Philosophical Musings (Thoughts on Nonsense)

All too often (and I know I’m guilty of this) we seek to generalize or conclude about some aspect or observation of a person or the world – rather than attempt to really grasp (its) essence, at least confront openly and try to understand the parts, the reasons why it is the way it is…most of us automatically summarize and rush to a conclusion, flittingly without further reflection, move on to the next thing. Critical thought or a ‘process of thought’ has gone by the wayside, we merely skim over – speed read our way through life. Near enough is always good enough, basing our judgements on superficial and spurious premises, only adding to the world’s confusion rather than seeking earnestly to find the truth.

A good example of this absence of “thinking” is our use of language. Language is a tool in which to exist in the world. Language is culturally specific, that is to say, it changes, and certain words have a variety of different meanings depending on one’s race, culture or group. Wittgenstein called this Language Games, relative use of terms within particular frameworks can and does, make-up our knowledge of the world.

Language can either set us free or chain us to a dark and false way of existing. Often we engage in these ‘language games’ without thinking about what we are saying, and whether noticing what we say is based on fact, in other terms, communicating things that ‘can’ be described without falling into nonsense.

The 20th century thinker, Ludwig Wittgenstein, believed that confusion in the subject of philosophy lies in our use of language. It was his notion that the purpose of philosophy was to untangle the subjects ‘confusions”, its muddled language, attaining clarity of thought, expression and perspective, leading to understanding.

Most of us are guilty in our misuse of language when it comes to describing those things that are indescribable…in the case of metaphysics, for example, philosophers have expounded on the ‘true nature’ of the universe or the reasons for our existence, creating vast systems of belief, notions of the very core of life. These systems involve describing the human beings ‘true’ nature, and telling us how we feel or should feel, and why one act is wrong and another action, the right and virtuous one. Engaging in describing the indescribable is nothing but nonsense, but because we have forgotten how to think, we accept and ignorantly move on…

For most of us I believe it comes down to basic old laziness. We have forgotten how to think. Taking words and thought at face-value, accepting “received wisdom” without critical thought, without analysing, has made us into passive receptacles, always going with the flow. It is really too hard to think, so we hang back and chill, letting someone else run our minds and lives.

What is nonsense?

According to the Austrian logician, nonsense is an attempt to describe the indescribable.

When reading the newspaper, gazing at the television, listening to people speak, if vigilant, can hear nonsense, that is to say, people describing things that cannot be described. Because of our lack of “thinking” we make assumptions about people’s thoughts or feelings and judge these assumptions as true. When in reality, certainly, we cannot “know” the feelings of other people, but we assume we can. Really, no-one actually “knows” what another person thinks or feels. We assume we know based on certain language games, usually based on spurious evidence, and all these descriptions are, in the cold light of day, pure nonsense.

Psychoanalysis is a pertinent example of using language games to confuse and draw us into (its) game, based on theory, telling us how we feel and why we feel the way we do. Our modern world has pendulum swung from facts to games of assumption and specious knowledge of the unknowable, accepting nonsense because we have lost the aptitude of critical thought.

Why?

It is laziness, perhaps, or possibly unwillingness to go against something seemingly out of our control.

Language is the key to understanding, and using this tool to seek the truth rather than obscure it, is necessary, probably now more than ever.

But this could be, well… all nonsense.

The Mysterious Grandeur of The 12 Apostles.

Although having lived in Victoria, Australia for many years, have never ventured out to see these marvellous rock formations so named The 12 Apostles. Of course have seen pictures on many “Tourism’ advertisements in the newspaper and on television over time; however the opportunity never presented itself to actually witness these natural wonders.

We set-out in the early morning after breakfast along The Great Ocean Road towards Port Campbell, the home of this holy site. The drive was pleasant enough, the scenery a blend of rain forest and cattle-grazing green pastures.

Only a 90 minute journey from Apollo Bay, we arrived to blue skies and moderate winds. Many tourists could be seen walking on the man-made pathways along the edge of the cliffs, peering out over the coastline, gazing in utter amazement, at these strange rock formations of a seeming brittle-like sandstone composition, jutting out from the ocean like Excalibur, like ruins from and ancient civilization.

