Interesting Quotes to Ponder by Edgar Allan Poe…

All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.

Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.

I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary.

That pleasure which is at once the most pure, the most elevating and the most intense, is derived, I maintain, from the contemplation of the beautiful.

Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.

Only three left:

With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion.

“It has been a long while since any artificial stimulus has passed my lips. . . I am done forever with drink -- depend upon that -- but there is much more in this matter than meets the eye" (Ostrom, Letters, p. 326).


A wonderful writer, an entertaining one, a tragic one…a man who died discovered in another man’s cloths, alone in an alley, smelling of whiskey… in love with the beauty of words.

The sign of any great writer, Poe’s stories are timeless.

Habits & Living in the Moment

Most human beings (a generality but a true one) move through their lives on auto pilot, their daily habits and routines set, and when providence throws a wrench into the works, stress prevails. The famous Greek philosopher, Aristotle, a practical man, wrote,

“We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence then, is not an act, but a habit.”

At times in one’s life, the shells fall from the eyes, and we see life to be a gift, existence becomes something not to be taken for granted. When reflecting, the reality of one’s habits come to fore, and often times, we do not like what we see. The list appears to be endless:

Eating too much.
Drinking too much.
Eating the wrong foods.
Staying up late.
Writing when should be marking school work.
Day dreaming. (Mostly about Love)
Procrastinating, paying bills.
Procrastinating in general.
Sleeping in.
Drinking too much alcohol, smoking too many cigarettes.

However these are human habits, habits that are certainly understandable. This is not what my subject is about…we move along through life not really seeing, smelling, touching, really tasting one’s food, or hearing the movement of the wind.

Most of us during our short lives experience a moment of clarity, where existence, in all its wonder, is revealed. When this occurs, it is different for all of us, we see an aspect of the world, a portion of our lives that has been neglected, something that now, is very important…something so crucial, that before our certain death, must happen, must be carried out…should be done.

For this writer, it is paying attention to the world, listening, seeing, feeling the moment; most importantly, being kind to all God’s creation, when and where ever possible. Love & kindness is key, to ensure our lives move on and are successful, no matter what our definition of success may be.

My habit has been to skate through life, being “nice” when possible and taking the path of least resistance. Well, no, that’s not entirely true. Taking the path of “hurt” sometimes brings fruits, the tough path is necessary, sacrificing your own concerns for the other. To love someone is to give without thought of self, a notion that this person, individual or animal is safe…and you have given everything possible.

My basic habits have been de- constructive, for the most part, sitting, drinking, writing crap, moving through life like a robot… not living the moment, never paying attention…but what I have discovered…

Love is all important: love for children, love for your oldest friend, love for your mum, and love for your students, love for your lover, and love for the world…love for the Creator.

A very good friend of mine is an early riser, walking every morning as our sun appears and the day begins. This is her favourite moment of the day, smelling the fresh air, listening to the birds, observing shadows turn to light, somehow feeling part of this miracle…she has expressed to me many times how she wishes everyone should see and experience this moment, the wonders of the morning and the world. This has been her routine, habit, for many years…this habit has made her understand the importance of living in the moment, to pay attention, resulting in a real connection to existence.

Create good habits and stay awake…

One’s Environment, Teaching, Learning and the Heat.

Teaching a class of twenty-five teenagers around the age of sixteen in oppressive heat, no air conditioning, and the classroom feels like a sauna, well, actual learning is an impossible outcome, a fantasy, a dream, like pigs flying over my veranda…it simply cannot happen. To even attempt a unit of work under such conditions, particularly last period on a Friday, is pure, unadulterated lunacy.

I remember years ago, trying to teach a group of Year eights under similar conditions, new to the job, and the poor kids were either slumped in their chairs, exhausted and sweating or hysterical and literally climbing the walls. This wasn’t teaching, I thought, but crowd control.

Learning, real learning can only occur under bearable conditions. From my experience, the better the conditions, the better the receptivity of the student, because they are less distracted. A hot, stuffy and untidy classroom is not conducive to real learning. This simple fact has been proven to me time and time again.

