Four Year Project Approaches Completion

Over the last three or so weeks have been flat out teaching at school, and at home writing my book to finally, after four years, see the end of the tale in plain sight. In the last four years, I have written numerous short stories, BLOGS, letters, journal entries, memos, essays, articles, lessons, poems and book & film reviews, all the while chiselling away at my first novel. Today was a special one because a break through was made on the story itself, loose ends tied and secrets revealed, the end a mere small Chapter and a three to four page Epilogue, perhaps only twenty pages of writing left and the book will be done!

Something strange occurred, however, rather than feel elated because years of toil on the project is coming to an end, I felt terribly empty, something akin to guilt for revealing the secrets the book contains to resolve the story. I conveyed these feelings to a friend this afternoon and she seemed to understand. She said that the book has been so much a part of my life, to see it end and leave, is similar to experiencing an emotional loss.

My response was: “You’re probably right, but it feels to be much more. It feels like I’ve opened myself up to the world and as a result have lost a part of myself.”

She nodded her head and replied: “I haven’t read your book, except the chapters you have read to me, but I believe you must finish it, send the manuscript off to your friends and colleagues, rewrite the book and be done with it…start another project, forget this one and really try to move on…”

These feelings are new in my life. Never before has such emotion and commitment been invested in a personal creation, thus my feelings and soul, really, are so much a part of it…interesting…nothing else, short stories, poems, reviews, etc, upon their completion, have brought on such a strange response. I think my friend is right, finish the damn thing, re-write it and send it off to be, hopefully, read by a few individuals at least.

Note: Image is a photograph taken on a trip to Bright some weeks ago.

Love, a Special Church and a Great Individual Forgotten

I noticed that I haven’t posted an entry for some time. I came across this recent piece in my "miscellaneous file" and thought I’d post it here…

When you are in love everything matters and nothing matters; all that really makes a difference is that you are with them, in time, place or circumstance; the place can be elite parties, train platforms, stranded in peak hour traffic; a large and beautiful church in the heart of the city or alone in a crowded café talking about the first time met… time and circumstance can be any hour any situation, all that you know is that love is incredibly beautiful, and only when the vagaries of existence inevitably move in, does one realize how important the passing seconds and minutes of life can be.

The morning was perfect, the air crisp, clean and the expressions on those who walked through the city streets towards various destinations, smiled, some frowning with worry while other's looked blank, half asleep and seemingly meandering without purpose, last night's dreams hovering around their heads.

Realizing that I had never had the opportunity, she wanted to show me St. Patrick’s Cathedral, and looking up towards the cityscape, the church's spires pushed towards the clear blue autumn sky. Looking down and ahead, the traffic whizzed along the streets heavy and without respite, as she would hold fast to my arm, pushing forward and towards the curb, believing she was steadily guiding my body from certain danger.

We arrived at St. Patrick’s, the neo-gothic spires grand, pointing tall towards the heavens, standing with time, suddenly realizing that this architectural marvel will continue existing when this body is long gone.

Walking into the church, we knew a memorial, an important remembrance of an individual of influence, was taking place, an Australian who’s greatest claim to fame was not his “time on the football field” or “involvement in organized crime” but his ground breaking work into medical research. The church’s pews were filled to maximum capacity, the medical community paying their respects to a medical researcher who made the history books, contributing to a greater understanding of the processes of the human body.

We found ourselves, it seemed, amongst Melbourne’s entire medical community, a day off from their duties with their families to attend the funeral of Dr. John Billings, the co-discoverer of the relationship between cervical mucus and fertility, resulting in what was then known as the “Billings Method” or re- named in the early 1970’s by the World Health Organization as the “Billings Ovulation Method” (BOM). This discovery has led to many unwanted pregnancies being “guiltlessly” avoided. Dr. Billings began his research while assisting marriage consultancy for the Catholic Family Welfare Bureau in the 1950’s. (1)

My thought was that this is an individual whose work and legacy stands firm and should be acknowledged in our national media, but wasn’t… somehow the mainstream media were more concerned on that particular news day with injured footy players and the private lives of Australian ‘celebrities’ overseas.

We silently, after leaving the funeral, walked the church grounds, admiring the statues of the saints, observing the parched lawns, the Asian tourists and one another.

Melbourne is a beautiful city in the autumn.

I felt so much admiration today: for the loss and lack of proper acknowledgement of an important Australian of science, but also finding myself falling into a state of fuzzy sentimentality...love. Trying to harness these feelings into a rational view, on this day at least, is all but impossible.