Because my intent on this trip was to immerse myself into the sight and sounds of the environment, brought out my sketch book and started to draw these unusual rocks. Finding the appropriate position, a comfortable perspective, my pen began to scratch in earnest along the page. During these moments, time slows down to a leisurely crawl; the “outside world” diminishes to almost nothing and all that exists is the object of my study.

Suddenly a tap on the shoulder interrupted my concentration and looking down, a little girl stood there looking up at me, and asked, “Are you an artist?”

Feeling a little off balance, I said, “Sometimes.”

“Can I see your picture?”

Bending down I showed her the half drawn sketch. She blushed and smiled, running off, I assume, in search of her mother. Resuming the drawing, a few minutes later, another tap on the shoulder and this time a middle-aged woman, slightly on the chunky side wearing a bright red ski jacket, asked, “Sorry, can I ask what you’re doing?”

“Trying to draw a different perspective of the rocks.”

I must have sounded a tad annoyed because she said, “Sorry, it looks really good.” Thanking her for the compliment, she strolled off in the opposite direction. I found this question a little strange because I thought it was obvious what I was doing.

Time passed and in the background I could hear an assortment of various languages: German, Japanese, Malaysian and French. Though not understanding any of them, their tone was the same, amazement at these mysterious rocks along a beautiful coastline.

There is something timeless and mysterious about the rocks: The sound of the surf and constant tide, slowly pushing the coastline back further and further inland. At the risk of sounding banal and clichéd, nothing is more true to form than nature’s art; these rocks are individual sculptures, specifically moulded, created by the hands of the sea.

My first experience with The Twelve Apostles was much more than a pleasure; it was an event to remember.

A Lighthouse and a Warm Little Cottage.

It is a wonderful treat to have a two week break in the middle of the school year. Since teaching high school, this time of the season, the winter months, can be breathtaking, so manage to take flight somewhere in this beautiful state in search of new sights, unusual surroundings, intent on moving outside the familiar. I’ve discovered this activity does wonders for one’s general sanity, well being and somehow creates balance to a life that has a tendency to tip too far in a certain direction. Moving out of the neibourhood, at least for a few days, is not the key to happiness, but can provide a rest from the banalities, routines and vagaries of one’s day to day existence.

Arrived in Apollo Bay after sunset in the midst of a rain storm.

The Great Ocean Road is truly a sight to behold, only the beginning of a week of sights to excite the senses and move the soul.

Our cottage is a lovely bed and breakfast. A two-story, re-furbished house…polished wooden floors, wooden staircase leading to a loft-like bedroom over looking the rolling green hills reminiscent of Sussex in England. The countryside is vast with cow’s grazing down towards the east and sheep, appearing like tiny white dots to the south against shades of brown and black while shadows travel leisurely across the landscape. As I stand at the window the outstanding quality about this environment is its silence. After the rain had stopped, however, the faint sound of the ocean’s surf gently echoed in the distance.

Entering the cottage for the first time, strangely, on the wall next to the fire-stove, hangs a large print of one of my favourite J.W. Waterhouse paintings: a little girl dressed in white leans over amongst ancient ruins to smell red and white roses in black vases. Why I call this “strange” is that this was the first Waterhouse painting I ever purchased, giving it to my grandmother as she spent her last months in a small room in my mother’s house. She loved this painting and it seemed to make her happy as it brightened the room. At first startled because I had not seen the painting for years, later it became a kind of comfort, creating a warm feeling in the house.

The next morning, we left the cottage around eleven, driving for only 30 minutes or so, to arrive at the light station.

As luck would have it, the morning was clear and crisp with the sound of the surf and the smell of salt in the air.

The Cape Otaway Light Station had been built in 1848 by orders from the Prime Minister at the time because several shipwrecks had occurred in the area.

On the grounds inland from the white tower, stood the old Head Light Keepers Residence, constructed in 1857; not far away was the Assistant Light Keepers Residence which has been turned into a café for visitors like us. The assistant Residence also was used as a school house for the children and one can actually feel the history as you move from room to room, almost hearing the joyous laughter of the students as they learned their lessons and played precariously next to the cliffs.