An example:

One’s environment affects one’s state of mind.

During the early nineties, New York City’s transit system, specifically their subway, was, and looked like, a war zone. Crime was at an all time high, commuters were getting mugged at an average of ten a day. There was so much graffiti covering the trains and the walls of every station that there was literarily no space for the vandels to spray paint their tags…the place had become Dante’s ninth level of Hell.

The city’s government had had enough and thus poured millions of dollars into fixing the problem. A small army of uniformed security was hired to patrol the subway and trains; an upgrade of all stations, refurbishing everything from the walls to the turnstiles, the lavatories to the actual platforms, and of course the trains themselves had been cleaned of all graffiti, including a more ‘crime safe’ ticketing system. New York’s subway had been reborn. So what happened?

One writer has called the phenomena, ‘the broken window syndrome”, that is to say, when people are in a dirty, depressing environment…broken windows, graffiti, garbage everywhere, their attitudes match the surroundings.

Crime dropped in New York City subway’s from ten mugging’s a day to one a week. This is a significant drop in crime. Adding value, not only did the crime drop, but more people used the subway to move around the city…tourists’ began using the system again and the company quadrupled their profits.

How does this relate to learning and the classroom?

If a classroom is neglected, where the paint is peeling, the desks have etched or carved graffiti that cannot be removed, and the overhead fan does not work, on a hot day, the children will match their surroundings and chaos ensues, learning a lost dream.

Putting the “broken window syndrome” to good use, one year I decided to refurbish a classroom, painting the walls in a fresh, light blue, replacing the damaged desk tops with new ones, rearranging the room giving the impression of more space; replacing the blinds and purchasing a new white board.

What happened?

My students returned from their holidays and when coming into that particular classroom for the first time, sat down and said,

“Wow, this doesn’t look like the same room. What did you do Mr. Middleton? This is pretty awesome, man.”

A normally rambunctious group of students, we had the best lesson in years, and continued to do so for the remainder of the school semester.

Other teachers, in fact, commented how changed the space had become and that they now did not regret having to teach in “that” room.

Environment is everything when attempting to teach a group of hormone inflamed teenagers. To be sure, it is difficult enough managing a classroom and running a lesson under “normal” conditions, but in an environment of intense heat and disorganization, the task of teaching becomes challenging if not absolutely ridiculous.

Today was hot, and a Friday, lunch time break became volatile as a few fights occurred…the children were tired after a long week of unrelenting heat and school work.

As a few teachers called in sick today, I was given an “extra”, to watch over a classroom during last period on a humid and hot Friday. As it turned out, I knew these kids and told them to sit back, chat amongst themselves and plan their weekend.

The overhead fan worked though the heat was oppressive, I ordered them to chill…and they did…but no work was accomplished. So they sat back and chatted, trying to relax under the heat, but at least left the school somewhat relaxed, leaving the classroom saying, “Have a good weekend Mr. Middleton. See you Monday.”

No fights, arguments or angst, and all seemingly wanting to return to school after the weekend break.

Although no learning occurred, I figure this to be at least a small accomplishment.

Environment is everything.

Felix Mendelssohn, Sophie Rowell and the Melbourne Symphony Orchestra

Every summer for the last seventy years, the Melbourne Symphony Orchestra has performed at the Sidney Myer Music Bowl, an out door venue that has the correct acoustics which any performing musician would relish. The orchestra does four performances, each with a varied theme and guest conductor or soloist. To hear the likes of Beethoven, Mozart or a Mendelssohn on a breezy, warm summer’s night under the stars is a joyful, and for me, an utterly startling experience.

We arrived around six and there were people everywhere, eating and drinking their respective picnic suppers, and enjoying the sea breeze that has been conspicuously absent for almost a week. Melbourne has had an extended hot summer, and the natives have started to complain because constant heat and humidity can drive a saint to a life of crime: weather-wise, a perfect night, despite the massive crowd.