Attempting to connect the Heart and the Head is a never ending task which has proven, according to the great writers of the last few centuries, an improbable, if not futile, endeavour.

Today was a moment in time where neither the past nor the future existed, and only the on-going and pleasant seconds of the passing present.

1. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Billings_ovulation_method

Teaching Outcomes Achieved.

My power-point presentation, “Expressionism, Art and Nazi Propaganda” to my year 10 history classes, over the last two school days, has had a varied and mixed reception. The 28 slide lesson, including definitions for words like Fascism, Propaganda, Neo-Classicism, Romanticism, Degenerate Art and Pre-Raphaelite, including wonderful examples of Expressionist artist such as Chagall and early modernist paintings such as the famous “Scream”, was hopefully entertaining even though no one in the room had the slightest clue as to what I was really talking about…this is not true, really, because I spent most of my time explaining these terms in their proper historical context, repeating myself often, and observing every little expression on their little faces, I believe the vast majority achieved the teaching and learning outcome: a comprehension of Fascism in Action and the power of propaganda through Art.

Because we are studying the rise of the Nazi Party and the many reasons for Adolf Hitler’s early success with the German people through his unrelenting propaganda and violence, I had hoped this lesson would provide a slightly different perspective on the social engineering techniques of the Nazi Party and their all out (brutal) rejection of ‘modern art’.

Although strictly a ‘history’ class, this lesson was also the opportunity to cross disciplines, revealing a major shift in the art world’s sensibilities during and after WW1. This point in time was truly a drastic change in the outlook of the artist, including major shifts in music, literature and philosophy.

As a teacher, my job is to make the topic under study as interesting as possible, and sometimes, with teenagers, “everything is boring”, thus one is doomed from the start. Because it is our duty, we continue plugging away and occasionally come upon an activity or new perspective on an old, well worn subject, and the light bulbs around the room above their developing frontal lobes begin to flash, blinking with genuine interest.

In this particular lesson, (a risk considering the sophistication of the subject matter) turned out to be about 60/40, that is, 60% seemed to understand while the other 40% were more concerned about what they were going to do on Friday night. Considering the lesson was done on a Friday before lunch with the sounds of grumbling stomachs and wayward glances out the classroom window, I thoroughly believe this outcome to be acceptable; however, a focused follow up with each student will be necessary next week as we move along the time line towards the Holocaust: a topic that has never failed to leave an impression.

As I reflect on the lesson, it was indeed a risk, however, my instincts proved correct, that is to say, knowing the minds of these specific students, I believed they could handle an intellectual stretch, preparing them for the near future proverbial academic hoops they will have to jump through in this current system we call the VCE.

Overall, a productive day, and a successful outcome for my students.

Teaching History: Emotion vs. Dates & Expressionism vs. Fascist Art.

In my Year 10 history class, we are examining the rise of the Nazi Party pre ww2 and specifically the personality and political machinations of Adolf Hitler.

The female students in the class find, generally, the subject of war, boring. On the other hand, the male students are more engaged than usual. They are particularly interested in the personality of the 20th century’s most notorious dictator. Hitler has become a household word for a variety of reasons. Ironically, however, you ask a 15 year old boy to tell you who Hitler was and why he is so infamous, their eyes roll back into their little heads and the response is usually vague at best.

It wasn’t until I did my ‘chalk & talk’ lesson on Adolf Hitler for the class this week that the sound of penny’s dropping throughout the classroom told me that these young adults didn’t have a clue as to who and what this famous man was responsible for during the first quarter of the 20th century. To my astonishment, while I paraded around the classroom, gesticulating and screeching my chalk against the black board, (yes, our school, in certain rooms, still use this antiquated teaching tool) every eye and ear payed attention, hanging on my every word.

Why do these young minds have such a fascination with a man responsible for literarily millions of innocent deaths? How does such an evil individual continue to reach out from history and grab the full attention of our cyber drenched youth’s of today? In all fairness, your guess is as good as mine…but the fascination remains.

Because History in our State curriculum focuses, for the most part, on names, events, dates and movements of the period under study, there is not much time to capture the feelings and emotions of the people involved. That is to say, history is a story of our past, and it is not just about names, dates and events; history is about motivations, emotions, circumstances and atmosphere.

In order to involve my female students, attempting to make it a little more interesting for them, I devised a small research project, where they had to investigate the life of Eva Braun, Hitler’s beautiful and intriguing mistress. Once in a while a teacher will hit a subject on the nose where the students will dive into the subject matter with full enthusiasm – this was one such case.

