Cooped Up

We all crave a holiday during the work week, a lazy day, a day of complete and utter self-indulgence, that is guilt free and hassle free and work free.  But are there really ever days like this?  There's always a worry knocking on the back of your mind; a preoccupation, if your mind is ticking at all.  That fantasy of a duvet day, when granted, gets old real fast.

Yes, there are days where one might feel that they can't face the world, or probably what's more likely they cannot be bothered.  You hit SNOOZE again and again calculating the bare minimum of time required to breakfast and dress and suddenly it blinks upon the screen.  You crawl, roll and drag your tired limbs off the mattress and onto the hard floor. If you're lucky, you stand and you stay upright.  Back to the grind, forever longing for a few extra moments of dreamlike ignorance, but the spell is broken.

While a duvet day might seem like complete bliss, the novelty does wear off.
Yes, sleep is wonderful but when you feel fully refreshed and you are still bed-ridden you might find that you want something.  Yes, there are days when your body succumbs to the woes of nature and a cold, flu or some other viral infection leaves you with just about enough brain power to prevent you from inhibiting basic functions. 1, 2, 3, breath! In, out. Repeat.

Afternoons spent in a doctor's waiting room are a nerve wrecking affair.  If you are not seriously ill you might want to reconsider the germ sauna that is a doctor's waiting room.  The sickly pallor of the staff is enough to make your run for the door.  It could never be a good idea, inserting your vulnerable self into a pool of incubating illness.  What is more doctors make me nervous.  I worry.  I'll admit it and sometimes I'll suffer the unknown rather than run the risk of having my worries realised.  I have always viewed doctors as harbingers of bad news.  Terrible, I know.
My name or some variation if it is called over the loudspeaker.
Sprechzimmer 1
I step into the room and I see my doctor, spectacled and dressed in a white lab coat.  She is discussing something with another lady, possibly her colleague.  Her colleague leaves and my doctor swivels and faces me.  She is a middle-aged lady with a thick Austrian accent.
'Take off your clothes.'  She demands and I quickly acquiesce.
She hmms and aahs and asks me to turn around a few times.  She calls in her colleague and they both stare and mutter in german.  My hearts races.  Any number of serious illnesses rush through my head.
Umdrehen
I turn around again.
'We can solve this.'
She finally tells me and I let out a sigh of relief.  I gather my clothes and I dress myself.
'It's a virus.  Try to stay away from people.'

I leave and I make my way to the u-bahn, all the while aware that I am sowing the sickly seed of viral infection.  I try to avoid young children and pregnant women but wave after wave of pregnant mothers emerge pushing their baby buggies towards me. I find myself darting and diving side to side, tempted to cover my face.  Finally, the u-bahn comes and I squeeze on.  I count the stops and spring off when I have finally reached my destination.  I feel guilty. I hope I haven't made any of those commuters ill but I have braved the doctor and gotten my prescription.  Now begins the hard part, now begins my war with me.

I enjoy sleeping but I easily distract myself at night with some form or other of procrastination. I try to milk the last of my day, while foolishly robbing myself of tomorrow.  However, now I have to rest and I have been given a week to do so.  Frequent naps are in order and they are accepted with no resistance.  I am determined to get better.  Within days I am napping less and less until I am no longer napping at all.  I had been afraid I'd infect my flatmates but boredom throws caution to the wind.  I find myself loitering in the kitchen, craving natural light and the hint of human interaction.  As my strength grows so too does my boredom.  I make copious cups of tea, dipping into the myriad selection of herbals and blacks.  I flit between reading, movies and browsing the interwebs.  I wrap myself in my alpaca blanket and sob quietly to myself trying to remember what the outside world looked like, swinging like a pendulum between disgust and pity.  Then, I am Clint Eastwood wearing my blanket like a poncho on one of my many toilet runs because I spend my waking hours drinking tea.  I think about the things I'm going to do when I'm better. I think about making a list.  I promise myself I'll take better care of my health after this.
All will be promptly forgotten with the return of life.  I've been cooped up.  I'm counting the days till freedom.

The Woman In The Wee House

In my grandmother's home there was a shelf, above a window, decorated with ornaments, pictures, religious iconography and a little house.

The little house was no simple knick-knack.
It was home to a little couple that couldn't bear to share the same roof.  Each day one would retreat behind the walls and drive the other out into the elements.  The woman busied herself with laundry, enjoying the mild weather and the warm summer sun.  The man marched out under wintry skies, dressed for rain in his anorak and umbrella.

I would push either the woman or the man into the house and wait for the other half to emerge.  Sometimes I would try the delicate task of balancing the two under the same roof that they might reconcile their differences.  That little thatched cottage, how I would wait, watch it and check on it.  How I pondered its accuracy and its machinations.

My grandmother passed on.
The years drifted by and her house changed.  It grew dark.
I worried about that little house.  Was it safer where it was upon that shelf or should I take it and put it where it could be seen.  So many things get broken and so easily.  I deliberated time and time again before finally carrying the little house across the road and up to my own home.  It was dirty, covered in layers of dust.  I cleaned it, gently pressing the dust from the grooves in the thatched roof before placing it upon the windowsill in our kitchen.  It's still there now.

They are still reluctant to share the house.  They leave at alternating times.
Wind, hail or shine, someone steps out.

In the Bag

I would never claim to be a saint, as a child or now as a man.  I was, as all children are, greedy, vindictive and scheming but with a gentle side.  A need for expression, be that through art or the use of building blocks of lego.  I would work with my brother, inventing scenarios or borrowing from real-life, imitating TV shows.  We shared and performed stories, a comic strip, transcribing chunks of information into nature copies with facts and coloured illustrations, watercolour paintings, doodles and other crudely drawn characters.  Multiple tools were used in the pursuit of expression but I found when I needed a pair of scissors I couldn't find them.