Walking through the crowd, we made our way to the front of the stage in hopes of possibly finding two seats close to the orchestra. Considering the amount of people, chances of finding such seats were next to none. Then something strange and wonderful happened, a little old lady, at least eighty years young, grabbed my friend by the sleeve and asked,

“Darling are you two meeting anyone?”

“”No, we’re looking for some good seats.”

She smiled and said, “Come with me.”

We followed her through the isles, dodging people and those unawares, where she led us to the fourth row, dead centre; seats that in normal circumstances would have cost us $250 a ticket!

The Good Samaritan’s friend appeared slightly younger and was so pleased that her friend had found us, to sit next to them and experience the concert. Once we were seated, I noticed that both ladies returned to reading their books, those books with the big type: easier reading for tired eyes. Interestingly, they felt to be content that we were there, sitting next to them, someone to share the glory of the music.

As the time approached seven o’clock, the orchestra began to meander to their spots, warming up to their instruments. I love that sound of the strings tuning together, a universal sound that we are about to hear something magnificent.

The stage lights slowly rose and the conductor, the world renowned, Oleg Caetani, a maestro, who conducted his first symphony at the age of seventeen, came on stage, bowed, turned to the orchestra, lifting his hands, the music began…

They began with the Overture from the opera, Donna Diana, by Emil Nikolaus von Reznicek. This is music that I have never heard before, told that his music now is being rediscovered and played again…as it should because this particular Overture is so dramatic yet sensitive and technically, from my view, sophisticated.

The next piece came from the popular Percy Grainger, an Australian, who won critical and popular acclaim for his work internationally. Born in Australia in 1882, he studied music to travel to Europe and found the study of folk tunes an inspiration; the folk tune had great meaning for Grainger, and the song performed, Green Bushes, seemed to me to be a combination of Celtic, German and Polish influences. This is a piece of music that makes you instantly, no matter what your circumstances, feel right with the world.

The peak of the night for me was the Mendelssohn Violin Concerto in E minor, Op. 64…this has always, since a little boy, been a special and emotional piece of music.

Mendelssohn had always wanted to write the perfect violin concerto for his friend, Ferdinand David, leader of the Gewandhaus Orchestra, Mendelssohn wrote,

“I should also like to write a violin concerto for you next winter. One in E minor runs in my head. The beginning which gives me no peace.”

Just over six years after this letter was sent, he finished the concerto, sending the final draft to David.

This is a moving piece of music, sending one to the depths of sadness to the heights of ecstasy, a kind of ‘beautiful sadness’, this music can send you to a truly wonderful place. As a little boy, I still remember the images the melody conjured…that of snow, so much white, more whiteness, cold and suffering, but a feeling of Noble suffering.

Sophie Rowell is a violinist of the highest order. To play any instrument, no matter what genre of music, to see and hear someone who has actually mastered their tool of expression, is inspiring, converting, a spiritual experience in the most profound and honest way. To be really honest, seeing her play brought me to tears…and awe…up and down the emotional scale like a schizoid off their medication. In all my years, I have never experienced such feelings, so acute, in response to a piece of music. Sophie was absolutely a marvel, performing Mendelssohn as if the composition was her very own.

When the thirty minute piece ended, not surprisingly, the audience went wild…”Bravo, Bravo…” And of course Sophie came out for a second bow….amazing!

My friend and I left hand in hand without speaking one word. Walking through the park under a star lit night, words felt to be unnecessary, superfluous, our minds and souls submerged in the music. It was only much later that we began to converse, one word utterances…wow, beautiful, unexpected, moving…

My night ended with the head finally hitting the pillow after a very long day…as Mendelssohn wafted in the air, falling to sleep.

We were Children...

In my own past, so-called love affairs were always one sided…either my love out weighed there’s and I turned out to be the fool, my heart broken, because they dropped me like so many before, or my feelings were, well, flippant, using the relationship wholly for my pleasure before losing interest and moving on.

“I’d like to be friends but I need space, see you around”…smiling, hoping I’d never see them again.

Then that dreaded phone call arrived ‘Hello….R...”

