanas for an hour. You march them to the shops while one kid is dressed as a skeleton, and the other has experimented with the blue face paint again. When society notices us, which they do, then believe me, we aren't going to wither and creep away under your gaze. We're going to stand up and tell you what we do.
From that, I'm going to assert that people in this home ed world are natural innovators, both in education, and in society. We push at the mainstream because we face it daily. You can see us everywhere presenting different agendas, a different approach to living and learning, different educational thinking, and different resourcing. That type of innovation should be supported and encouraged. The previous government reacted to it by attempting to control it, micro manage it, and measure its life-blood against a list of dead tick-sheets nailed to the coffin lid of a clipboard.
If you doubt me, compare your mainstream educational provision. There, you're hidebound by years of rules, guidelines, vetting procedures, checks, more checks, inspections, tick sheets. No-one can move from one classroom to another without massive organisational and timetabling input from several members of staff. How inefficient and unresponsive to change can that be? How can you teach community growth, wisdom, innovation, from that?
So you should listen here. People in the home educating community may be very diverse and seem to argue a lot, but we are distinguished from the mainstream, and that is our very great strength.
We have a very different relationship with state authorities; we come to those authorities with different demands, expectations, ideas and resources. We are not going to simply accept what we are told or given. We do not need to be 'taught' how to create a community. We do that already, based on our shared interests, outlooks, and kids.
And as for the mainstream? We will shape your expectations. We will shape your schools. We will shape your educational future. We are already doing that. We do it because we are committed to what we do. We are doing this visibly in your neighbourhood community every single day of the year.
That is why the commentator who immediately reaches for mainstream school as the place to teach community involvement is looking in the wrong direction. Look the other way, to home educators: we are showing you a way forward. And it is another reason why you should take Grit very seriously and stop staring at the damn hair.
Saturday, 6 November 2010
Friday, 5 November 2010
Eating out is a relief, isn't it?
Because eating out at the Waterfront Bar brings respite, not only from mama's noodles, which she mangles thrice weekly.
Eating out means for me no washing up. No sweeping, no wiping, no wringing of dishcloths, no swirling of tea towels, no wrangling of spoons from the bottom of the sink, no picking up broken crockery slipped from wet fingers crashed to the floor, no bottom-up-face-down rummaging in the cupboard, no shopping, no onion loads lugged up steps in the dark, no space in the kitchen, no hands and knees chasing the spills, no hair lifted from the bowl, no knife edge on finger nails, no forgot to buy the olive oil, no slipped down spatula behind the fridge, no clearing up, no mopping down, no opinions, no arguments, no grief about mama's resolutions, intentions, aspirations and disasters, no cries of Why didn't you tell me? I already cooked this.
Even better, I get to walk home in the dark.
Eating out means for me no washing up. No sweeping, no wiping, no wringing of dishcloths, no swirling of tea towels, no wrangling of spoons from the bottom of the sink, no picking up broken crockery slipped from wet fingers crashed to the floor, no bottom-up-face-down rummaging in the cupboard, no shopping, no onion loads lugged up steps in the dark, no space in the kitchen, no hands and knees chasing the spills, no hair lifted from the bowl, no knife edge on finger nails, no forgot to buy the olive oil, no slipped down spatula behind the fridge, no clearing up, no mopping down, no opinions, no arguments, no grief about mama's resolutions, intentions, aspirations and disasters, no cries of Why didn't you tell me? I already cooked this.
Even better, I get to walk home in the dark.
Thursday, 4 November 2010
What to do with sad miserable gits
Grit has tipped into a stink of sadlonelymiserableselfpityingbastarddom.
Ignore her. Soon I will go and give her a slap. And a lecture on moral fibre, stiff upper lips, and why the price of breakfast cereal does not matter, stop moaning about it. OK, relief would be through tender words and a hug, but forget that. It's not on the agenda. Instead, I have ten top ways to cheer up. (Probably works for both sexes):
1. Put on lip gloss and eye liner.
Princess Di did this and it worked for her. Eye liner creates an air of vulnerability and people will like you. They will not sit down next to you on the ferry to Hong Kong and, after two minutes, glance at you then get up and move. What is that about? Do I smell of wee? Try having three babies sit on your bladder for eight months before they're ripped out your womb leaving you for dead. See if you like it. Bastards.