During their research, they came upon something that I was not even aware of, and that is the home movies that Eva Braun shot while at Hitler’s home in the Black Forest, Berchtesgaden. Eva met Hitler while working as an assistant in a photography shop. She shot meters and meters of film depicting Hitler’s numerous guests, his inner circle, Speers, Himmler, etc., but until a few years ago, we could not determine what was being said at those gatherings. New software has been developed to analyse the lips of subjects on silent film, and through an interesting process, can determine with 100% accuracy, what is being said. I believe a group of Oxford Historians used this process on the Braun home movies, and with interesting results.

(To view the documentary on the new software and Braun’s home movies go to Google.com and type “Hitler Speaks”, you can view the entire doco on line.)

In terms of History as a subject, approaching the human side, so to speak, has opened whole new vistas for the young student in the academic study of our past.

I’m currently working on a power point lesson on Expressionism vs. Fascist Art. In this presentation, I’ll reveal the Expressionist art movement as an expression of the “inner world” and “emotion” of the artist of the time. In this case the drastic turn in art after WW1 from Neo Classicism & Impressionism to Surrealism & Expressionism and why this might have occurred.

This prelude will lead to the “Politics of Art” and Hitler’s realization that by including propaganda in culture and the Arts, one can change the consciousness of an entire nation.

During this time, Hitler went on a rampage, closing down galleries all over Germany and Austria, damning the expressionist art movement as “decadent” and part of a Jewish plot to influence the minds of the pure German race. Hitler imprisoned many artists and destroyed thousands of valuable art work from this period, replacing it with his notions of what Art really is…

In the presentation, I’ll show many examples of Nazi Art, Hitler’s somewhat distorted neo-classic style, depicting the German people and the Nazi party as Natural, Heroic and Superior to all other nations. By doing this, as this lesson is an extension of “What is Fascism?” show my students fascism in action, as it were, excluding all ideas, beliefs, self- expression other than the One, in this case, Hitler’s and the Nazi Party.

This not to say, of course, that I’m straying from the Department of Education and Training’s suggested curriculum, however, I’m attempting to include other dimensions, different approaches to our past, to maybe provide for the student a fresh perspective of what the subject of History is really all about.

Time will tell.

Discovering a Troubled Eco-System during an Afternoon in the Hills

Over the last two – five years, Australia has been experiencing a drought of such magnitude that the country’s entire ecosystem is being severely affected. Cattle and agricultural farmers across the continent are seeing their land turn to dust along with their livelihood. The Federal government is forcing local government to legislate laws imposing radical water restrictions and harsh penalties to those who use too much water.

A good example is the suburban dweller that is used to watering his garden every night after work. He now faces heavy fines if caught watering his garden more than twice a week and on specific days. One might think this a little harsh, that the government has turned fascist in their quest for total control over the masses, but unfortunately, the authorities have had to become draconian in their attempts to save Australia’s water supplies – the problem is that serious.

During times of crises, Australian’s are well known to band together and battle the problem, whether bush fires, floods, economic depression or war. Nothing has changed; most of the population are all too aware of the problem and have become conscious of how much water they are using. This is a very good sign; however, really, how bad is the problem?

Despite cattle ranches and numerous farms having to close down as a result of no rain, one forgets that the eco-system as a whole is affected.

What happens to our native wild animal population when the water dries up?

A somewhat unusual example:

This weekend saw the temperature rise (again) to 36 degrees centigrade. This has been one long hot summer, and most living things in the country are dead sick of the heat. To somehow escape the heat, and not use up precious energy by sitting under a blasting air-conditioner, my friend and I decided to pack a lunch and head for the hills…the Dandenong Ranges…a range of hills with dense forest to the East of Melbourne. In most cases, the temperature up there can be as much as two degrees cooler; so we headed out with picnic basket full of French bread, salami and cold apple juice.

We found a beautiful spot deep in the forest just outside the town of Olinda.

Getting out of the car, miraculously, dark clouds covered the sky and it almost felt like we were in a different country because the temperature was actually cool against the skin.

Laying our blanket down, we began to get stuck into lunch when, out of know where a Kookaburra swooped down and landed half a meter from us. Having lived in the Dandenong hills for ten years, it is not unusual for a Kookaburra to perch close to you, asking for a hand-out…but this was somehow different.