As an amateur artist, I had brought my sketch book along, sitting in the café and gazing at the magnificent lighthouse, a beacon of hope for lost sailors. Sipping my coffee and drawing with care, a local man walked up behind me, not saying a word. His presence did not bother me as I continued to draw the lighthouse. Once finished he said, “Most people take a few pictures and leave, grumbling about the admission. It’s good to see someone take the time to “look” at this wonderful place. It’s not a bad picture either, mate.”

I think it was the 19th century art critic and writer, John Ruskin, who advised that to truly experience meaning and the beauty of the sights you come upon when travelling, one should sit still and write about them, draw the landscapes, the buildings, the objects of interest, and the experience will be that much more meaningful and memorable. Drawing the light house did indeed create, personally, something akin to “being in the moment”…my appreciation for the place grew the longer I lingered and studied its details, nuances and history.

Later that night at home in the cottage, I stirred the fire, adding more wood causing the flames to come back to life. Showered, clean, fed, warm and tired, I jumped into bed between washed crisp sheets to then fall into a deep sleep with nothing but the scent of the sea and sweet silence.

May I come in?

The children have all now flown from the nest, grown older, following their respective goals and dreams. For most parents this can be a double edged sword, an irony, really; we want them to leave, but have a difficult time scooting them over the edge. We want them to stay with us forever but desperately need them to go.

When do you know it is time to push them out and create their own families?

Parents tell me that it is a natural process and so do the children.

My friend and I walk most mornings between 6am & 7am… we hear familiar sounds, see the same light appear, a new day born, can at times hear and understand each other’s thoughts. This is a magical time of the day. It is these times we talk freely, the topics ranging from philosophy to knitting.

On this walk she conveyed to me a wonderful tale.

“My brother is a great soul, he makes more money than he can spend, loves his life with his partner because well, all the kid’s have grown and moved away.

This can be hard for some parents whose entire life revolved around their children…a void created, a void needing to be filled.

On a walk one morning he came across a little Cocker Spaniel, acting strange, following him…

In fact the little girl was relentless, following my brother home, and remaining in the front yard, wearing a forlorn expression, hoping to be fed.

Concerned after many weeks, because she was a well behaved and a loving animal, now naming the dog, Stephanie, my brother set upon finding the true owners, and why, in God’s name, would anyone leave a middle aged Cocker Spaniel with so much heart?

It was then my brother, feeling guilty, thinking Stephanie was missed, made a flyer and distributed it around the neibourhood.

LOST DOG – COCKER SPANIEL: BLOND, OLD AND BEAUTIFUL. Please contact…

After a few days someone responded.

An address on the note, my brother followed its directions and met the last owners of little Stephanie.

“We are in a bad way. Can you take our dog into your home? No one wants her, can you take her?”

My brother found the house to be empty of furniture and of life. Most had already moved out and moved on.

Of course my brother agreed to take Stephanie and the previous owners seemed relieved.

However for some reason Stephanie had disappeared, but only for a day.

The next day the little Cocker Spaniel appeared at the front door of my brother’s house with an old and tattered “teddy bear” in her mouth. The dog knew this move was now permanent and set out to find her most valued possession, to then join her in her new home. Stephanie absolutely knew that the move was a sure thing and brought her prized possession, her stuffed teddy bear.

The void my brother’s children had left was now filled with Stephanie.”

I found this story touching because all too often we believe animals to be less than intelligent, devoid of character or soul.

The story of Stephanie confirms that animals do have character and more soul than most.

Small Tales of Love

Fill It Up!

Over the last ten to twenty years, perhaps more, a phenomenon or fascinating chain of events occur because of a particular area of “focused attention”. While in university, for example, studying literature and philosophy, I’d perchance read an article on Neo-Gothic architecture and suddenly I notice that the entire city of Melbourne, more than likely, has the finest examples of this 19th century revival – neo gothic architecture now is everywhere! By focusing my attention on the subject, this opens my awareness, and suddenly I begin to ‘see’ it all around me…

Another example is music. I will focus on a particular group, style, time period, genre or composer to then suddenly begin to hear it on a daily bases, all though by pure chance: hearing Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings in local pubs, over the radio and while visiting a friend’s home… I love this piece of music, and discovering it, listening to the piece’s haunting sounds in my home, it seems to move out into the world…and all at once it is played everywhere.

Another example is specific subjects of study.