2. Fall over.
This means people will rush to your aid and you can feel someone - anyone - actually cares. Like buggery. I mean, how many times do I have to fall over before I am rescued? I have tried limping, staggering, clinging onto rope. Eye spying the handsome Spanish sailor offloading the old women off the ship, I thought aye aye, now's my chance to swoon into a manly grasp. That would keep me going for a few weeks. What do I get? I swear when it was my turn on that gangplank, he gave me a shove.
3. Smile.
Then you can pretend people like you when they smile back. But you have to get it right. I hear there is more to this smiling lark than baring your teeth at strangers. Do that and you look like an escapee from a secure psychiatric unit. I don't know. I have not tried this one yet.
4. Say nice things.
To your family, you might try, You look lovely today. That haircut you gave yourself this morning with the craft scissors suits you. Are you going to wear knickers with that outfit? Then your family members will respond warmly and kindly and not tell you that they hate you before flouncing off. To your partner, you could try saying Hello. Do not be put off when they narrow their eyes suspiciously at you like you're up to something.
5. Breathe.
This is everywhere in Self-help for Self-pitying Bastards. Apparently, breathing is very good for you and reduces stress and tension. That would be the stress and tension created when you push a pillow onto your face to scream into it because then for sure you cannot breathe. So I'm told.
6. Wear different clothes.
Wear different clothes, and inhabit another identity. This is a good theory. It allows you to step outside yourself, metaphorically speaking, and gain perspective that your miserable bastard side looks like a hobo. Especially when they wear those black trousers and that grey top, once white; the one with a yellow curry sauce stain over the left bosom where the sad side forgot how to eat and dribbled dinner like a two-year old. Scrap this one. It doesn't work. I haven't got any other clothes and I'm not shopping with three kids hanging off my arms whining about their feet.
7. Create a happy file.
I have got one of those. It is called a blog.
8. Return to nature.
Yes, there is a hollow once filled with lovely walks through the rainsoaked mudbashed fields of England. I bet you have skeleton trees and seductive smell of wet earth. Oh shut up, Grit. These days I can kill mosquitoes with my bare hands, point at butterflies and kick frogs. (That last one was by accident.)
9. Give help.
This is good. If you want help, you must give help first. I tried to help Squirrel with long multiplication. There was no need for all that poutylippery and huffypuffing exiting the room with I am never doing maths with you ever ever again. I did not know I was supposed to put in a nought. Who tells you these things?
10. Be grateful.
Think of things for which you are grateful, aka, roofoverhead. Then think of sad people who are homeless, starving, more miserable, lonelier, dead. Slap oneself. Take excellent therapy by reading round other happy files. Or go to zooborns.
There. Grit feels better already.
Ignore her. Soon I will go and give her a slap. And a lecture on moral fibre, stiff upper lips, and why the price of breakfast cereal does not matter, stop moaning about it. OK, relief would be through tender words and a hug, but forget that. It's not on the agenda. Instead, I have ten top ways to cheer up. (Probably works for both sexes):
1. Put on lip gloss and eye liner.
Princess Di did this and it worked for her. Eye liner creates an air of vulnerability and people will like you. They will not sit down next to you on the ferry to Hong Kong and, after two minutes, glance at you then get up and move. What is that about? Do I smell of wee? Try having three babies sit on your bladder for eight months before they're ripped out your womb leaving you for dead. See if you like it. Bastards.
2. Fall over.
This means people will rush to your aid and you can feel someone - anyone - actually cares. Like buggery. I mean, how many times do I have to fall over before I am rescued? I have tried limping, staggering, clinging onto rope. Eye spying the handsome Spanish sailor offloading the old women off the ship, I thought aye aye, now's my chance to swoon into a manly grasp. That would keep me going for a few weeks. What do I get? I swear when it was my turn on that gangplank, he gave me a shove.
3. Smile.
Then you can pretend people like you when they smile back. But you have to get it right. I hear there is more to this smiling lark than baring your teeth at strangers. Do that and you look like an escapee from a secure psychiatric unit. I don't know. I have not tried this one yet.
4. Say nice things.
To your family, you might try, You look lovely today. That haircut you gave yourself this morning with the craft scissors suits you. Are you going to wear knickers with that outfit? Then your family members will respond warmly and kindly and not tell you that they hate you before flouncing off. To your partner, you could try saying Hello. Do not be put off when they narrow their eyes suspiciously at you like you're up to something.
5. Breathe.
This is everywhere in Self-help for Self-pitying Bastards. Apparently, breathing is very good for you and reduces stress and tension. That would be the stress and tension created when you push a pillow onto your face to scream into it because then for sure you cannot breathe. So I'm told.