Suddenly the bird became aggressive, squawking at a high pitch, to give her our lunch…or else! My friend became really quite alarmed because the bird displayed such anger. The bird did look undernourished, thus out of sympathy, I threw her a piece of salami. She attacked the meat with alacrity and soon her mate, another seemingly undernourished Kookaburra, landed beside her, fighting her for the spoils. This was too much, wanting a quiet, cool afternoon meal, I raised my voice and stood up, where upon the birds flew to a near by branch, a lookout in the trees right over our picnic sight.

We continued with our lunch and conversation. Only minutes later, one of the birds swooped down, her wings actually brushing my face, took the sandwich out of my hands, returning to the lookout, sharing the booty with her cohort.

This behaviour for the Kookaburra, from my twenty year experience in the country and having lived with these birds for at least the last ten years, is unusual and alarmingly significant.

Why?

This aggressive behaviour is indicative of desperation and extreme hunger.

I began thinking that the drought has affected every living thing up and down the food chain, including the plant life… all creatures – the drought has actually upset our entire, highly fragile, ecosystem. Therefore, this begs the question, how big of an affect has the drought actually had, and have we really seen the extent of the true damage? In my opinion, we haven’t seen the entire damage wrought by this terrible lack of precipitation and extreme weather conditions over the past few years.

Too hot to think about the problem, we lay back and looked to the sky. The clouds above grew darker and suddenly spots of cold rain fell around us. There, directly above us, an opening in the clouds. As we lay on our backs looking up… small leaves appeared in the sky seemingly out of no where, falling, floating from afar and landing gently on our blanket on our faces along with the rain.

In only a few short minutes, those wondrous dark clouds blew to the south and the sun reappeared in all its glory.

We drove down the mountain to our hot little suburbs, worried, pondering and praying… for rain.

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.

Dream

Last early morning my dreams were prolific moving at a fast pace forcing me to pay attention.

One of my favourite writers, Carl Jung, said that certain dreams, which he called “big” dreams, feel to carry you, feel to be separate, a power apart from you, the spirit, showing aspects of existence that are unusual, something strange to temporal awareness: a dream that must be observed; experienced and pondered upon waking.

The image is a strange and bigger than life cross or something akin to the Cross; my feeling in the dream was the cross had some Gnostic symbolism, a meaning far above my intelligence or spirituality.

My friend, a fellow teacher in the waking world, had been following me throughout the dream/scene. She wanted to know where I spent my time, where I travel during those times of unawareness…why I spaced out and seemed to be far away…

We arrived at the doors of the castle. She asked me to knock, but I knew in my heart that it was not the right time to knock. Right then, looking to the sky, the Cross began its rising journey into the clouds.

Words cannot describe this scene. The Cross rose into the clouds, slowly, moving at a pace not known in our world. As it was about to disappear, the space around the Cross moved, blinking, spreading, rippling, opening to another place then, vanished.

The Cross moved to where it belonged. But it was not my time to follow it; my companion was wrong. Turning towards her she appeared disappointed…why I hadn’t left with the Cross...she was so sure.

Waking feeling disturbed.

The image of the Cross remaines.

Narcissism, Fools & Stoicism

It has been said that our modern society is much more complex than, let say, one hundred years ago. I recall as a young lad of five years of age, laying in my small cot in my grandparent’s bedroom, and waking to the sound of horse’s hooves against the paved road outside the house. This was the local milkman delivering the morning’s milk to the homes in our small suburb of Surry Hills.

The clanging crystal as he placed the bottles in the various boxes, the sound of hooves’ against the road and the voice in the dark whispering in a loud cadence:

“C’mon boy, we’re almost done… just a few more houses and it’s back home.”

Perhaps revealing too much, this was a touch more than forty five years ago. The one aspect of my memory of that time was the quietness; there were no freeways and there was only the occasional sound of the ‘red rattlers’, the passenger trains’ travelling to the city. Forty five years later, the noise pollution is relentlessly constant, the sound of rumbling traffic along the roads and freeways; planes, police helicopters and passenger jets flying overhead has become the norm in our day to day lives, and we put up with it, we’ve seemingly ‘adapted’.

This may be a sentimental illusion, a fantasy of the aged, but there appears to be more chaos and people around than ever before.

One’s line of work, of course, has much to do with the amount of contact you have with people. As a high school teacher, for example, my contact with people is part of the profession, dealing with young adults in the hundreds on a daily bases is part of the job. Interaction with fellow staff members also constitutes a large part of the day and learning to ‘get along’ is a necessary ingredient in order for production and harmony to sustain at an acceptable level for all concerned.