“Yea, it’s me, what’s up?”

‘Remember Carrie? she was found dead from an over dose of sleeping pills.”

My memory hysterically rolled back in time to the name, Carrie; finding the correct file in my head, my heart rose into my throat, this was the first girl that I had used and disregarded like a heap of garbage, dropped her as if she was nothing, used her for one thing and one thing only, and felt zero remorse.

As a personal defence: “I’m really sorry, she was a nice girl.”

R, don’t you get it? She left a note for Christ sake. Do you know what it said?”

It was at that precise moment that my head began to pound, all the signs of an approaching stroke or cardiac arrest...

“Sorry man, but she killed herself because of YOU. She wrote a suicide note, blaming you for killing herself. Just a friendly call to warn you, man, see ya, try to be cool.”

I remember the time exactly, 9:30 p.m., and walking my new apartment floor like a maniac; I must have travelled 800 k's that night, not really knowing what to feel.

I tried to re-live our encounter. She was in Year 10, and I was about to graduate. Even though accepted by good universities, the family could not afford the fees, thus working was the only alternative.

I was terrible at basketball, too small for football and preferred to grow my hair long, play guitar and go to Rock concerts. To pay full fees was out of the question. A good friend of mine was in the same boat and suggested we go to Mexico and get on a construction crew.

“Listen, R, the job is a shoe-in, just act like you know what you're doing.”


We drove from Seattle down to Mexico, found a cheap hotel and ended up paying only $10 a week. It was in the middle of the desert; no one spoke English or admitted to, anyway, our summer of hard work began.

This is another story.

After the graduation ceremony on that very strange night, the Lincoln High School elite contingent of Jocks & Cheerleaders took over at the usual party spot, so we drove to our own camp, a secret, beautiful spot with acquaintances and old friends.

From my unreliable memory, it was a good time.

My best friend, Dave, drove me home. I remember it being a hot and humid night, unusual for Seattle at that time of year. Deanna looked at me, (Dave’s girlfriend, stared into my eyes like she wanted to tell me something ;) she gave me a great kiss on the cheek, "happy graduation!" she said.

The house, as usual was dark, people were asleep or no one was home, at that time, who could tell?

My bedroom was situated at the far end of the house. My key for the back door worked, entering, I recall feeling extremely tired; Sam, my cat, greeted me and jumped for joy at my arrival. I kissed the little guy; made sure his food & water bowl were full and duly went to bed.

Falling to sleep, suddenly my eyes opened, someone was in my bed, kissing aspects of my body that are guaranteed for a response. I remember feeling the naked body being very soft, however as I came to consciousness, I jerked in a slight panic, she said,

“Be still or I’ll stop!”

“Who in the hell are you?”

Sitting up, she pushed my head down with force, intent on her ‘own’ goal for the evening.

"Carrie, now keep quiet."

Nature, without doubt, usually goes its own way, and the inevitable does and always arrives with a bang, no matter how hard you fight it. Like a true fool, fell almost instantly asleep, feeling her warm, naked body curled into mine.

Morning arrived with Sam, my little mate, licking my face, intent on breakfast.

Carrie was gone, out the window I surmised, the same way she had entered the premises.

I was due to leave for Mexico in a few days, the phone would ring, but I would not answer it for fear of something…I didn't want to talk to her, it just felt too strange and a little nutty, like the movie, Fatal Attraction.

I found out a few days before leaving that she had been following me, trying to find out if I had someone else. I was glad to leave town.

I left for Mexico and did not look back…

A good three months passed, without strange women, stalkers, jocks, fathers/mothers and the leisure of a student's life…I felt healthy, wealthy and ready for anything. I looked tanned, sun blond and muscular, and when going into a club, it looked as though all the girls loved me…man was I full of myself!

As my father and I discussed, I saved money enough for a term at University. The deal was 50/50 and I had my half; I would begin first term.