6. Wear different clothes.
Wear different clothes, and inhabit another identity. This is a good theory. It allows you to step outside yourself, metaphorically speaking, and gain perspective that your miserable bastard side looks like a hobo. Especially when they wear those black trousers and that grey top, once white; the one with a yellow curry sauce stain over the left bosom where the sad side forgot how to eat and dribbled dinner like a two-year old. Scrap this one. It doesn't work. I haven't got any other clothes and I'm not shopping with three kids hanging off my arms whining about their feet.
7. Create a happy file.
I have got one of those. It is called a blog.
8. Return to nature.
Yes, there is a hollow once filled with lovely walks through the rainsoaked mudbashed fields of England. I bet you have skeleton trees and seductive smell of wet earth. Oh shut up, Grit. These days I can kill mosquitoes with my bare hands, point at butterflies and kick frogs. (That last one was by accident.)
9. Give help.
This is good. If you want help, you must give help first. I tried to help Squirrel with long multiplication. There was no need for all that poutylippery and huffypuffing exiting the room with I am never doing maths with you ever ever again. I did not know I was supposed to put in a nought. Who tells you these things?
10. Be grateful.
Think of things for which you are grateful, aka, roofoverhead. Then think of sad people who are homeless, starving, more miserable, lonelier, dead. Slap oneself. Take excellent therapy by reading round other happy files. Or go to zooborns.
There. Grit feels better already.
Wednesday, 3 November 2010
NSPCC, you want my answer?
No.
Here's a reminder about life in home educating land.
Home educated children go out and about in everyday society and interact with people. Some people say, 'I wish I'd done that' and some people do funny looking-in-the-air, and say 'I suppose there's nothing wrong with it'.
Home educated children learn through life happening all around us. Streets, parks, play areas, social spaces and the open air. Sometimes they hang around the cafe eavesdropping on the grown up talk about bladders. You'd rather they went off to play with the other home ed kids round the back of the public art.
Home educated children learn real-world, real-life skills alongside professionals, working people, crafts people, people doing ordinary jobs. They've not yet learned to be contemptuous of people who clean loos or drive buses, nor doff their caps at someone who peers at them and tells them, 'I'm an expert'. Nope, they treat you all with the same respect. They'll be interested in you if you return that respect.
Home educated children have access to online learning, tuition, resources and reference. They use libraries, computers, multi-media equipment, and know how to work the damn DVD player when it defeats me.
Home educated children can be found in museums, galleries, public lectures, exhibition spaces, concert halls, theatres, studios, cinemas and shopping malls. They sometimes make themselves obvious in those places by whining, showing they know a bucketload of stuff, bashing their sister, or refusing to move for 40 minutes while they make notes on the composition of limestone.
Home educated children can be found roving through woods, fields, hillsides, the old rec just beyond the back garden and the beach. Sometimes at 2pm! Call us innovating educators, why don't you?
Home educated children take advantage of the enormous resources their hard working and devoted parents muster (yes, I take applause now); from lessons to visits to art supplies to specialist teachers and play dates. And thank goodness Squirrel dropped the bloody ballet, that's all I'm saying.
Home educated children learn what they want, how they want, where they want. They might shout out interesting stuff about dolphins in the middle of Sainsbury's while you glow with pride. Or they point out the failings of an educational workshop in embarrassing detail and a loud voice while you look blankly around with an expression that says 'Whose children are those?'
Home educated children are very social. They play together, fall out, make up, insult each other, swing fists, run about yelling with sticks, get told to put the scissors down before they have someone's eye out, and receive great doses of ticking off.
Home educated children are told to stop rocking on your chair and eat dinner, for goodness sake go to bed, wear knickers, brush your teeth, stop slapping your sister, and don't answer back with that because you are aged 10. They're also respected, listened to, cuddled, and loved.
Home educated children have days where learning is as natural as living. They can choose to take exams or no exams, sit assessments, try school, try flexischool, explore educational provision in and out the state system, follow online courses, join lessons, attend interviews, take OU degrees and acquire PhDs having been autonomously educated for years before starting college.
Home educated children have the support of their parents.
That all means No. I'm not supporting the NSPCC this Christmas. Even if you do wear a Santa hat.
From my view, you demonstrate hatred of home educators in particular, and promote an anti-parent agenda in general.
Now, NSPCC*, I'm selling you reality. What are you selling me? Apart from the deception you say I can buy this Christmas from you, at the cost of a fiver?
Can I make it clear? NSPCC, don't contact me again.