In the case this week, my focus of study has been the philosophical discipline of Ethics, more particularly, Aristotle’s wonderful instruction on virtues and his “Doctrine of the Mean”. Rather than launching into an explanation of this doctrine, let me just say that the virtues themselves are worthy to emulate or strive towards.

It is my observation that all of us, whether we are aware of it or not, are in possession of at least one particular virtue. It does not matter whether priest, criminal, despot, poor, rich or in between, we possess one "strength", one virtue...compassion, courage, generosity, kindness, loyalty, humility, perseverance, patience, etc. To be sure, we all have at least one of these strengths and will “present” this virtue in life without even thinking about it because it is part of ourselves, something close to home.

The other day I listened to an acquaintance tell a story that is worthy of re-telling.

He is an American from New York City that has been visiting Australia over the last seven years because he married a good Aussie girl who insists on visiting her parents once a year…fair enough. John is a big guy and very intelligent and this latest trip “down under”, has brought the family a little granddaughter only six years of age.

Last weekend they visited one of our more popular shopping centres, that is, grandma, mum, dad and the little one.

As some men do not like “shopping” per say, my acquaintance felt hungry, a little tired and somewhat grumpy, telling the two, that he was taking the little one to the food court for a feed.

The little girl likes to ‘talk’ (non-stop, he says) and climb on his back like a good six year old would…

Not at all feeling well, he told his daughter in a somewhat stern voice:

“Daddy loves you but today has run out of patience, so I really want you to be good.”

As they sat down at a table, the little girl put her hand against dad’s temple, like a faucet, making a weird noise.

Dad asks, “What are you doing, honey?”

“I’m filling you back up with patience!”

He said that he stopped for a brief moment and looked at his little girl and knew that she was very special.

During the meal, the pet casually leans over and says, “Dad how is your patience?”

He said he just kissed her at this point.

Why I bring this story up in this BLOG, is that short but interesting anecdotes about life are always fun to read and more often educational.

Patience, unfortunately, is not one of my virtues, but one I’m striving towards and to hear that story confirms that patience is one of the most important virtues of them all...

Reflection on the “Socially Negative” at School and their Affect on the Everyday

One of the most basic tenets of teaching in the classroom is the attitude of the teacher.

The students’ can be tired, upset, caught-up in teenage social issues, ready to fight or wanting only calm after a particularly rough game of football on the school oval. A thirteen or seventeen year old feels life very strongly because these emotions and feelings are new and dealing with them is, for the most part, a guessing game. Really, these young human beings do not “deal” with these new feelings but seem to lash out like cornered animals because this is the only response, instinctively, they currently know. Unfortunately we sometimes, as teachers, will over look these in-your-face emotions, only wanting to deliver the curriculum, move the day forward, get the day over…thus no connection between teacher and student is made, nothing of common ground is established – students react and teachers react thus the environment becomes a dark cloud of irrationalism.

My point is that despite an apparent riot in the classroom, there is a process going on; dealing with emotions run amok…and shouting or threats of punishment from the teacher mostly go unheard and in the end have no effect nor outcome.

I can see or sense when a girl or boy have been deliberately harassed or intentionally humiliated or bullied. I can see it in their eyes – fear and humiliation or embarrassment are the most frequent and common expressions.

Classroom management and caring for the individual student's welfare is a big job but truly vital because without it, learning and teaching does not occur.

Apart from teaching the curriculum, these issues should be our main concern.

Despite main stream media and their campaign to make the teaching profession something low or unworthy…or inefficient, (most journalists are over paid hacks, by the way) popular society takes these lies in and responds to teachers inappropriately. I attempt to communicate to the majority of parents and succeed more often because we have something in common: the welfare of the child.

We try and try very hard because this is our purpose.

My grief is not the students or the children but the “big” children one has to deal with every day: one’s work associates.

The ranting of children can be understood but the negative ranting of adults can be extremely troublesome.

My question is this: what affect do complaining, negative comments and general down tone behaviour have on one’s working environment?

The answer: Probably more than you think.

To walk into the staff room after, for example, a successful lesson, to find someone complaining about how “nothing is ever done in this place” without providing any solutions, can bring down the most optimistic teacher.