As a child my income was limited to donations from relatives, neighbours and family friends and birthdays.

I was in a pharmacy with my mother.  She was picking up those essential items a mother needs like baby food and new bottles for one of my younger siblings.  I leafed through the various items, collecting liquorice sticks and whatever else tickled my fancy.  Then, I saw them.

A small pair of blue scissors.

I pulled them off the display and happily slammed them on the counter as my mother chatted to the lady at the till.  Success.  These shopping trips were often dull affairs, lightened only by whatever essential items or supplies I might have gathered up.  I push the blue scissors closer to the other items.  Unbeknownst to me, a miniature secret dialogue took place between the two women, without words.  I can only assume they conveyed each other's sentiments with micro-expressions.

The lady dropped the scissors into the bag.

Even then I was worried.  I was wary and keen to uncover any trickery.  I was aware that something had happened and I suddenly decided that I didn't trust this woman to deliver my coveted pair of scissors.  So, I politely asked if I could hold them.

No.

I gently insisted.

No.

My requests grew steadily in volume and I persisted to the point of tears.

No.

The scissors were in the bag and I would get them when I got home.

I submitted.  I wasn't happy and in truth I was suspicious.

When we got home it seemed my
fears and suspicions were justified.

I emptied the contents of the bag, searching frantically for that pair of scissors I was promised.  The scissors I needed for oh so many reasons.
But they were nowhere to be found.
There were no scissors even though I had seen them go into the bag.
I had seen them.
I thought they were in the bag.
I believed them when they told me so.

The blue scissors did not look like this. . 

Summer Sigh

Summer drifts to a close.  The heat of the setting sun wafts memories by the mind's eye, stung by the chill of August and the oncoming Autumn.  It is such a melancholic time of year; the changes brought about by the seasons become clear.  School starts again, and the leaves fall to the ground as nature drifts off to sleep, fat on the harvest and content having sensibly stored supplies for the long Winter months.
It's time to wrap up or hide away and succumb to sleep tucked in the shawl of short days and long nights.

The Summer has been a pleasant one.  Visions of past Summers shimmer like a mirage but evaporate under scrutiny.  I cannot focus on any single aspect.  The end of the Summer is a poignant time of year.  The morphing world is an unsettling reminder of the inevitable march of time.  The start of something, something different.
How strange that school and the academic year start with something dying.  The last rays of Summer sun sink behind the hills.  The trees shed their healthy green for tan, brown and orange or nothing.  These coloured collages are tugged to the ground, whipped and pulled by the wicked wind and crushed underfoot.  The winds grow in momentum and the rains grow cold.  The coats come out from the back of the wardrobe and layers upon layers are bandaged around us to help stop the heat bleeding from our bodies.  Shielding us from the elements; coats, scarves, hats and boots.
The memories of Summer fade and we look forward to the shortest day, when after we can count the extra light.

Lost Treasures

The books lie dog-eared, creased and dusty, collected in cardboard boxes pulled and bashed and torn asunder.  I sneeze as I sift through the inter-locking layers of paperbacks, historical, academical and miscellaneous.  Some are better preserved than others.  Down, deeper down I dig, uncovering forgotten or mislaid texts.  Pencilled notes, and inky blue dots, NB and underlined paragraphs mapping out those pieces of academic interest and the smithereens of my own personal taste.

I pull out Schnitzler's Traumnovelle and Dürrenmatt's Der Richter und sein Henker, and an anthology of post-war poetry.  I find 'Schweigen' by Eugen Gombringer and read it quietly to myself.  I raise Ulysses from the pit, and sigh because like many others I have not yet finished it.  There are so many books here neglected;  half-read and half-lived.  I vow to remedy this situation and pull yet another book from the box before rearranging everything as it were into interlocking layers, folding over the cardboard flaps and pushing the heavy, bulging box back under my bed.  I place my booty on the chest of drawers with the best intention of reading it after my I have finished my current conquest but in all likelihood it will probably be passed around the room, resting on different surfaces for a time before it ends up on top of my wardrobe gathering dust or back into the busted paper chest buried underneath my bed.  It's a terrible fate either way.

überlin

6-10 June

It's a hot day in Berlin.  I wake up quite early, ca. 8 am and lounge and lie for another while.  There is light pouring in from the balcony door.  I get dressed and check my phones, one message and at that moment my phone begins to ring.
No, I'm not in Vienna.  Not this weekend.  We'll catch up when I'm back.
I'm staying with my friend for the weekend.  We have a late breakfast, relaxing on the balcony in the warmth of the sun and discussing possible destinations and plans.  We drink tea and listen to music, watching the world drift by and the sun shift to a less intense position.

After some deliberation we agree to visit The Wall by Bernauerstraße.

I had seen part of the infamous Wall before but this time I got to view the remnants by Nordbahnhof and read about the lives that were dissected, the demolished Church of Reconciliation and the various additions to the Wall to hinder escapees.  It stands now as a poignant memorial, remnants of the follow of humankind that thinks it can wall in and force compliance.  This wall was the bandage on Communism and the East and although the Communists may have changed the dressing, the wound did not close and continued to bleed.

Riding along the S7 one can view various buildings of importance; the TV Tower of Alexanderplatz and the Reichstag among others, as well as murals and graffiti.