Re: your contact to my excellent! parenting! blog! last week to suggest I could use my writing to invite readers to take part in your Christmas 2010 fundraising, where you pretend to be Santa, for a price.
Here's a reminder about life in home educating land.
Home educated children go out and about in everyday society and interact with people. Some people say, 'I wish I'd done that' and some people do funny looking-in-the-air, and say 'I suppose there's nothing wrong with it'.
Home educated children learn through life happening all around us. Streets, parks, play areas, social spaces and the open air. Sometimes they hang around the cafe eavesdropping on the grown up talk about bladders. You'd rather they went off to play with the other home ed kids round the back of the public art.
Home educated children learn real-world, real-life skills alongside professionals, working people, crafts people, people doing ordinary jobs. They've not yet learned to be contemptuous of people who clean loos or drive buses, nor doff their caps at someone who peers at them and tells them, 'I'm an expert'. Nope, they treat you all with the same respect. They'll be interested in you if you return that respect.
Home educated children have access to online learning, tuition, resources and reference. They use libraries, computers, multi-media equipment, and know how to work the damn DVD player when it defeats me.
Home educated children can be found in museums, galleries, public lectures, exhibition spaces, concert halls, theatres, studios, cinemas and shopping malls. They sometimes make themselves obvious in those places by whining, showing they know a bucketload of stuff, bashing their sister, or refusing to move for 40 minutes while they make notes on the composition of limestone.
Home educated children can be found roving through woods, fields, hillsides, the old rec just beyond the back garden and the beach. Sometimes at 2pm! Call us innovating educators, why don't you?
Home educated children take advantage of the enormous resources their hard working and devoted parents muster (yes, I take applause now); from lessons to visits to art supplies to specialist teachers and play dates. And thank goodness Squirrel dropped the bloody ballet, that's all I'm saying.
Home educated children learn what they want, how they want, where they want. They might shout out interesting stuff about dolphins in the middle of Sainsbury's while you glow with pride. Or they point out the failings of an educational workshop in embarrassing detail and a loud voice while you look blankly around with an expression that says 'Whose children are those?'
Home educated children are very social. They play together, fall out, make up, insult each other, swing fists, run about yelling with sticks, get told to put the scissors down before they have someone's eye out, and receive great doses of ticking off.
Home educated children are told to stop rocking on your chair and eat dinner, for goodness sake go to bed, wear knickers, brush your teeth, stop slapping your sister, and don't answer back with that because you are aged 10. They're also respected, listened to, cuddled, and loved.
Home educated children have days where learning is as natural as living. They can choose to take exams or no exams, sit assessments, try school, try flexischool, explore educational provision in and out the state system, follow online courses, join lessons, attend interviews, take OU degrees and acquire PhDs having been autonomously educated for years before starting college.
Home educated children have the support of their parents.
That all means No. I'm not supporting the NSPCC this Christmas. Even if you do wear a Santa hat.
From my view, you demonstrate hatred of home educators in particular, and promote an anti-parent agenda in general.
Now, NSPCC*, I'm selling you reality. What are you selling me? Apart from the deception you say I can buy this Christmas from you, at the cost of a fiver?
Can I make it clear? NSPCC, don't contact me again.
Re: your contact to my excellent! parenting! blog! last week to suggest I could use my writing to invite readers to take part in your Christmas 2010 fundraising, where you pretend to be Santa, for a price.
Tuesday, 2 November 2010
Otherwise, lilies are very beautiful
Shark, that oldest and boldest daughter of mine, returned home from her wandering adventures the other day bearing four tall stems of tropical lilies. Tall as she, they spread up her body, from her waist, to her head.
Excitedly, she tells us she bought these fantastic flowers from an old woman she saw squatting by the road that runs the length of the small island town. Shark thought the old woman, like her, would want to go home. It was already dusk and surely not many people would buy flowers in the dark. These were the old woman's last bundle of four lilies and they lay on the sheet by her side. One of the stems is a little wounded, and the petals of the white flowers on one side are crushed and bruised.
Shark said she offered ten dollars, and the four stems were promptly delivered into her hands. Before she gave them up, Shark said the old woman quickly took a knife and chopped off the ends of the lilies. Shark says within a minute the old woman was packed up and gone. Glad to be free of the final burden of the day, I suppose she went straight home.
These lilies, they carry a big perfume. It fills your nose and your mouth and your stomach, brimfull, and there's nowhere in this house you can escape it. You can try running up to the roof, but that doesn't work, because the deep and penetrating perfume of those lilies breathed there before you. You can throw open the windows, but that doesn't work either. The perfume is merely blown about you in every room you enter.