Returning to Seattle after living in a Mexican town was a bit of a shock. Let’s face it, I somehow grew into an adult from a stupid kid in that community, even learning conversational Spanish, I felt accepted; now I had returned, the ‘crap’ came rolling back like a landslide… though feelings of irresponsible freedom prevailed. I didn't really grow up, though maybe I did, but going home put my maturity in reverse.

After that summer in Mexicao ended, everything in my life started to go wrong, my parents divorced, my mother left the country and dad moved to L.A., leaving me in Seattle to fend for myself. University would have to be put on hold.

Feeling depressed, decided to make the phone call as I hadn't been with anyone for quite sometime.

“How are things?”

“Is this really R?"

Really wanting to get to the point of my intended task and outcome, stated:

“I’ll pick you up, and maybe we can 'talk'.”

“Sure.”

We made love in my car, more to the point, had sex and I dropped her off, feeling satisfied and smug.

"Call me?" her face expressing hope.

"Yea, sure, not a problem." I never even considered calling her back. I got what I wanted, so later sweetheart. Anyway, the next day I was flying out to L.A. to live with my father for a while, but she didn't need to know that.


I never set eyes on her again. But received a disturbing phone call that I knew would come eventually…one that I would think and worry about for a long time…

“Yes, this is 'R'.

“Is this really the man that used my daughter? My daughter who loved you more than her family, her mother and then threw her away?!”

“Who is this?”

“You know exactly who it is…you missed her funeral, you son of a bitch! How dare you deny responsibility for my daughter’s death? You used her and threw her away, then came back like some big stud; killing her…you're a bastard!”

“I didn’t know she loved me that much…”

“Please spare me, I swear, if I ever see you I’ll kill you, do you understand you bastard!?”

She hung up, leaving me to my thoughts of guilt and confusion.

My 'relationship' with Carrie consisted of two encounters one instigated by her and the other by yours truly. I left Seattle that weekend, on the plane, gazing out the window at those white clouds... Only much later did I finally realize that she loved someone else, an image of a perfect love; Carrie was in love with the 'ideal' of love and subsequently projected this 'love' onto me. She had an extended love affair with me inside her own head fuelled by her imagination. There was no true reality in this affair despite two encounters, I was the 'object' of this 'ideal' love, and consequently blamed for her broken heart.

Well, this is what I tried to convince myself was the case.


Love is a mysterious thing, a force or feeling that if true, could rule the galaxies, a drive that brings us to die for our children, be with our friends, a desire to be with those we care for the most; a energy so strong, it can drive us to the grand heights of happiness and to the depths of self destruction.

My thoughts are with her from time to time, the memory of her sneaking through my window as a 17 year old child and me, 18, and acting like it really didn’t matter, is a fading memory, but is in my memory nevertheless.

Let's face it, we were children.

A Love Letter from the Past…

My most dearest …

Between the shouts and bombs the opportunity to write has arrived though this lucky window of opportunity could well be short lived.

My dearest… how I miss you so…

Currently crouched in a trench next to a sick friend; his body temperature is growing by the minute, but there is absolutely nothing I can do about it! We have been forced to remain in this hole because the gun fire begins at the slightest movement…we do not dare lift our vulnerable heads above the ground.

Yesterday the sounds of guns and bombs had been unrelenting. My dearest, I truly thought I would go absolutely mad. This war is not natural. Why do we continue to kill each other…in the name of what…the pride of our country, a dispute over a small slice of land?

Please forgive me my dearest, ranting again, talking only about myself.

How is your mother? Has this wonderful woman’s condition changed at all; and have you managed to find some spare moments to work on your novel?

Thank you for sending the third chapter; it read like a tale that one would read many years ago, a romantic poetic piece of pure unrequited love.

My darling, this is what I feel for you.

(Sorry my love, against your request, I let a few of the boy’s read the chapter and they absolutely loved it!)

As the bombs pounded through the night, my thoughts were only of you…your beautiful smile, those deep hazel eyes and that future time when we will meet again. The image of you has kept me sane, my love; the notion of meeting you at the train station, your lovely smile, those tender lips and the thought of kissing them, over and over, has kept me alive through this stupid and evil war.