Berlin is a wonderful blend of old and new.  The city has seen so much and been the focal point in history already and it is constantly evolving.  Once a haven for artists, the city may not be as affordable as it once was but it continues to offer a home to those who wish to think outside the box.  An open city, with open opportunities for an open mind.
After reading all the information, watching the video clips and staring at the pictures that the memorial had to offer, my friend and I wandered across the street to the Ost-West Café and I ordered a Wessichino.

On this weekend, the Karnaval der Kulturen takes place.  The streets are alive to the rhythm and buzz of people, happy, excited and applauding the floats as they drift by.
Feeling peckish we pop into a Vietnamese restaurant and then make our way to the Oscar Wilde for a refreshing beverage and some card games.

My second last day in Berlin consisted mainly of eating and drinking.  First, there is lunch with an old friend at Knofi.  Then, when we gather ourselves together meeting my hostess and her boyfriend and we go off in search of the best ice-cream in Berlin which is allegedly sold at Vanille und Marille!  This was followed by drinks in a carpark but no ordinary carpark, mixing with the hipsters in their sky high establishment, we enjoy a few drinks in the sun at Klunkerkranich.

Finally, there is lunch and stories of bears in Canada before I say my goodbyes and hop on a bus to the airport.  My adventure in Berlin had come to an end but it certainly left an impression on me.

                                                                        Knofi cuisine

Berlin!

The Lives We'll Miss

Everyday we are faced with choices, some have a relatively minor affect, whereas others can be life changing.  The job we choose, the partner we choose, the friends, the country and place we decide to live.  So many choices and so many difficult decisions.
How things may have been different if we made a different choice and wandered a different direction.  One choice leads to another, which further branches seeking out possibilities and alternatives to what we know now.
Someone once told me that there are no right answers.  Whatever decision we make, we'll never know how the other choice would have affected us, where it would have led and who we would have met.  Anything we say after this decision is pure speculation.
To make a choice and to stick with it for better or worse is perhaps the best course of action but also so very challenging.  Indecision is a damnable beast that is sure to play havoc with your health and happiness.  There are no right answers.
Perhaps things could have gone better, maybe they would have but there is no certainty or solace there.  Only torment.  Make a choice, live with it, learn from it.  Wallowing is sure only to wither your health.

I think of Robert Frost's The Road Not Taken.
'Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, / and sorry I could not travel both.'
In the end Frost takes one route, he makes his choice and celebrates those good things that stemmed from that decision.
'I took the one less travelled by, / And that has made all the difference.'
Make a choice and follow it.  Think of all the positive experiences your path brings, there isn't enough time to follow them all.  But there is no sense in thinking over things that could have been.
Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery.  It doesn't stand to reason to worry.  Be glad your have choices, all too often there may be none, no alternative and we are compelled to act and to follow a single course of action.  Helpless.  When your hand is forced it can be a bitter experience, so too can consequence.  No one ever said that the choices your made were easy, there were probably tears at some point, clenched fists and gritted teeth, broken hearts and furrowed brows, harsh words and sighs of frustration.  You may be able to revisit past decisions, retracing your steps and starting over but whatever your choice, whatever happens, you'll handle it.
'Oh I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted If I should ever come back.'

BLOCK

The stumbling block, or perhaps the path block.  Sometimes it's hard to build up a momentum.  The spark of imagination lives and dies before I can grab a pen and put it to paper.  It's disheartening to be gripped and shaken alive with dire necessity and purpose one minute only to see it fade, and vanish like the finite life of a matchstick, the next.

I often carry a pen and notebook for those rare moments of lively absorption in that delicate bubble of inspiration but I have been caught unaware in times past.  Without pen or without paper, I could scramble to get it down on my phone, fingers and thumbs stabbing the keypad furiously.  I could use shorthand but that is often a bad idea as I find myself asking, What did I mean there?

Words end up scribbled on pieces of paper, scraps and receipts and loose pages.  A thread that will hopefully lead back through the labyrinth to that illuminating thought.  But what about those times when I can't scribe the idea.  Lost usually.  It floats to the ether.

The times of misspent or disused inspiration come back to haunt me during the quiet dull hours of stagnation.  The dreaded writer's block.  I crave the time to sit and scribe and yet when it comes round that I have an abundance of that coveted commodity, time, I cannot think of anything to write.  What is more I find the drivel that I put to paper nauseating to read.

What can one do to regain their footing or to dislodge that boulder blocking their train of thought and the path to promising pastures?  Friends have often times suggested relief and releases; jogging or some other form of physical activity, breaks away from the page to freshen the eyes and the mind, doodling, cups of coffee or tea, and of course, time heals all wounds and weathers the toughest rocks and blocks.

Reflections on a Summer evening

In no particular order, for what mind thinks chronologically.

Rescuing a spider in a Kindergarten before a child bursts through the circle of onlookers and stomps it to death in one swift, heavy thud.  He then has the audacity to scream 'Böse Mann! Fang mich an!' And speeds off as fast as his legs can carry him.

Sitting with my dad in the tractor cab, eating jam sandwiches in a field partially yellow as it has been stripped of grass.  Its coat of green shrinking to the middle.  The grass will become silage.  This is our tea but it's also a picnic.  Sometimes there are biscuits.

My sister making me swear to 'cross my heart' with the threat of blindness and death.  Breaking that promise and watching out in sheer terror for the justice I had sworn to accept for my transgressions.

The smell of cigarette smoke, the taste of fig-rolls washed down with tea while sitting with my grandmother, my father's mother.  On Tuesdays when neighbours had dropped in after bingo night.