Me and Dig stand in front of these all powerful lilies, and stare helplessly at them. Their perfume is commanding; almost visible. If we could see it, it would be coiled around our throats. Shark says it is the best perfume ever, and she never knew flowers could be so strong.
I don't think it's the right moment to tell our bright and beautiful daughter, bursting with the excitement of her purchase, that lilies have a meaning in both the west and the east. That I think it's no accident you buy four at a time. The number four, in Cantonese, is a very powerful number. It sounds the same as death. In many buildings here, even those that proudly try to pierce the sky, there is no fourth floor. And these lilies are white. In the west, when we mourn, we wear black. In the East, it is different. Me and Dig look at each other. The autumn grave cleaning festival just passed. We don't say anything.
Shark is delighted. She says she found a story on her computer about how flowers can bring rebellions. She says messages written on little scrolls of paper can be wound up and placed among flowers, and no-one knows the messages are there. The flowers, carried by old women flower sellers whom no-one suspects, can be used for secret communications. We say, that's an interesting idea and, as she pokes about the flutes and furls in the unflowered lilies looking for spaces to take her secret messages, we say that's the kind of story that could be true.
Now the lilies are dying back. The perfume is fading. The white petals are dried and brown and curling. Their power is all but gone.
Shark says she would like to go and find the old woman, and buy some more. I say, Can we wait? Let us take our time, and lift them out the water. Then we can watch how the petals die, how the flowers drop away from their green stems, and listen how the paper heads rattle. We can pull away the final difficult dead flowers, take the empty shells, and make something new. Perhaps we can hang the heads upside down to dry them out. We could blow into their papery hollow spaces to expand them with our breath, and we'll fill the places where the flowers once stood with our brightly coloured scrolls. On those, we'll write messages, telling everyone of our rebellions, and sending out a warning. In this house, this is what you get, if you're a lily.
Excitedly, she tells us she bought these fantastic flowers from an old woman she saw squatting by the road that runs the length of the small island town. Shark thought the old woman, like her, would want to go home. It was already dusk and surely not many people would buy flowers in the dark. These were the old woman's last bundle of four lilies and they lay on the sheet by her side. One of the stems is a little wounded, and the petals of the white flowers on one side are crushed and bruised.
Shark said she offered ten dollars, and the four stems were promptly delivered into her hands. Before she gave them up, Shark said the old woman quickly took a knife and chopped off the ends of the lilies. Shark says within a minute the old woman was packed up and gone. Glad to be free of the final burden of the day, I suppose she went straight home.
These lilies, they carry a big perfume. It fills your nose and your mouth and your stomach, brimfull, and there's nowhere in this house you can escape it. You can try running up to the roof, but that doesn't work, because the deep and penetrating perfume of those lilies breathed there before you. You can throw open the windows, but that doesn't work either. The perfume is merely blown about you in every room you enter.
Me and Dig stand in front of these all powerful lilies, and stare helplessly at them. Their perfume is commanding; almost visible. If we could see it, it would be coiled around our throats. Shark says it is the best perfume ever, and she never knew flowers could be so strong.
I don't think it's the right moment to tell our bright and beautiful daughter, bursting with the excitement of her purchase, that lilies have a meaning in both the west and the east. That I think it's no accident you buy four at a time. The number four, in Cantonese, is a very powerful number. It sounds the same as death. In many buildings here, even those that proudly try to pierce the sky, there is no fourth floor. And these lilies are white. In the west, when we mourn, we wear black. In the East, it is different. Me and Dig look at each other. The autumn grave cleaning festival just passed. We don't say anything.
Shark is delighted. She says she found a story on her computer about how flowers can bring rebellions. She says messages written on little scrolls of paper can be wound up and placed among flowers, and no-one knows the messages are there. The flowers, carried by old women flower sellers whom no-one suspects, can be used for secret communications. We say, that's an interesting idea and, as she pokes about the flutes and furls in the unflowered lilies looking for spaces to take her secret messages, we say that's the kind of story that could be true.
Now the lilies are dying back. The perfume is fading. The white petals are dried and brown and curling. Their power is all but gone.
Shark says she would like to go and find the old woman, and buy some more. I say, Can we wait? Let us take our time, and lift them out the water. Then we can watch how the petals die, how the flowers drop away from their green stems, and listen how the paper heads rattle. We can pull away the final difficult dead flowers, take the empty shells, and make something new. Perhaps we can hang the heads upside down to dry them out. We could blow into their papery hollow spaces to expand them with our breath, and we'll fill the places where the flowers once stood with our brightly coloured scrolls. On those, we'll write messages, telling everyone of our rebellions, and sending out a warning. In this house, this is what you get, if you're a lily.