Please forgive my candour, but there is something I must tell you.

You are the only woman I have made love to…this may shock, considering I am a man of twenty-five, but you are the first…and may I say, the last.

Touching your white skin and merely the act of lying beside you, our toes, (of all things) touching, and feeling that moment would never come again, forcing myself to remain awake. I know this might sound thoroughly childish; however my love, I adore those beautiful toes.

***

Sorry, but it has been a full day, a long one, since continuing this letter. The bloke who I mentioned before has died, you know, the one with the fever. To be brutally honest, this poor man’s death has disturbed me. I think it was the sounds he made while dying that upset me the most…but the enemy, at that moment, launched another attack… My fellow dead solider soon forgotten for fear of my OWN life.

(We are a selfish species!)

We are still trapped like rats in this hole for fear of our own deaths.

We have not moved for weeks.

I miss you so much: the almost hypnotic scent of your beautiful hair in the morning; the gentle and flattering lines around your hazel eyes; the whisper of your voice next to my ear; that unbelievable smile and the utmost feelings of ecstasy when we make love through the night. I desperately want to see and feel you again.

It is now late at night and the bombs have finally stopped.

The sun is coming up over the Western Front and the explosions have started again…please think of me my darling, and know, we will see each other again…in this life or perhaps, the next…

Remember me.

All my love,

XXX

The Love Letter

When sitting down one evening with the intent of writing a love letter, a realization occurred that the love letter is almost a genre all by itself.

Another realization soon followed that a love letter should contain a few necessary components in order for it to be true to its form. For example, the piece should describe as detailed as possible the true feelings for the beloved. The letter should also contain a shared moment that the beloved can relate to and share in those feelings of that particular time…a shared experience. The writer should by all accounts be truthful about their love because lies have a way of being found out or at least will come off as false to your beloved.

Really, the love letter walks a slippery tight rope, that is to say, there is a very fine line between true emotions and sentimentality or in the worst case, mawkishness. To be sure, the writer should always attempt to be themselves and not try to be a Shelly or Lord Byron, writing like a 19th century Romantic poet, because without question, even the best of writer’s will fail to pull it off. Why? Because know one writes like Byron anymore and the writer will sound like a lame lunatic. The key to writing a good love letter is to be totally you, and not write any romantic clichés like ‘the moon glistened from your eyes’ or ‘my heart beats like a thousand drums when you are near” or ‘my knees buckled when you walked into the room’ or ‘our souls have become one’, you get the point, stay entirely away from over used superlatives and write what you feel about the beloved.

For many, many years, the love letter has been an industry. Particularly for returning soldiers or seaman, who want to write a love letter to their wife, girlfriend or potential lover. One of my favourite Beat writers, Jack Kerouac, the famous author of ‘On the Road’, while attending Columbia University in New York, would sit in a particular bar and soon became known as the ‘love letter writer’. Word got around the traps that young Jack could write one hell of a love letter, and would only charge $5 per page. Kerouac would ask a few questions, collaborating with his client, and write a tailored letter just for them. As the legend goes, more often than not, the letter had been successful, meaning, it attained the result intended by the client – they got the girl.

In my own experience this is an unusual set-up, destined to fail. Why? Because the one you’re writing to will know that you can’t write like a Jack Kerouac and will someday ask you to do it again. If truly pressed, you’ll try and, well…

The love letter, when written from the heart, devoid of all clichés, and honest, will succeed no matter how terrible the grammar or spelling…if she/he loves you, they’ll at least appreciate the gesture because most people that I‘ve met enjoy a little romance from time to time.

My love letter finally got written and the reaction made it seem to be a success.

Time will tell.

A Good Friend, A Lovely Mother, A Beautiful Child & Good Conversation

It is more than likely too late to be BLOGING, but my weekend deserves an entry because I took a train to Bendigo this last Saturday, taking all up about three hours of actual travelling time, given that precious few hours to read without interruption – a good beginning to the weekend.