A negative employee will:

Come to work in the morning with a negative expression: unhappy or seemingly ‘depressed’ about something.

Despite one’s best efforts, the negative employee will criticise everything, finding fault with any positive comment you put out there...

“The students seem relaxed today,”

“Yea, that’s because they’re asleep. Wait till 4th period!”

“The new attendance system is working well. Don’t you think?”

“It is crap. “They” (meaning the management) have no idea! Sooner I find another position the better!”

Often times, they never do.

These seemingly innocent comments or flippant statements affect everyone and general moral, overall, plummets.

The negative staff member will most often use generalities, ‘they’, ‘them’, ‘everyone’ and ‘all’ when assigning blame.

In group conversation, someone will comment on a good situation or person, the negative staff member will counter the comment with a negative generality: wording their statement so that there is no possible retort.

When attempting to describe this kind of person, words like: insidious, covert, subtle, anal, annoying, anti-social, destructive, sadistic, selfish, sarcastic, power-aware, conscienceless, immature and cruel are a few traits that instantly come to mind.

When in the work environment, merely a genuine “good morning” can make someone’s day a lot brighter. Providing solutions to well known problems can change conditions for the better. Helping a fellow worker who you believe is over-worked can change the entire feeling of the work space. Nipping negative comments at the start, in other words, challenging them as they arise, will force them to move away.

A negative free work environment is a realistic goal.

Most of us want to at least come to work and do our best without someone criticising every movement and decision made.

Some common sense advice:

Be vigilant of those that only think of themselves, utter general criticisms, try to make you look bad and smile as they wriggle out of another situation, while, as always, pointing the finger at someone else or some abstract “they”.

At least be aware of those that pour vinegar into the sugar bowl. Notice the negative comment, think it through: is it legitimate gripe or simply another “whinge?” If the latter, ask them, on the spot, what “They” are doing about it. In most cases the whinging will stop, at least in your presence.

Mostly though, one will and should keep one’s eye on the task, which are the students, their welfare, their learning and their general well being.

Because a negative free environment is a productive one, when suddenly the staff discover it is a joy to come to work. Most importantly, this joy spills out over the students, and this can only be a good thing.

To Be Alone...to Love

Throughout my many years on this planet, western society has frowned upon being alone or the so-called “loner”. Since the psychiatrist Carl Jung almost a century ago coined the words “Extrovert” “Introvert”, this originally highly complex theses has trickled into popular culture, and has become a simplified “foundational truth” in the judgement of our fellow human beings.

“He’s awfully quiet. Do you think there’s something wrong with him?”

“Did you notice that weird guy at the party…didn’t say a word the whole night…creepy.”

“Don’t mind him, he’s just shy…he’ll get over it.”

“Unbelievable! There’s that “loser” who never say’s anything…he’s probably a nut case, a serial killer or something.”

“There he is again!”

“Who?”

“You know that quiet guy who doesn’t have any friends.”

We have been told that we are “social beings”; that without social interaction, without the benefit of human touch or communication, we will surly cease to exist. For the most part this is true. For example when the communist country of Rumania fell, the countries orphanages’ were discovered to be overflowing. Out of sympathy and charity, Australians, Americans, Canadians and the French decided to “adopt” these needy children and give them a good middle-class home. What happened with these children, no one would have predicted. Because these children had been discarded when only infants without the needed benefit of a mother’s touch, their behaviour, in most cases, boarded on the psychopathic. In one case, a five year old waking-up in the night, attempted to smother his new brothers and sisters; another young boy attempted to burn down the family home; one young girl of only five or six would fall into a stupor, sitting against a wall and smashing her head against it, over and over.

The issue here is that we need human contact as young human beings because it is necessary for our survival. But the need to be alone is not necessarily a sign of mental illness.

As a young boy growing up in the United States, my quietness was viewed as something to be “fixed”, a sickness that, with the proper “training” could be cured, making me into a “social” being.

My point is that the quiet individual is just that, quiet, and because they choose not to engage, does not make them “sick” and a person to be “changed” for the good of the group. (I’ve always despised Utilitarianism.)

I find pure joy in being alone.

To be alone is to have the moments to create, reflect, produce, read, listen to music, and be with one’s own company.