Monday, 1 November 2010
When all's said and done, it's just a walk.
My problem is, I have too many wandering thoughts.
A few hundred years ago, in one of my other lives, I sat in on a meeting in a plush office in Jerusalem. Really! I did! We were interviewing the owner of a business who was rich and important. I cannot for the life of me remember his name or anything, apart from the fact that we were told he was rich and important and dynamic. And he wore blue denim jeans.
No one mentioned the jeans, but I thought they said a lot about everything. They might be saying, See how I disregard my wealth and status. I am merely an ordinary man going about my daily work. Then he might have expected everyone to think he was more important than ever.
But his jeans might have been saying, My mind cannot be consumed by trivial matters. My mind is on much more important matters than how I dress. He could then expect everyone to know how he thought big, important thoughts.
His jeans could also have been saying, Look at me! Youthful! Energetic! Dynamic! He would want everyone to think, he could not get out of bed in the morning and put on a pair of trousers. See how much time it took me to express that thought about trousers? Jeans. Youthful. Energetic. Dynamic.
He was also fast talking and opinionated, which seemed to fit his ordinary man, big-thinking, dynamic, jeans-wearing persona.
Anyway, he was asked how he turned a one-shekel business into a multi-million dollar organisation. To which he shouted FOCUS.
I mean he really did shout it. Like an order. Then he kept on shouting it and slapping his hand on the table till the tea cups rattled. I can't remember who spoke then, or what was said next, but I think it involved a nervous laugh. Maybe we worried we were being reprimanded for asking what he thought was a foolish question. Or maybe by that one word we were being reminded that we were in the presence of a rich and important person. You can know wealth and status by firm instruction. You can know it by the hand slap on the table. You can know it by the rattling tea cups. And by the jeans. These are signifiers.
I am reminded of that today when we take a walk on the island. It's not very important and it didn't make me wealthy. There is only one road for us to travel there and back. But I can think of two dozen different things to say about it, and ten different ways of writing it down.
My problem is that I have too many wandering thoughts, and not enough focus. That's why I am not rich and important. In fact, I spill think all over the place, so far and wide, I probably never succeed at anything at all. Maybe I should try wearing jeans.
Here is the walk. Make of it what you will.
A few hundred years ago, in one of my other lives, I sat in on a meeting in a plush office in Jerusalem. Really! I did! We were interviewing the owner of a business who was rich and important. I cannot for the life of me remember his name or anything, apart from the fact that we were told he was rich and important and dynamic. And he wore blue denim jeans.
No one mentioned the jeans, but I thought they said a lot about everything. They might be saying, See how I disregard my wealth and status. I am merely an ordinary man going about my daily work. Then he might have expected everyone to think he was more important than ever.
But his jeans might have been saying, My mind cannot be consumed by trivial matters. My mind is on much more important matters than how I dress. He could then expect everyone to know how he thought big, important thoughts.
His jeans could also have been saying, Look at me! Youthful! Energetic! Dynamic! He would want everyone to think, he could not get out of bed in the morning and put on a pair of trousers. See how much time it took me to express that thought about trousers? Jeans. Youthful. Energetic. Dynamic.
He was also fast talking and opinionated, which seemed to fit his ordinary man, big-thinking, dynamic, jeans-wearing persona.
Anyway, he was asked how he turned a one-shekel business into a multi-million dollar organisation. To which he shouted FOCUS.
I mean he really did shout it. Like an order. Then he kept on shouting it and slapping his hand on the table till the tea cups rattled. I can't remember who spoke then, or what was said next, but I think it involved a nervous laugh. Maybe we worried we were being reprimanded for asking what he thought was a foolish question. Or maybe by that one word we were being reminded that we were in the presence of a rich and important person. You can know wealth and status by firm instruction. You can know it by the hand slap on the table. You can know it by the rattling tea cups. And by the jeans. These are signifiers.
I am reminded of that today when we take a walk on the island. It's not very important and it didn't make me wealthy. There is only one road for us to travel there and back. But I can think of two dozen different things to say about it, and ten different ways of writing it down.
My problem is that I have too many wandering thoughts, and not enough focus. That's why I am not rich and important. In fact, I spill think all over the place, so far and wide, I probably never succeed at anything at all. Maybe I should try wearing jeans.
Here is the walk. Make of it what you will.
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