Arriving in the old gold rush town, the heat was oppressive, the feeling prevailed that no water existed, as the town did not begin as other’s do, built next to a river or a lake, but came into being because gold in the area was discovered and made many rich Australians.

My Friend met me at the train station, and was happy to see me as we have been friends since university studying philosophy and literature, writing for the schools newspaper. We are friends because there is no need to catch up with each other once a week, though we do not see or talk to each other for a year, in some cases, we can meet again and basically pick up where we last left off in our lives and conversation.

Married to a beautiful woman and father to an incredible little boy, he is currently doing his PhD, researching, writing, exploring the ‘big’ idea, concerned about current society…knowing that, as human beings, we can do a lot better than now, and there are alternatives…
Meeting his little boy was a big deal for me, because I wanted to make a good impression. A man’s son is a pretty big deal, being a father myself, meeting the tiny dude was important to me. Well, he was shy at first, but soon warmed to my presence, exceeding all expectations, he liked me. When mum put him to bed, he shouted out, “Good night, Craig.” You had to hear it but his tone and innocence, his big kindness made me feel great…a lovely little boy.

What my friend and I have in common is the experience of having a few beers or wine and actually having a real conversation. We usually begin on superficial subjects, and move to more important issues like war, education, environment, love, poetry, marriage, writing and important writers… we talked for hours and so much so, lost track of time, realizing we had been talking without any notion of …it was time to go to bed.
The next day, after a wonderful cup of strong coffee, we left the home and went into town to explore Bendigo’s second hand bookshops. Searching through old dusty books is something we have in common. I found a book that has been on my ‘wish list’ for two years, Albert Schweitzer’s On the Edge of the Primeval Forest, bought for $4.50! An amazing find and it is a new and welcome member of my personal library…all due to my good friend.

The weekend flew by and suddenly I was on the train back to Melbourne.

Travelling back to the city amongst the fray actually felt good. Thinking back to our conversations, I felt actually privileged to have conversed with a man, husband, father and philosopher, and the conversation had meaning, food for thought, something to ponder for sometime…

And, too, I had made a new friend, a human being about two feet tall and a smile that would make the hardest of men turn to a life of good works.

“Good night, Craig.”

School

In the Southern Hemisphere, and in Australia, including New Zealand, Fiji Islands and most of the scattered British and French colonies in the South Pacific, the school year has begun in earnest.

In our school, the fresh-faced, Year Seven’s walk the halls wide-eyed, curious and enthusiastic about being in high school. This enthusiasm, unfortunately, lasts almost a few weeks to a month, to then plummet at first, waning considerably over a short time, as the reality of their current plight sets in to their awareness and their last holiday break, after Primary School, was a great time, but has become a long forgotten memory.

On the other side of the coin, the Year twelves have a ‘hunted look’, walking the halls with their books held close to their chests, sitting quietly in the classroom, hanging on the instructors every word. The realty of their predicament, having to work extremely hard to even achieve adequate results, is all too real for these young people.

The rest of the student body, appear glad to be back at school, because suddenly their social life has quadrupled in size, old friends met, new friends to be made. Their school work, however, the reason their here, in their new minds, is not as high on the priority scale as it should be: friends, relationships are the priority and will be that, and have been this, since, really, the beginning of time.

A senior teacher pointed out a true and all too true observation. This morning he observed our Year 9 boys’, now Year Ten, have all shot-up in size, resembling a professional basketball team.

Only a few years back, all these students had to look up to make contact with my eyes. Now the circumstance has literally reversed – now they look down to see my eyes, and nailing them, well, telling them that baseball hats are against the rules, as I look up, the relationship has not changed despite their physical growth…mutual respect… they are still boys and look to me to learn something…and have and will.

Letting the secret out, which is really not a secret, is that teachers, good and great teachers, care about their students; they are interested and are sometimes too involved. However, the true care is the day to day, and some of these poor kids have shocking home lives, and school is the only safe place they have.

A new school year, a few poor little one’s, more than a few, and making sure that school will be a safe haven, someplace to go when everything else is unsafe is our first priority, then actual learning, academically, can start in earnest.