Dealings with people covers all aspects of life from the grocery clerk to the bank teller, the electrician to the landlord to the mother-in-law and particularly one’s spouse. We are required to all get along and we have set up tacit rules in society to ensure we can live together in relative harmony. However, when one meets someone who does not follow these tacit rules or seems to simply not care, thinking only of themselves, how do we respond?

I remember a particular person who could not and would not ever listen but would only contribute to a group conversation about himself. One afternoon after the students had all left the school and hopefully gone home, a few of us remained and began talking about the day. If you are not a teacher, this habit of talking about our day to our fellow teachers is part of our tacit job description, however, no Graduate Diploma of Education or an MA in Education can or will teach you this aspect – it is a necessary part of the job and has been for many, many years.

We began talking about a student with troubles at home and at school – we were all concerned.

Out of the blue, he walked into the room, hearing the subject of conversation and began telling us how to deal with this poor young lady. (Later I discovered he did not teach her). Seamlessly, he turned the topic of conversation towards his personal life, why he thought buying a mammoth four-wheel drive was justified and how stressed he had become about his next holiday in Greece. As professionals, we listened and nodded our heads, smiled and tried to look concerned about the petrol guzzling tank he was about to purchase. He whisked out of the room happy, it seemed, because all our attention had been on him and his life.

This behaviour leaked into his teaching, but somehow, some students went with his flow and managed to achieve the outcomes intended.

I guess it all came to a climax one day when, as his boss, I intervened on his Home Group to sort out a Year 7 cat fight. (Year 7 girls can be a handful)

Once he caught wind of this, he yelled and screamed at one of the SSO staff (Teachers Aids) while I had been in the room and stormed off, slamming the door to the teachers lounge. (In front of two Year 12 students).

Rather than talking with me about the problem with the children, he took my intervention as a personal attack on his “turf” or “self” and decided I was incompetent.

How do you deal with a person of such narcissist tendencies?

Well it only got worse as he attempted to turn the staff against me and visit the managers, telling little tales of my so-called failures. What he did not know was that the bosses were and are aware of this individual and did not believe a word he uttered, particularly about me.

Although stressed about this person, my main concern has always been the children.

It is hard enough working with under-privileged kids and lost souls, but to also deal with a self-absorbed fellow worker who, in fact, is trying to destroy you, only adds to the stress.

My response:


It was the Roman emperor, Marcus Aurelius, probably the most famous of Stoic philosophers, who wrote the following practical advice:

"Begin each day by saying to yourself, "Today I shall meet people who are interfering, ungrateful, arrogant, deceitful, envious, and selfish." They are made this way because of their ignorance of what is good and evil...but I, who have seen the nature of good and beauty, and of evil and its ugliness, know that the inner nature of the man who does evil is the same as mine, therefore I can't be harmed by any of these men, for no one can impose on me what is degrading."

In other terms, expect the worst in people, and you'll never be disappointed, and their actions will not affect you, because their nature is the same as your own.

Enough said.

An Afternoon in the Country

Only about two hours from Melbourne is a lovely small town that has been constructed along a clean babbling brook. The water is icy cold and incredibly refreshing when dunking one’s feet.

We decided that another picnic was in order to clear the cob webs and city imposed angst due to the demands on the urban dweller.

Finally arriving around noon, exploring the river’s edge, we found the perfect spot under a towering Gum tree with enough shade to lay the blanket and have lunch.

The babbling sound of the river can be mesmerising and naturally takes the mind to a restful place. But the forest canopy surrounding the brook is nothing less than magnificent, hailing images of paradise.

We shared are little spot of heaven with a large contingent of ducks. Most were sunning themselves on a rock while the younger members played by setting themselves into a rapid and riding down a section of the brook. It reminded me of a natural rollercoaster, and one could almost hear the young ducks scream for joy as they rode down the stream. This part of the game was easy, because after their ride ended somewhere down stream, the youngsters would begin their trek back up stream to do it all again. In a few instance it was hilarious to see a single duck just about make it back, only to give up and let the rapid take them down stream.

After a hearty lunch of delicious ham sandwiches, homemade brownies and fresh peaches, all the body wants to do is sleep. My friend read her novel to me for a little while before falling into a comfortable slumber.

To wake up to this natural and beautiful environment does wonders for the soul. My mind felt clear and sharp. As the day turned to late afternoon the time came to pack up and return to civilization.

These small excursions out of the city has a re-energising affect, making one prepared for the rush and superficiality of modern life.

Highly recommended.

THE LIST (A Short Story)

The day began like all the rest.