It seems that the human being in our current society is fighting for recognition, wanting to stand out, their particular words more important than anyone else’s…assertiveness, forcefulness, aggressiveness, extrovert; being the loud mouth is all a way, perhaps, an attempt to feel important, recognized…loved.

In the end we all want to be recognized, loved.

“Being” cannot be qualified as either “inward or outward”, introvert or extrovert, because culture decides it so…we are a complex species, a random mix of DNA, environment, family dynamics and culture including that X factor which some call the Spirit. In fact quantum physicists, neurologists and psychiatrists all now are changing their tune, and are finally admitting that the human being cannot be reduced to a single theory. We are complex and far more interesting than a few current “Noble prize winning scientists” would lead us to believe. Best selling books concerning the notion of God being a fallacy, is merely a feeble attempt to assert one’s own importance, compensation for a lack of…love?

To be a loner and someone who prefers to be alone does not make them a “loser”, someone to be discarded from the “group”.

To love and be loved is the key.

History on Wittgenstein & New Book

Reading a fascinating text at the moment called “Mysticism and Architecture – Wittgenstein and the Meanings of the Palais Stonborough” by Roger Paden. A philosophical piece, Paden attempts to connect Wittgenstein’s philosophy to the Palais Stonborough, a “modernist” building mostly designed and built by Ludwig Wittgenstein for his sister during fin- de- siecle Vienna.

Ludwig Wittgenstein is known as one of the most controversial and popular philosophers of the twentieth century. He became famous throughout Europe after publishing the infamous, “Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus”, a difficult text dealing with the logical structure of propositions and the nature of logical inference, developing succinct arguments on Epistemology, Principles of Physics, Ethics and the “Mystical”. I’ve read this text several times and also various interpretations of the work from noteworthy philosophers but continue to find it troubling. Having only a background in continental philosophy, Logical Positivism is a hard reach for me, particularly having only a first year undergraduate knowledge of logic.

Nevertheless, Wittgenstein evolved his philosophy after WW1, lecturing at Cambridge University until his death in 1951. Wittgenstein’s last work, published posthumously, so named “Philosophical Investigations”, to be sure, once one understands his foundational arguments, is a much more accessible work, and well worth the time exploring.

Before WW1, Wittgenstein studied engineering in Britain, however through his reading found the works of Russell and Frege to be fascinating, to then go to Cambridge to talk with Russell and ask if he was “suited” to study philosophy. Russell found the young man extremely intelligent, and well versed in mathematics and logic. Wittgenstein attended lectures at the university for almost two years, listening to luminaries such as Moore and Russell, to then attempt to re-think the direction these philosophers were headed. It should be noted that anyone at that time who had met the young Austrian, found his conversation and presence overwhelming yet compellingly brilliant.

WW1 began and changed the minds, attitudes and perceptions of Europe.

Wittgenstein came from one of the wealthiest families in the Austrian Hungarian Empire. Father Karl Wittgenstein made his fortune in manufacturing, steal, ore and financiering, only to retire at an early age becoming a patron of the arts, supporting and developing gifted artists: famous artists, writers and composers such as Johannes Brahms, Gustav Mahler, Pablo Casals and Gustav Klimt. Margaret, one of Ludwig’s older sisters, and whom he designed and built Palias Stonborough, was a patient of Sigmund Freud for years, eventually responsible for getting the doctor out of Vienna during the Nazi occupation. Young Ludwig was raised in this environment. His brother Paul Wittgenstein, a well known pianist, lost his arm during WW1, only to have Maurice Ravel compose “Concerto for the Left Hand” for him, because after the war, taught himself to play the piano with only his left hand. (If you have not heard a recording of one of Paul Wittgenstein’s performances, it is actually quite astounding.)

Rich, smart and definitely full of himself, young Wittgenstein returned to Austria from England and joined to battle against the German enemy which included his English teachers and friends (An irony he was all too aware of.)

Somewhat difficult to understand, at the turn of the last (19th to 20th) century, war was seen as something heroic and romantic. Well, to say the least, after millions of innocent lives lost for the elite goal of power between the German, French and English aristocracies, absolutely no one would see war in the same positive light. The “Spirit of the Age” shifted and those that did battle, those that suffered and survived, viewed the world in a different way… so too Herr Wittgenstein.