Squashed into the car, packed into this vehicle and for varying lengths of time.  Perhaps we were simply driving to Mass, across the border to visit my grandmother (my mother's mother), or on our almost annual trip to Dublin Zoo.  There was often punching, nipping, plenty of winding up and ultimately threats from our parents that if we didn't quieten down, they would turn the car right around.

Rolling bales of hay and drawing them from the fields to the shed.

The beach, Black rock, Clogher head and a faint recollection of Betty's town.
2p machines that swallowed lots of coppers and returned very few.

The aroma of Summer calls many memories back to mind, happy thoughts from the last few years.  Oh to be a child in Summer, when it feels like there can be no end to the day and school is a long, long way off.

The Gold Star

The coveted gold star.
The sometimes elusive gold star.
Once upon a time, our teacher tested our mettle with a spelling test.  These tests were recorded in a small notebook distributed and subsequently collected after the test each Friday.
Sixteen words determined our reward.
We were given these words to memorise over seven days.
How I hungered for that 16/16 mark, excellent scribbled diagonally and the icing on the cake-a gold star stuck on with a piece of clear sticky tape.

Sometimes it didn't work out and instead of the praise I craved I got a banal v. good.  The worst travesty being the silver star glinting upon the page.  How I abhorred those scribed words.  It was much worse when I received a plain good.  Tricky words like 'buckle' cost me my star.  I see my students now make similar mistakes.
I have often thought of that pentadactyl celestial body glowing in the white space with rays of parallel blue to guide our education.  It was a simple thing but it exposed my competitive nature.  My desire for praise and my aspirations to be top of the class in any field I could.  Maths was never my forte so I compensated as best I could with other subjects.  English spelling was an area that I felt I could easily master.

I remember presenting that gold star with pride to my parents.  Sometimes my dad signed the page.  I am not sure why this irregularity occurred.  Sometimes I fancied a change I suppose.  I wanted to include him.  I rarely saw him write anything except his name.  It may have fascinated me to watch him write even that.  Or perhaps it was simply a time when my mother was in hospital having one of my siblings or maybe I just wanted some recognition from him too.  These spelling tests lasted a year.  When I changed class and teacher there were less colourful and aesthetic rewards.

I think I give rewards too freely.  While correcting copy books or exercise books, I have beside me my assortment of stamps and stickers congratulating kids for doing only what they are supposed to; the bare minimum and sometimes delivered in a messy fashion.  But maybe in this age of technology and destruction we have lowered the bar.  Or maybe it is right to recognise every effort.

I bought a small packet of gold stars during the week.  I couldn't walk by them.  They have a sticky back now-there is no need for tape to keep them pressed against the page.  

Nowadays there are fancy stickers of cars and monsters and all sorts.  A far cry from the simple gold star.
But I like it.
And I think of it fondly still.

I am a sentimental fool.

The stars, our hopes, dreams, ambitions and our wishes are wrapped up in these burning celestial bodies.  We often gaze and ponder what might have been and what might well be.  Do the stars on the page guide us like the faithful North Star that offers orientation and direction.
That little sticker possessed so much meaning; burning light, burning hope, burning courage and the reassurance that hard work does bring rewards, however, small.

Tea and Cake

I enjoy a cuppa.
Some might even say I have a mild obsession with caffeinated beverages.
But I think I simply appreciate the wondrous blend of tea leaves, hot water and milk (depending on the tea in question).

Barry's or Lyons'?
I'll have one of each, please.  I don't turn my nose up at Thompson's or Tetley.
I would happily sip Earl Grey or Darjeeling and once in a while I might even be tempted to sample a 'green' option.

One of two things makes tea even better.
(i) Conversation
(ii) Cake

Yes, the sweetness of conversation and the texture of cake combine to make the tea drinking experience something else entirely.

The storm brewing in the teacup is enough to wash away any problem you may be having.

The comfort of tea and tea drinking.  A solid object to curl your hands around and warm goodness that seeps into your body.  Used to complement conversation, to encourage chat and to aid the calm, to settle nerves and rinse away any residual concerns.  The cup that cures.

Tea was discovered around 2737 BC by the Chinese Emperor Shen-Nung.  The story goes that some tea leaves, blown by the wind, drifted into a pot of boiling water.  From the 1600s tea became popular in Europe.  Tea was the cause of tensions and a catalyst to the United States' Revolutionary War.  After the British imposed taxation on tea imported to the American colonies, the American settlers were not pleased.  The 'Boston tea party' was one example of their frustration.  Under disguise, a group of men boarded a ship in Boston Harbour and displayed their defiance by tossing the tea into the sea.  Tea has made its mark on history.

Where I live now, Vienna and it's coffee house culture is the perfect city to bask in simple pleasures of taste and conversation.
There are so many little cafés here as well as the traditional and tourist friendly coffee houses.  Oh Freud and Schnitzler sat here.

I drink a lot of tea.
Not everyone shares this passion.  Most people seem to believe that you have to be ill or under the weather to sip this beverage.  If offered a cup I seldom decline, the next cup may well be the perfect cup!  Tea breaks down barriers, acts as a prop for idle hands, offers a prompt in conversation or a break as you slurp your tea and relish the break.  The breath and the break in worry, stress and sadness.  It may be brief but a break nonetheless.

 

Speak

Language is an amazing thing. To think we can string together a collection of sounds and communicate simply using thin air.  Just imagine you are using an appartus for something other than its intended purpose, the breathing appartus.  Clicking, clucking, inhalation, exhalation, your lips, tongue, throat all working in sync to manipulate the air and create a sound, We learn from a young age that different sounds mean different things, for many their first word is inspired by their benefactor and guardian; mamma, dadda.  But it could also be any number of other things including sausage!

