Power

Found myself at a Forum yesterday evening involving a group of teachers presenting papers on various aspects of teaching Shakespeare in the classroom. And 'various' indeed were the papers, ranging from a couple reflecting a reasonable degree of academic rigour to one or two that sounded suspiciously like sounding off a series of opinions on the Bard and classrooms in this nation for the sheer pleasure of venting. I enjoyed them all; even the least intellectually stimulating offered something of interest in terms of entering into the thought world of its presenters and trying to understand what led them to the expression of these opinions in this place at this time.

There were glimpses, also, of classrooms other than my own in schools seemingly, sometimes, very different from any I had taught in here. I mention this particularly in relation to the presentation of one young lady centring on the notion of power as a theme (in relation, in part, to The Tempest) which she appeared to use, in part at least, as a way of expressing her frustrations with regard to the limitations she felt placed upon her regarding what she was allowed to deal with in her classroom. Specifically she appeared to imply that the powers-that-be frowned upon dealing with any remotely controversial material in the classroom and simply to talk about protesting against or questioning those who wield power was unacceptable.

This was extraordinary to me. I've never come across any such 'policy', if that's what it is, expressed anywhere I've taught in this nation. But she was obviously sincere and expressing an indignation founded in some kind of real experience. Which leads me to this thought: I don't think it's possible to safely generalise about schools here and what they practise despite the apparent uniformity of approach. The local, actual experience of what you encounter in a school, on the ground, as it were, is precisely that: local, particular, distinct - sometimes dependent upon one or two key relationships with those in immediate 'power' over you. If you're lucky, as I have been, these folk are sane. If you're unlucky...

Running On Empty

When it reaches 8.30 pm and you suddenly realise you haven't eaten at all, then you know it's been a busy day.

Interruptions

It's funny but in my youth I don't think I ever consciously noticed people interrupting each other in conversation . Sadly I don't think I was ever really aware of interrupting others. Now I find I'm acutely aware of various interruptions, but not entirely in a disapproving way. Rather the phenomenon has a fascination about it. What is it that makes some people incapable of hearing others out? And the fascination is doubled in the case of those curious presenters you see on tv who thrive on asking people questions with a glorious unconcern as to their answers. Why ask someone what they think when you don't actually want to know?

Celebratory

 

 

Technically it would be possible to quibble over the idea that I'm moving into my seventh decade since I reckon that that should be counted from this time next year. But no one's going to listen, so I'll just have to accept the grim reality of having too many candles to fit on any hypothetical cake that might make its way in my direction at this time.

Mind you with the Missus around to celebrate with this morning, and take goofy photos, and my drama guys giving me further cause for celebration with a great performance this afternoon all is very, very well indeed for this old fellah.

Lost

The coverage of the inquest verdict on the Hillsborough tragedy by Sky News today was excellent. They made no bones about the fact that finally, after so long, some kind of justice was being done. But it was painful to view those images of the 96 dead, especially the youngsters amongst them, and think of the lives of which they were robbed, and the lies that were told to cover up the incompetence that led to those loses and traduced their memories. Wonder how those newspapers who allowed themselves to be used to convey those lies (yes, I'm looking at you, The Sun) will cover this tomorrow?

Keeping It Real

One of the great things about getting some exercise done is the pay-off that follows: the sense that you've achieved something real and positive, even if you haven't exactly set the world alight with your level of fitness. I'm happy to report that the Missus and I made it to the gym yet again this evening and seem to have established a reasonably regular routine. It feels good.

(By the way, if I wake up struggling to walk tomorrow the above is rescinded. Just saying.)

(At my age you just never know, you know.)

Reasoning Through Rhyme

Somewhat surprised, but pleased, to see a couple of pages headed Rhyme & Reason in yesterday's Straits Times which, according to an accompanying article, are slated to be the first in a regular series to last fifteen weeks, featuring a 'literary' prose piece and a poem relating to this island and what goes on in it. The accompanying article sounded a tad tentative, almost apologetic, about intruding upon readers' consciousness with this peculiar lit stuff, but its heart was in the right place.

Anyway, it was good to get no fewer than three poems from Edwin Thumboo, and be reminded of the possibility of a public, political kind of poetry in an age that seems so resolutely inward-looking. I suppose the prof might be seen as a 'safe' way to start the series, but it's going to be interesting to see just how edgy some of the material might get as it goes along. The great thing about getting political in a poem is that with reasonable cunning you can cover up just how subversive you really are. But the problem then is that no one actually understands you. Doh!

And then there's the possibility that someone whose politics are as fundamentally idiotic as those of old Willie Yeats ends up dealing in profound truths despite the silliness.

Real Magic

Ever since we decided to do A Midsummer Night's Dream this year as our big production I've found myself thinking about the play quite intensely. And that intensity has reached its highest pitch over the last two weeks as I've been figuring out exactly how many of the lines we'll be cutting to ensure we keep to a reasonable stage time and don't overwhelm our performers by the sheer amount they'll need to memorise.

It's painful, of course, to cut anything, and I've steeled myself to be ruthless, getting rid of something like a third to half the original. Fortunately that leaves a lot to savour, and that's what I've been doing as I've found myself more up close and personal with Shakespeare's words than ever before. What must it have been like to have been given this stuff to perform in its pristine state a little over four hundred years ago? Magical is the only word I can think of, in its truest sense.

Gently Weeping

I can remember the exact moment that I became a convert to the music of Prince, though I'm uncertain as to the year in question. It was some time in the early 80's. I'd enjoyed listening to the singles I'd heard up to that point, but had no idea of the phenomenal talent that lay behind them. Then one night watching the telly I accidentally hit upon a concert featuring the man himself. It was so unbelievably out-of-this-or-any-other-world fantastic that I was left questioning myself as to why I had no idea of the scope of the little guy's genius to that point. I suppose I'd lazily fallen for media stereotypes and vaguely remember telling myself never to do so for any musician ever again.

Something of that genius shines through on Prince's playing on the stellar tribute to George Harrison he contributed to back in 2004, in the best live version of While My Guitar Gently Weeps I've ever heard. What I love about this is the obvious joy Prince (and Tom Petty, Jeff Lynne, Stevie Winwood, etc) experiences in the moment of creation. Sad to think that's lost to us now for ever; happy to think of the amazing legacy that's ours in terms of the recordings he left behind (quite a number of which, I'm sure, have still to see the light of day given just how prodigal a gift he possessed.)

Whistle While You Work

People don't go around whistling like they used to, do they? This sad truth came to my mind the other day when wandering back late in the evening after checking on an English Language course we run for our foreign scholars I crossed the path of one of our girls, presumably making her way home, and, unexpectedly, whistling to herself most tunefully as she did so. She didn't break off, I'm pleased to say, whilst passing me as I don't think she saw me coming and probably didn't realise I was a teacher, dressed as I was in my civilian clothes for the evening. Her tunefulness is, I'm afraid, the exception that proves the rule, hence my taking such notice of it.

When I was working in a factory back in the 70's there were any number of whistlers happy to vie with the Radio 2 shlock that was piped into the workplace. (How much I loathed that station then!) Was this a working class thing, the whistling, I mean? Do guys on the factory floor still maintain their humanity in this way? I hope so.