After receiving commendations for bravery, etc, spending a year in an Italian prisoner of war camp, finishing the “Tractatus”, returned to Vienna a much different man.

During the Great War, Karl Wittgenstein died, leaving a huge inheritance for Ludwig… (In today’s money: many millions) but he gave most of it away to charities, friends and back to his sisters, he kept none of the money).

Wittgenstein, although Jewish but raised a strict Catholic, right after the war, attempted to join a catholic monastery…the monks found his reasons and his destiny not suited for their life, however hired him as a gardener for two years. Wittgenstein then decided that serving people was necessary thus attended teacher’s school for two years to become the only primary teacher in a small town outside of Vienna. He taught well but was accused of treating some student’s too harshly and resigned after five years of teaching to then return to Vienna.

It was during this time that he helped design and build Palais Stonborough.

Hermine and Margaret loved their little brother beyond measure, considering the two older brothers, under the hammer from “dad” to follow in the family business, both committed suicide.

Margaret was pleased to see her brother. Changed from the war, yes, though she could still see that light in his eyes…a project!

One can only imagine after their two older brothers reported dead from suicide, Hermine and Margaret, seeing their two younger brothers, Ludwig and Paul for the first time would have been emotional.

Margaret has piles of inheritance- cash and wants to build a house or a ‘salon’ to establish a place or haven to house the artists, writers and musicians of the world…like her father…

Ludwig arrives from the monastery…finally home from the war.

One can only imagine her delight, to see her little brother home after so many years.

While a prisoner of war in Italy, Wittgenstein met a fellow intellectual, Paul Engelmann, an architect, a religious man to whom Wittgenstein could relate.

Like a good sister would, Margaret connected them after the war, where Engelmann was in the midst of designing her “salon”.

Surprisingly not, Margaret observed her brother dive into the design and building of the project with alacrity, as was his style and sensibility.

According to Paden, the home’s design and building is Wittgenstein’s sensibility to the door hinges and window frames. In the end, the entire project was the philosophers creation down to every minute detail.

Why I chose to read this text is the theses of connecting a philosopher’s work to a moment in time of his past, and his creation of a beautiful building, how has this author managed to connect the two?

So far so good...

Paden understands architecture and philosophy…and Wittgenstein as well, but we shall see.

An Afternoon at the Opera

The Barber of Seville performed its last show of the season yesterday afternoon to a packed house at the Arts Centre. And what a performance it was…

Melbourne is renowned for it talent and professionalism in the arts in all areas including theatre, film, ballet, orchestral, jazz, rock and the painterly endeavours.

Attending a theatrical performance in the afternoon, a matinee, is a real experience and treat. Even more so in this case as The Barber of Seville’s season had come to a close, its last performance on the afternoon before Mother’s Day, something special for all opera lovers wanting light entertainment and music to delight the senses for the afternoon and hopefully that feeling lasting for the rest of the evening…

(This BLOG entry is not a “proper” review of the performance as my experience is limited with opera and, dare I admit, an art form dismissed as an artefact of history.)

Let’s just admit here and now that The Barber of Seville was above all entertaining, humorous in all aspects of the play, but more so, the orchestra, The Victorian Orchestra, was absolutely superb, as the string section merged as one at the very start, the five violinists becoming one magical note…Figaro (Luke Gabbedy) prancing onto the stage, bragging and singing his own praises… An excellent performance and memorable because of the artists obvious love of his art form, having a great time, making it look so easy…

Rosina (Emma Matthews) was delightful on stage, her singing right on the mark until she needed to hit the high C: the woman did indeed reach high C but it sounded strained, however, (uncomfortable) the audience loved her because her performance was consistently excellent, funny and endearing. Although opera seems a natural profession for the woman, she has the stage presence to do anything in the theatre including, possibly, film… a charming performance.

Count Almaviva (Henry Choo) despite a believable performance, a beautiful voice and acceptable acting, does not in any way appear Italian; if one closes their eyes and listened to his voice, would imagine a young and beautiful prince…but opening one’s eyes, sees a little Asian man with a wonderful voice. Does this disappoint for the audience, seeing an obviously miss-cast-looking man, an Asian playing an Italian? During the loveliest songs, my eyes closed and everything flowed, Henry Choo rising to the occasion and doing a splendid job. A wonderful performance, natural and heart-felt, an impressive show…

My favourite performance had to be Fiorello, Almaviva’s servant, a character, despite not singing one note, carried the show, bent over, scurrying across the stage helping every actor, maintaining the necessary “lightness” that is so important to the Barber of Seville”. All ways a popular character across the ages since this opera was first performed so long ago.