The first language I encountered was English. Now, I don't remember a lot about my early days but I do remember being curious when it came to certain expressions. I asked about these expressions and what they meant. Then, I would ask why people didn't simply say 'what they meant.'

The second language I encountered was Irish. I think my first words were áran (bread) & báinne (milk). After drilling these words into our tender minds, we learnt to string our first sentence; Is maith liom bainne, ní mhaith liom aran. So, began the long romance with Irish or Gaeilge.  This turbulent relationship lasted for all of my primary and secondary schooling. I think I have a greater respect for the language and its intricacies now. Perhaps, it has something to do with living abroad but in recent times I have felt myself revising vocabulary.

The next language I encountered was French. Most of us have heard smithereens of French by the age of 12, others were fortunate enough to have visited the country itself.  I did well at first, I learned the verbs but something happened. Maybe it was puberty maybe it was the workload at school, maybe it was any number of things but I found learning the language did not come so easy as it had. I suppose once you delve into the intricacies of a langauge its true complexity is exposed. I persevered for a few years, I remember my final exams at school in particular.   I had brought along a document. I was part of a local youth group that had gone to Cologne for World Youth Day, incidentally my first trip abroad and my first true brush with German. My document was a picture of Pope Bendedict wizzing by in the Pope Mobile and a story of how my friends and I, while on an aimless wander managed to see albeit briefly the head of the Catholic church. I went on to talk about how I would like to study at Maynooth.  At this point the examiner interjected, 'Oh,' she asked 'You want to be a priest?'
I was caught off guard. Blabbering away some lines I undoubtedly had rehearsed. 'Excusez moi?'
I was not sure what answer to give and I quickly summoned one of my favourite phrases, 'Ce n'est pas mon truc.' Yes, it looked as though I had saved myself ad my exam but somewhere along the way I had whet her appetite for discussion. She began to ask a series of questions pertaining to the status of the Church, young people's interest in religion etc. I struggled through. The beads of sweat bleeding down my face. I was so relieved to escape. I had not anticipated a discussion on social commentary.

It was during my teenage years I began to take an interest in several European languages. There were many Polish, Lithuanian, Latvian and a few  other Eastern European people working in Ireland. I worked in a petrol station at this time. I enjoyed asking my workmates what different expressions were and I managed to pick up a few Polish, Russian and Bulgarian words.

At University I took German as one of my three BA subjects. If I am honest I chose the language because I wanted an introduction and foundation. However, at the time I had planned to pursue English and History, dropping German after one year. It didn't quite work out like that.  I enjoyed the class and I wanted more. I won a scholarship for a language course in Vienna and my fate was sealed.  I have felt a pull towards the country ever since.

There was a time during my MA when I felt I ought to be doing something else, something more. I was conscious that the job market was getting tougher by the month. I wanted to make myself more marketable. I saw there were Chinese lessons offered by the Uni. I enrolled and for 4 hours a week for an entire semester I learnt Mandarin.  Chinese is an interesting language. It is a tonal language. Similar sounding words can mean very different things.  We learned some basic dialogue using pinying,(Chinese using the Latin alphabet).  We also had to learn some Chinese characters.  It was an interesting and rewarding experience.  As it was the final semester of my MA I did not have a chance to pursue the language, but I might reconsider this in the future.

Here I sit now in my flat in Vienna, contemplating the intricacies of my mother tongue, English.  As an English language teacher, you look at English in a very different way.  Just because you grew up saying things one way, does not mean that is the right way.  Pronunciation problems become evident.  The limitations of the language are also exposed, sometimes there is no translation and no equivalent.  But that's nice.  It's humbling.  As I aspire to become a writer. these students of English help me deconstruct my own language.  I certainly have a greater appreciation for the spoken word, And as one becomes intimate with their spoken language, they get closer to adequate expression.

Beauty in the night sky

In the city I don't see those glistening fires of hope and desires.  Stitched into the rippling velvet sky millions of golden eyes. Watching from the past, ushering in a future, the seam between night & day, today and tomorrow.  Light on a lonely road, when the sun goes and the moon is weak, the stars will the light to burn on. Beauty in the dark, comfort too knowing that countless souls stare like you, longing  & hopeful & grateful. You are never alone with the stars in the sky connecting us all. Conduit to our dreams, shining in the darkest hours, always there though we may not see them, watchful. Sometimes falling, sometimes shooting through the sky.  They shift to get a better look, to grasp out attention and turn it away, turn it to something better.

The plough, Orion's belt & the North star stand to guide us as we orientate ourselves in this wilderness, on the open sea and in this flood of people.
But in the city, all is washed away
Oh the bright lights of the city, flash and blind-promising to guide us but they hide from us the dotted glowing cape of night, the world's shawl that can move and soothe.  Above the city hovers a blank canvas.  Empty.

Sick days

No one likes being sick.
That dizzy, light-headed, blocked, choked up feeling, with heavy limbs and weary eyes, doubled over and hobbling to the bathroom when nature calls.  Sometimes it calls abruptly.  It's not much fun when you're alone and battling the symptoms with hot drinks and lemsip.
I don't like being sick but it did bring with it some advantages.  When I was a little mite things were different. Coming from a large family, it was something of a novelty to be home alone with my parents.  Of course, there were times when I had had appointments and half-days at school but these were full days at home without my siblings.  There were some perks being ill in the past; tea and toast in bed among others.

Just what went on in the outside world during the hours of 09:00-15:00 when we children would normally be buried in our schoolbooks.

Tea and toast in bed and a string of TV programmes unavailable to the regular school goer.