A list made the night before, too long for the most ambitious person to accomplish, as usual, over these last several months my life has spiralled out of my control; my eyes open and the clock reads several hours beyond the intended hour to awake – slept in again.

Checking the mobile, there are three unanswered voice mail messages and one text.

The text message is the one that makes me cringe and want to roll over and fall back to sleep. Pushing the button, the text appears and because my glasses are no-where in sight, I read it as,

Why do you sleep when it is necessary to rise and meet the world? We’re over…and please don’t call me for at least a week. You disappoint me so…
Love, C.

Holding the phone at arms length does not make the characters clear to the eye.

Thinking I need to wake up, forgetting the blurred message, make a coffee and settle into writing my list, which reads as follows:


1. Wake up early.
2. Drink coffee.
3. Examine list.
4. Tie-up all financial obligations/write note to Chloe
5. Shower, dress in best suit, and wear best cologne.
6. Stand on railway tracks and…preferably Box Hill Station.
7. Must be peak time, and as train moves into the station, fall gracefully below the wheels/ kill yourself.

The time came to cross off number four on my latest list. My financial obligations have always been in order: bills paid on time and a hearty savings account. Thus task took little time. Good. Now, to the note.

Dear Chloe,
You know I’ve loved you for years and I cannot stand you mad, or more particularly, ‘disappointed’ in me. I know we’ve had our troubles, but your last text message put me over the edge. I can’t deal with disappointing you anymore! Please try to understand that without you life is not worth living. So I’m going to end it tomorrow…so by the time you read this I’ll be gone forever. Always remember that I LOVED you! And I will never disappoint you again.
So long,
J. xxx
P.S.

Have transferred all my accounts to your name. It is a grand sum and I want you to enjoy it…take a holiday to Europe…whatever. XXX

Ok. Making good progress on this list. The letter has been mailed and with certainty can put a line through the task.

Making lists has always been my passion or as Chloe constantly reminds me, my “obsession”. This could be partly true but making lists is a practical activity ensuring everything in one’s life gets done. Added to this is the feeling of deep satisfaction when a single task is done and you can put a thick line through it. For me, really, the feeling I get from this simple action is better than sex. Maybe this is why my relationship with Chloe has fallen apart…who knows, but lists keeps one organized and I desperately need to be organized.


The time in the shower was longer than usual but I can afford this little transgression. In fact # 5 on my list should be enjoyable. I shouldn’t rush through the task to just experience the visceral satisfaction of putting a line through it…save it, make it last.

Dressing in my best Armani Suit, a dark blue $3000 garment, on special the day I purchased it, down from $5000; what a bargain. As I remember, finding a bargain on a suit was on that particular list as “Top Priority” and putting a line through the completed task almost sent me into spasms of frenetic joy; yes that was a great list accomplished to my complete satisfaction.

My $200 bottle of Hugo Boss cologne, applied to my face evenly, of course, would complete #5. Excellent, now to put the thick line through it…ah, that felt divine!

The day is overcast, and fitting for the final task on the list. Though really, come to think of it, the sky should be pouring down with rain, thus the affect greater on my fellow travellers.

Finally reaching my destination, the number 2 platform on Box Hill station. Excellent, I can put a thick line through # 6. Whoa, now that was terribly good!

It is crowded today, I suppose because the children are back at school. Looking down the platform, a sea of private school uniforms in a multitude of colours and patterns, crowded together on the platform awaiting the arrival of the train, my train.

Suddenly a terrible thought comes to mind: how will I put a line through the final task on my list… if I’m dead? Then the solution comes to me, as my body falls under the wheels, I’ll quickly and adeptly scratch the line through the task, a nana second before the final, crushing moment. Ok. Very good, J, a marvellous plan!

I can hear the train approaching.

Oh outstanding, it is not slowing down, because it must be an express train, shooting through the station at top speed. This is pure, unmitigated luck! I’ll put my pencil at the start of the line of # 7 on my list, just in case...

Here it comes…ready…ready…JUMP!

The well-dressed man falling in front of the speeding train caused the morning commuters to move into a minor frenzy. Although an express train, the driver applied his brakes, creating a high pitched scraping sound, finally bringing the steel beast to a complete stop. Unfortunately for the morning commuters, as this was a blatant suicide, a death of a human being, it was The Transit Authority’s policy to hold all trains for the entire morning shift. Therefore a local bus service is called to provide transport for all their passengers.

