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.”