I remember my mother would step into the darkened room and ask if I wanted to eat anything.  I might sleep for a while depending on the severity of my symptoms.  My mother would take the clock from her bedroom and place it on the chest of drawers.  There was no clock in my bedroom.  I could now monitor the time I spent in bed.  I might sleep or doze, waiting until midday before I'd brave the kitchen.  Alternatively, I might open the curtains of my room and read, occasionally glancing at the farm across the road.

In my mind I would tell myself that I would use this unprecedented free-time wisely.  There were drawings to be drawn and pictures to be coloured, however, this plans almost always awry.  A weak mind and body hindered my ambitions.

One of the most interesting things about sick days was the TV schedule.
There were several shows I enjoyed but now I cannot remember their names; claymation and puppetry shows.  Often these had animals.  Some of these shows targeted a younger audience but at this time I was free to indulge, away from the scrutiny and jibes of my siblings.
One channel had an afternoon of classic delights, Tintin and Adam West's Batman among others.  It was riveting stuff.  Once the worst of my illness was behind me I was able to rest and enjoy the shows beaming from the box.

It can be hard to return to the real world after a week or more of rest and nursing.  The comforts of home are deeply embedded as the routines of last week have been torn asunder.  But there are people and stories to catch-up with.  If I were feeling particularly studious, or if I wanted to appear so I'd ask my brother or sister to pick up homework.  There was never any danger of me falling far behind in academic work.  However, gossip and sport were another question.

bd db

I remember a little of my first days of school.  At the time the school had a navy uniform and a blue shirt with a tie.  It was only a short distance from my house, brown and yellow in colour.

I remember my mother had sent me for a few days around April before  I was to begin school for real in September.  I remember sitting at a little yellow table adjacent to the teacher's desk.  I think she gave me mostly colouring activities.

When September finally came I remember being excited.  My older brother and sister were already at the school.  I was shy but I liked meeting new people, maybe that much hasn't changed, and I enjoyed the creative element of school.  I loved arts and crafts.

I remember the jumbo duplo bricks and my many efforts to construct a stable multi-coloured wall or houses and buildings of various shapes and sizes but predominantly of rectangular structure.  Play dough and plasticine were always good fun, finger paintings of dinosaurs and the many animals we made out of the infinitely versatile paper plate.  There were collages too, we were busied ourselves rolling little balls of crepe paper and dipping them in glue roaring, 'Rip and roll!'.  We were rockstars.

I had forgotten but I remember now how I used to confuse my 'b' and 'd' when learning to write.  I am not sure how or why but I suppose when a pen was placed between my finger and my thumb it raced forward delighting in the curves and swirls.  Sometimes the characters swelled to gigantic proportions breaking the linear blue lines of the page.  I can still remember my grossly disproportionate letters that grew and shrunk despite my concentration.  In the end, I had to be forced from my 'd' 'b' habit by a firm and rigid hand that gripped by left hand and pressed the loop in the right direction.  Soon, my 'b' and 'd' were as exactly as they should have been.

I remember the yellow covered copy books.   My six classmates and I beginning our adventure in literacy.  

We read stories, sometimes four whole lines in one night and our teacher gave us a 'word box'.  We used the word box to collect new words.  Mine was red with a yellow dot in the centre of the lid.  We had a spelling test every Friday and I strived for that gold star and 'excellent' mark of approval.  It seems silly now but 'very good' or worse yet 'good' was bitterly disappointing.

Outside we played Tag, boys after girls, girls after boys.  There were lots of scraped knees, salty tears and snotty noses.  We played at the front of the school.  The backyard was for the big kids and was somewhere foreboding and almost always terrifying.  The big kids cursed and swore.  

We had nature walks, a nature table and themed study weeks.  I remember learning about dinosaurs and being appalled by the sparse details delivered by the teacher.

It was an interesting times, a world of wonder, awe and learning.   We learned about the world and we learned to get along, mostly.  We learned no one likes a 'tell-tale' and that working diligently brought rewards.  Those gold stars,  pressed against the page with sticky tape, were sought after.

In-disposable Memories

Disposable images.
Copies and copies and slight variations of a scene.  Posed and altered and photo-shopped, cropped and flipped until the image is morphed into the memory we wanted.  Many of these end up in a digital recycle bin or in the dark recesses of social networks.
The chance that was once involved in a photograph is gone.
That viewfinder was a window of possibility but elusive certainty.

Now, we strive for counterfeit perfection.
A veneer, a wallpaper, a coat of paint and the reality of what once was, is altered.

Oh, gone are the days of stepping into the light before taking a picture, the crooked shots, the red eye, the missing limbs but also that feeling of anticipation, excitement and finally accomplishment having taken a beautiful photograph.

A few weeks ago I met some friends on a night out.
They had come into possession of a good old fashioned camera.  It took black and white images on film.
It was such an oddity.  They had taken it to someone in the know and asked if the camera was still fully functional.  Having been reassured that it was, they took this piece of antique equipment out on the town to capture a moment in time.  A moment daubed in tones of black, grey and white, dull and clear at the same time.

The capacity of this little box of memories was 12 shots.
Twelve scenes immortalised in shades of black and white.
No dizzying mega-pixels or intense colour enhancers.
Only a window that offered a possible future snap of a soon to be past event.  No room to doctor or alter it, that jagged wheel winded tensing the hammer as it waited to fly, pounding out this dent in a string of events.

We took photographs and asked other punters to join our mission.
The heavy camera brought a smile to several faces as they reminisced about their youth, old cameras and film and family photos and developing rooms.  It was an art.  Now, the art is fabrication.