Coincidentally, at the same time Chloe is reading J’s suicide note, there is a knock on the door. Two uniformed police officers, trained to deliver terrible news, walked into Chloe’s small apartment. She shows the officers the suicide note. One of them hands J’s mobile phone to her that was recovered from the scene, and she opens the ‘inbox’.

“Oh my god, he didn’t have his glasses on when he read my last text message. I can’t believe it. This was all caused by some miss-read message.

The text actually read:

Don’t sleep in and miss the world. We’re over at the Green Pepper Café. Call me next week if you can’t make because I’ll be gone at my Grandmothers. Don’t disappoint me. C.

When J. thought it read:

Why do you sleep when it is necessary to rise and meet the world? We’re over…and please don’t call me for at least a week. You disappoint me so…C.

After the police officers left the apartment, Chloe sunk into a chair and began to go into shock. Then her mind began racing… “What will I do, J. had nobody but me. I’ll have to make all the arrangements, there’s the Funeral Director, the funeral and all the invitations…how will I manage it all…
Then it dawned on her:

“I know…I’ll make a list.”

Ends.

Dr. Albert Schweitzer – the Humanitarian’s Humanitarian a Personal Tribute

When one considers the history of the twentieth century, many personages, events, movements and predominantly, war, two world wars, springs to mind. All to often, as a history teacher, the curriculum dictates that we teach about the causes and terrible events and crimes in these two wars; the millions of young lads killed in the first world war and the insane acts of genocide, the holocaust, and the unnecessary Atomic bombing on two cities in Japan, thus ending the second world war. As a history teacher, communicating these terrible events year after year, becomes tedious if not bordering on the unnecessary. Why not teach about the advances in technology that has made our lives so much easier or about important people who made a difference, giving us something to strive for in our day to day lives. To my mind, Albert Schweitzer is one such individual.

Born in Germany in 1875, his childhood was relatively normal, however it became evident early on that he was a deeply religious personality. In line with this sensibility, Schweitzer was a terribly sensitive adolescent. Born into a middle class family, and the values and mores that come with this class, he was expected to keep himself clean and dress accordingly. He attended a public school and, of course, there were students who came from poor families and therefore could not afford new clothing. Young Schweitzer being all too aware of this, would dress in his old cloths under his new ones, and change before arriving to class. His reason was he didn’t want to incite any form of jealousy in his fellow pupils. This act was not to save himself from ridicule but save the feelings of his less fortunate classmates.

In his twenties, Schweitzer studied philosophy and theology, earning a PhD in philosophy. He was also a master of the church organ, a musician of some renown, and eventually becoming an international expert on Bach. In fact, to pay school fees and basically live, he would play the organ for public and private audiences to make ends meet.

Schweitzer became aware of his mission to serve his fellow travellers on this planet somewhat late in life. An established philosopher and theologian at age thirty, a principal of a respected seminary, he awoke one morning to realize everything life had given him, and it was time to give back. After reading an article calling for trained medical staff to work in West Africa, he knew what he needed to do. Against heavy opposition from family and friends, he returned to university as a mature-aged student to study medicine, attaining his degree.

What is most striking about this man was his incredible capacity for work. He held Doctorates in three major subjects - theology, philosophy and medicine and was an accomplished organist and world expert on Bach. Schweitzer's published works in theology, philosophy and music remain in circulation, which continue to shed light in these areas. His "Reverence for Life" philosophy on the surface, appears almost too simplistic, but on closer examination, is a worldview that encompasses an attitude of mind, that if practiced, could radically change the world for the better. Schweitzer was not a philosopher of the abstract variety, at home in an ivory tower creating complex theories that only a select few would understand. As the man said and wrote many times, "he lived his argument" and his accomplishments certainly prove this.

In 1913, Albert and his wife Helen landed in West Africa and established the first hospital, Andende. When they first arrived in the stifling heat and humidity of the jungle, finally reaching their destination only to find a broken down tin shack left by missionaries years before. Most would turn back, thinking this mission is all too hard, but the Schweitzer’s forged ahead, eventually building Lambarene, as it is still called today.

If you are truly interested in this great mind, read his short autobiography Out of My Life and Thought. One should not expect too much detail, however, as the text only gives us glimpses into the man's life and the singular events that shaped who he was and what he became and, more importantly, what he accomplished. Schweitzer focuses mainly on the development of his theological and philosophical thought, beginning with his early endeavours leading to his famous work, `The Quest for the Historical Jesus'. From this point, he continues on towards the shaping of his magnum opus, `Philosophy of Civilization'. It is in this section of the text that he discusses two worldviews of life-affirmation and life-denial and pessimism. This work evolves into his philosophical perspective of Reverence for Life.

