On The Heights

Finding it difficult of late to make time for real sustained reading. So I've fallen back on close encounters with a poem or two or three a day, moving forward with Wislawa Szymborska through the decades in Poems New and Selected. Is she as good as some claim? Oh yes, yes, yes! Was she worth the 1996 Nobel? And then some.

She starts off with brilliant stuff in 1957 and gets, not exactly better, but brilliant in different ways. Astonishingly I managed not to have really heard of her until 2009 when she was hotly recommended as more than a good read in a seminar I had the good fortune to attend. And I would recommend her at super-heat to anyone out there who loves words and what can be done with them.

And to think I'm talking about translations. What must it be like to read her in the original Polish!

A Taxing Time

I really must get my tax return for last year done. It's a relatively easy task for me with everything on-line and little to do except declare my income. I'm in the fortunate position of paying income tax solely to the authorities of this small island - rather than being double-taxed - and since the rates here are more than reasonable that's cause for some celebration.

And here's the odd thing. I genuinely don't mind paying a tax on my income, regardless of the nation involved, and never really have done. In fact, it seems odd to me that some people complain so vociferously about the process. (Of course, a bit of a moan and groan over money leaving the wallet is quite natural, and quite in order even for someone like myself who basically doesn't mind, but that's not what I'm talking about here.) The idea that somehow we owe nothing to help create and sustain the societies that help us thrive is extraordinary, as is the idea that we succeed based solely on our remarkable merits as individuals and are entitled to every fruit that grows upon our trees. (Ugly metaphor, but it points at some useful meaning.)

I suppose this is why I might be seen as essentially a man of the left. I do believe in something that might be loosely termed society - and I believe that we are lucky to find ourselves born or accepted into it - and I believe we owe it something.

(Of course, in my more anarchic moods I'd find it impossible to write anything like the above, but for the moment the mellow communitarian shines through.)

Magic And Loss

It's two years to the day since Mum died. Many thoughts of her today - all happy. I'm reminded of a great line from a great Lou Reed song: There's a little bit of magic in everything, and some loss to even things out.

In The Event

Felt tired today, mainly as a result of being so busy on Saturday. There wasn't a lot to do yesterday - Haj class in the morning, a bit of marking, visiting Fuad's mum in hospital in the evening - but I didn't quite catch up on the old zzzzzz's. And I was pretty busy today also with yet another big event coming up on Thursday. Actually I don't feel the same frustration over this kind of busyness as I can feel at other times in the frenetic school year. Saturday's dramatic event was essentially educational and, therefore, enjoyable, despite the long hours (and it was our own idea, rather than being forced on us.) Funnily enough on the same day the school was playing host to a big national competition called Odyssey of the Mind, in which a lot of our students were involved, and, again, as an innocent bystander I got a real sense that the experience managed to transcend just being another competition for the various teams and that they were having a rare old creative time and learning lots in the process. Lots of silly props and colourful costume and general mess: fun, as well as hard work.

It's difficult to argue against providing young people with this kind of experience. But therein lies the problem. You can justify almost any event (by which I mean something time-bound added-on, in a sense, to the general run of the curriculum) in a school as developing something in someone somehow (even the ones that turn out to be not so genuinely educationally beneficial, but simply the kind of things done for their own sake.) And that means it's very easy to make students and staff too busy to benefit in any deep and lasting way from those experiences. They become associated with learning to cope rather than learning.

It's all a question of balance. I've experienced one system that didn't really do as much as it could. And another that commits itself to too much. Somewhere in the middle lies a kind of wisdom.

Little Ironies

Don't you just hate post-it notes that don't stick? Oh, the irony!

Making It Up

A dramatic day, of the theatrical variety. Tiring but extremely fulfilling. Real playing around.

Life's A Beach

Coming back from dinner this evening we happened to catch the last few minutes of Mr Bean's Holiday. The final sequence of our eponymous hero finally strolling down to the beach is possibly my favourite ending to any movie, ever. Pure delight in every sense of both those words.

Matters Cromwellian

Finished Hill's God's Englishman the other day. Got considerably more out of it this time round than on my first reading of some three decades ago. Most of all an enhanced understanding of what might be described as the Puritan view of providence and salvation. I suppose it's my Catholic upbringing that's always made it difficult for me to grasp the fundamentals of Protestant thought, though I rather suspect I would have volunteered for the New Model Army if I'd been around in those exciting times. I'd forgotten also just how much Cromwell's rule-cum-reign provided the seeds of the impetus to Empire on the part of my countrymen. There's a dark side to everything.

Oh, and this time round I finally grasped why it was that the Lord Protector's instincts were so profoundly undemocratic. The fear that extending the franchise would undo the revolution was well-founded, though it misses the point that the only real revolution is ever to be found in the hearts of men.

What's In A Name?

Wouldn't Cromwell make a fine name for a dog? And of course, as I'm sure you'll agree, it's completely inappropriate for a cat. Which leads me to the happy thought that the names of British national heroes of a military cast have a distinct canine aura about them: Wellington, Churchill, Nelson, Montgomery. Surely not simply a coincidence?

(And whilst we are on this theme, just to remind you that Strindberg would make the perfect name for the average psychotic cat. As would Ibsen, not so? I begin to see another pattern here.)

No Fooling

Scene at the mall: there we are, Gentle Reader, at the check-out, when yours truly hears the lady processing our purchases say something to the Missus about her husband, i.e., my good self. Is she complimenting Noi on her good taste in making such a fine choice of a life partner? No, sir. She's inquiring whether I'm a senior citizen!!!! as we get some kind of discount if this is the case. (It's the old geezers' special day.) I mean, really!

In the immortal words of the great Kenneth Williams: Infamy! Infamy! They've all got it infamy!