Countless photographs fly by our newsfeed, sometimes we afford a 'like' or 'share'.  But these images slip into obscurity, occasionally resurrected but ultimately they pale in comparison to the dusty excitement of pulling out a photo album, the tenderness of holding a picture in your hands and kissing the image of your sweetheart goodnight. There is an insurmountable distance between us and those images buzzing on our computer screens, they'll never be as intimate as those memories painstakingly developed and stored in bulky folders.  They'll never offer the same reassurance as an in-disposable memory captured on film.

 

Boy on the Bahn

26/2/14

I never know how to react or behave with curious kids in public.  Yes, I am always keen to help, or to coax a smile, making silly faces but usually the parents are with their children and I get a knowing smile or at worst a cold hard stare from a guardian.
But what to do with those curious kids that want to engage with the world?  If a child has a question for me I'd like to answer it!  I am a teacher after all.

I stepped onto the Straßenbahn this evening, there was an on-going dialogue between a father and son.  As my German is not so good I was able to filter it out as background noise.  I was standing by the tram door, when we stopped the man who I had thought was the child's father hopped off and called back.
'Tschüss!'
I thought it was a ruse. I watched and waited for him to step back on and into the carriage.  He didn't.
It is obvious to me now that he had answered what he felt to be a sufficient number of questions.  Perhaps, his brain had melted under the barrage of that persistent search for clarity.  Whatever the reason he had had enough and threw himself out into the dark air of the night in a bid to escape that pint-sized antagonist.

I had really thought him to be the boy's father.
He sat alone momentarily. No sooner had the doors closed and my escape hindered, nay impossible, he turned his attention to me.  I don't know how he started.  I was rocking back and forth in a blissful daydream, happy that my working day had ended.  He quietly ascertained that I was not a local.  The conversation in German went something like this,
...
Boy:  Do you live here?
Me :  Yes, I live here. I'm -
Boy :  Are you on holidays?
Me :   No, I work here as an English teacher.
Boy :  A stoner?
Me :   No, no. An English teacher.  English-
Boy:   Oh I do English at school. I'll have more classes next year.
Me:    Oh, can you speak English!?
Boy:   Yes.
Me:    And will you go to Gymnasium next year?
Boy:  Yes, (says something I don't understand).
Me:   Pardon?
Boy:  (Says something and then) Will you be one of the teachers? (I think).
Me:  No, no. Maybe (I'm at a loss here). I work in one school.  A school in Floridsdorf.
Boy: You can speak in English!
(I was thrilled that he was so keen to practise!)
Me: I used to work in different schools last year. I worked in different schools last year. .

He thought to himself for a bit.  He looked puzzled,  and then simply nodded and walked off.
Either he was startled by my incomprehensible accent or I had begun to bore him.  He walked to the top of the tram.  I held on to the handrail, worried that I had offended him and worried too that some of the passengers would think I had interfered with him and caused his abrupt departure. Maybe we were nearing his stop or more likely he was so engrossed in conversation he had missed it.  Maybe it was even several stops back.

I thought about this encounter briefly before the tram scratched to a halt.
If a child has a question it ought to be answered.  We need to make time for them and not dismiss their quest for knowledge.  Not all strangers pose dangers.  There is something heart-warming about children who love learning and talking to the world. They shouldn't fear but they should be aware.  I hope they learn a lot and grow up to be people who can talk to people.  I admire that curiosity but I cannot help but worry for their safety. So reserved, so frightened and so awkward are we adults sometimes, frightened of our peers, our fellow man and fearful for our children.

People I wanted to be

People I wanted to be

We all wanted to be someone else at some point. We may have envisaged a totally different lifestyle to that we now live. It is true, that youthful optimism and naiveté often play a role, we dream of being wealthy people, influential and famous people. Some of us never stop dreaming.

When I was a child I thought I would be many different things. I saw myself as a mechanic, a farmer and an agricultural contractor once upon a time. I loved yokes; cars and tractors and vehicles of all kinds. I enjoyed (and still do) attending vintage shows and agricultural/agrarian displays. The smell of diesel and greasy oiled engines still teases my senses and draws to mind memories and thoughts of what might have been.

When I was a little fellow I wasn't sure I would go college or university. I enjoyed Primary School. I love the creative aspect of education. At school I liked arts and crafts, and after a point I attempted to introduce an imaginative element to my story writing. Drawing and painting are fun. I watched Art Attack and Rolf Harris and thought that being an artist or a cartoonist looked like a great deal of fun. My older brother had an active imagination. He used to draw a little comic that he shared only with the family. Charles Caleb Colton said that imitation is the greatest form of flattery and flatter I did. I drew my own poorly drawn comic (often after my brother had finished one) with a skull-capped crocodile and hellish aliens determined to ravish the Earth with plans so heinous I had not yet thought them through in their entirety. I won a few prizes in art competitions and had 2 drawings shown on National TV but otherwise my ambitions came to nought.

I thought about being a teacher from time to time and then thought nothing more of it.

I wanted to be an actor at various points. I even had a chance to test my mettle. I was 'Ernie' in Ernie's Incredible Hallucinations. My class, 1C performed this play for our peers during the first year of secondary school. I auditioned for the school's biennial musical, 'Grease'. I don't believe I can sing but I was disappointed that after a call-back I was relegated to the chorus. I wasn't much of a dancer and soon dropped out.

When I thought of acting, I mostly saw myself in productions penned by my own hand. At some point I came to prefer the idea of sculpting characters through writing and direction. 