The biography ends in the year 1931, well before the advent of the Second World War. Schweitzer was only fifty-six years of age when he penned this work, well before receiving the Nobel Peace Prize, living and working for another forty-four years. Curiously, when his publisher requested that he write an autobiography, he was hesitant, as he was more or less still in his prime. However, as he wrote to his publisher fourteen years later on his seventieth birthday, memory fades with age, and he believed that writing about himself at that stage of his life, he could put down those important memories that remained fresh in his mind.

Schweitzer is certainly an inspiration - a man of immense strength, physically, emotionally and spiritually, with an almost endless capacity for work. The man worked in the most difficult of circumstances. Practicing medicine in intense tropical heat, day after day, disease run rampant; constant worry over funds to purchase much needed medical supplies. Moreover, the terrible events of two world wars - the odds he worked against to maintain the Lambarene Hospital, to my mind, is simply unimaginable. But the man persisted, rising every morning to meet disease, suffering, violence, death and loneliness.

Dr. Schweitzer received the Nobel Peace Prize in 1953.

During this time, a serious antagonism erupted between the United States government and the old doctor, as Schweitzer and other activists, such as Albert Einstein and philosopher, Bertrand Russell, exposed to the public at large the fall-out hazards of the hydrogen bomb testing that the government wanted to keep secret, as the Cold War was then in full swing.

After sixty years of devotional service and hard work, Dr. Albert Schweitzer died in 1965 at the age of ninety. As was his wish, he was buried at his beloved hospital, Lambarene along with his wife, Helen.

There has been so much superficial talk these days in the media and from our “game show host” politicians that we are not teaching our young the important values in order for them to grow into valuable and contributing members of society. To be sure, if there was ever an individual in recent history that would be a ‘model’ for our young to follow, it would be Dr. Albert Schweitzer.

In my last web log entry, I posted a quote from the great man that really encompasses his views on life and the way he lived it. It is worth posting again:

You must give some time to your fellow men. Even if it's a little thing, do something for others - something for which you get no pay but the privilege of doing it.

Albert Schweitzer

A Day at the Beach

A somewhat unusual day… to be fair and honest, the last eight months has been somewhat strange.

Rather than plunge into the many drastic changes in my life over the latter part of 2006, my focus should be today, and this day was absolutely wonderful.

Beautiful food, a chilled red wine and a beach covered with sun worshipping laid-back Australians, and all felt to be relaxed.

The beach was somewhere down the coast from Melbourne, a lovely little cove with a rusted old tanker positioned about a kilometre from the shore. To our left, a majestic cliff formation, a craggy work of natural art, I thought, as we put together our small tent, laying out a blanket and changing into our bathers.

It has been twelve years since stepping foot in the Pacific Ocean, and let me say, the water was a little cold, but the body adapts and cools down, turning the mind back to a semblance of normality.

As stated too often to mention again, the hot weather turns me into a grump at least, and at most, a cartoon rendition of Hannibal Lector. The ocean acted as a good tranquilizer, the slow and constant tide moving over my body towards the shore.

My friend packs a picnic lunch like no other: chilled prawns, ham and chicken slices on whole meal or sour dough bread. Fresh fruit – strawberries, blood red grapes, melon and rich cheese: bottled almost frozen water or orange juice, and an Italian soft drink that tasted divine. The chilled wine captured the essence of the gastronomic experience because a good wine contributes and adds to the taste of all superb meals. After our late lunch, she laughing at most of my lame jokes, (she really likes my jokes) we settled in and napped for thirty minutes…well, really, fifteen minutes tops.

Arriving just after three in the afternoon, my eyes and temporal anchors, after the little nap, could not adjust to actual time; as dusk and dawn are similar, waking to not know whether it’s morning or evening. “That’s it!” I thought. Rising and running into the ocean like a mad man possessed. After submerging in the cold water and re-emerging into the light of day, my time protocols were back in place.

My friend continued to sleep and suddenly lifted her head to say, “I’m glad you’re here, I would not want to be anywhere else in the world without this man that sits right here!”
As the sun disappeared behind the sea, my fellow beach humans’ stood, packing-up and casually began to saunter away.

And so did us…

Amongst the crowd on the beach with my gentle friend: good food and wine, a beautiful horizon and sunset that felt to burn the sky, life, despite my so-called problems, felt to be a gift, something to be mindful of every second, because life is fleeting and ends in the flicker of an eye…