I became interested in writing during the latter years of Primary school. After many years of writing 'The News' and unwittingly relaying the local controversies and family gossip to our teachers, there came a chance to write stories with a little more creativity. There were different stories and prompts that inspired stories of time travel and adventure. The turning point I remember was the homework assignment 'My life as a circus performer'. While others wrote dull and banal stories of clowns and aristocratic acrobats I remembered what my teacher had told us about the Romans and the Colosseum. Namely, that Gladiators and their violent performance as entertainment was like a modern circus. I got to work writing my ancient epic about a day in the life of a gladiator. I received a lot of praise for this story. My teacher described it as 'original' & 'novel'. I began to take writing more seriously and whenever I had to write a story as part of my homework or exam preparation I would spend a lot of time considering an original and provocative storyline.  Later I would begin to jot down ideas in a notebook but not until much later in my teenage years. I tried my hand at poetry, a poem I had written when I was 12 and submitted to a competition was later published in an anthology of children's submissions. I attempted to write a comedy for the school Christmas concert at the age of 13. But a play about a dating TV show gone wrong performed by awkward, lazy and hormonal teenagers exposed my short-sightedness. On the morning of our performance I pulled the plug. The cast had disintegrated. I tried writing a play again at university. Being an English and German student I thought I would follow in the footsteps of Marlowe and Goethe and retell or reboot Doctor Faustus for a student audience. It was never finished but the Uni writer's circle organised a reading rehearsal and I had the chance to perform a piece on air after an interview on local radio.
I am still thinking this one over.

I have thought about being a doctor, a nurse, a counsellor, a politician & I have thought about who and what I want to be now. What work would I be good at? What work might I enjoy?

Whenever my mind slips into a state of panic and I worry about the point, purpose and my role in this life, I remember what John Lennon said.

“When I was 5 years old, my mother always told me that happiness was the key to life. When I went to school, they asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wrote down ‘happy’. They told me I didn’t understand the assignment, and I told them they didn’t understand life.”

The Leaning Tower of

It started almost by accident, rising out of the rubble of my room.

These tokens of my ambition accumulate, some with a bookmark slid between their brittle layers; marking my intentions, my milestones and my aborted adventures.

Some I will go back to and some I may never wet their last page with the spittle of my finger and thumb.  They are destined to be unfulfilled.

There are several books I have managed to read once and perhaps I would like to read them again.  I hear second and subsequent readings lend even more detail to the darting eye and pensive mind.  However, there are just too many new pieces to be read.

All too often I browse online-bookshops, picking out treats and classics, recommendations and appetising synopses.  I have often found myself drifting into shops, picking and flicking and procuring right there.
There is great pleasure in buying a book, reading the synopsis and sometimes brushing to the last page looking for spoilers or clues and being left puzzled.

There are just too many good books left to read.  Which I suppose is a good complaint to have.
But if I hope to make a dent in them, I should probably start with that leaning tower in my room.  Certainly before it topples over.

Space

How much space makes a home?
Four walls, a roof and somewhere to lay my weary body. . .

I look at the heaps of clothing washed and dried, waiting to be sorted and tidied away into my drawers or hung in the shaky skeletal cage I use as a wardrobe.  In the corner, behind the door there is a growing mountain of dirty laundry held within a blue IKEA bag.  It will be washed and it will join the heap.  My little table and the top of my chest of drawers are littered with scraps, books and a collection of miscellaneous items, weird, wonderful and random. By my bed there are books, diaries, notebooks, cards celebrating a variety of occasions, some lego and other ornaments.

There is barely enough space for my possessions.
Some I stow in boxes under my bed.  In the dark I forget to remember them.

It does not take much to keep me but if there is one thing that I miss, it is having a workspace. Upon this workspace I could order my disorderly papers and if would offer me the comfort to read and write as I please.

I want my organised mess to spill over my desk- not the floor and cardboard boxes.

My room is a warehouse of stored ambition, discarded and or disused materials.  Writing, reading, coveted books and fading script, it holds the ghost of yesterday, last month and last year.

What I need is an eye for this storm, an epicentre for this quake of thoughts and hopes and plans.

The Empty Pages

12/01/14

I leaf through the pages of my notebook rediscovering snippets and smithereens of unfinished or scratched writing.  There are pages with multiple incomplete entries; stories, poems, observations and quotes both classical and modern.  The first block of pages are filled perhaps with a tenuous link, thought or theme.  This runs dry and the white swells until it engulfs the page.
The white page stares blankly at the pen.
Flick forward and it becomes apparent this is a pincer attack-the back of the book is also filled with an eclectic mix of writing.

Sometimes there is an obvious discrepancy to warrant this meandering.  A story starts at the back and movies forward to prevent it being interrupted or butchered by the random influx of ideas and sentiments charging from the front to the back.  The information at the back is sometimes more relevant to daily experience or current circumstances; e-mail addresses, letter drafts but even these are sometimes littered with forceful digression bursting into my thoughts.

Every notebook I have starts at the front or back, drifts to the other end and starts the push towards the middle.  What will be the last printed piece?  A random thought or observation or something more precise like an address or directions?
I cannot say.
I drift on to a new notebook.  All of them unfinished but with their middle pages burning white, their outer edges daubed in black and blue-the depressions of mind and soul upon the paper.  I sometimes feel a pang of guilt looking at these unfinished notebooks.  Such a waste of paper, surely?

Perhaps my mind fills in the ditches, building walls to keep me in the middle.  The straight and narrow narrowing.  Although I am worried when and if I extinguish the white light of those empty pages I will never need to pick up that book again and thus I forget.  I forget the things I have written and how I felt, along with ideas good and bad.  It is a diary of sorts and it spans many moons.  The very book I write this entry  in carries a stamp from 2011 to 2014 and still has pages to spare.
This story is not over yet.