Even though my experience with opera is less than acceptable, my training less than a neophyte, an ignorant beginner, The Australian Opera’s rendition of The Barber of Seville would stand with the best performances through out time.

Draft of Memoirs...

Arriving in Australia, unfortunately, at four years of age, most all is a blur. I remember being very tired and mum rushing my sister and I as if we were unnecessary baggage, and as children do, we went with the flow. This is understandable, though, as she had missed Australia and her mum and dad so much.

This was all mum was prepared to do.

Scanning again, I sense only a scent, strong cologne, and a gentle hand. Grandpa picked me up in his arms and my fear and severe introspection diminished for a moment. This would be a memorable relationship that would last too short in time. But he was a hard man to get to know and had very high standards, but eventually, we would meet in the middle, after my sixth birthday.


Jack (grandpa) knew certain people, understood their weaknesses and strengths, a wholly religious man, really only concerned about his family, his daughter and the one he truly loved, his wife, grandma.


As a little boy, living with grandma & grandpa was nothing like being with dad and mum. It was different in many ways. To be with two people so much in love made everything okay. Let’s face it, a stress free environment, love and caring, where we at least could be free of shouting and chaos and move towards a safe place where young children can live and dream, is an ideal context for pre-school children.


I heard my mother one night shortly after arriving in Australia, ranting about my father, how he spent all his time at work, etc...


As children are treated, we were sent to bed, my eye on my sister, as this was the first time we had been separated since father’s departure. At this point in time, I didn’t trust anyone. I screamed again to tell them that Louise was not supposed to be put in another room; that we had began as friends and would continue despite everything.


Grandpa seemed to understand, carrying Louise back to the room in the bed by the door.


I remember that my head felt like it was about to explode, the blood rushing upwards, my heart racing like a demon. My only concern was Lou. We did not need to be separated, like everyone else in the family. I began to cry, as did Louise, because they tried to separate us, and in the end, we were permitted to sleep in the same room.


(Of course, writing this memory is from that little boy's perspective.)


As we learned later, Mum was simply about living her own life, “chasing dreams”, working hard, and ignoring her children as if we never existed. It was only later, that dad called, reconciled, and came to Australia. It was only then that we felt life would actually start over– and be a family again.

Looking back to childhood from the perspective of a middle-aged man, that very young woman who was and is my mother, had and has a tremendous amount of courage, she always confronted life head on, engaged, feeling every pain and pleasure. These notes are simply my memories and must not be taken as the literal truth, as memory can never be trusted.

*


Lou and I had been sent to a Catholic school, “Our Lady of Perpetual Sucker” in the suburb of Box Hill. Despite the esoteric name of the school, it was my first school and one I would never forget.


There are only five lasting images of this time period: the perceived vileness of bread, the slight beating from a Nun in 2nd grade,, and the sixth grade boy’s carrying me on their shoulders as we were about to move back to the U.S. The other two images, too hard to remember, is the other beating from the Sister, slamming my knuckles for laughing out loud; this included a trip to the Head Sister, standing in front of the sixth grade class, humiliated, embarrassed and confused. And the last image, the thermal underwear which grandma made to fit under my school uniform’s short pants. As the thermal underwear was slightly made too long, they slid down, revealing something to be reviled and made fun of… this certainly happened, knocked about like a test crash dummy, wondering why life can be so cruel and painful.


Lou and I slowly adapted to the situation, loving our grandparents and experiencing a new life.


The slightly retarded boy, at school, chomping on his sandwich with his mouth open, constantly revealing the contents of his half eaten food should have put me off bread forever, but time heals.


My corporal punishment(s), made to turn my knuckles in the way of the stick, slammed for speaking, I’ll never forget, because, these acts of cruelty have remained in my memory, a lasting disappointment, a reminder of the harshness of society, and ironically, performed by a Nun whom, at the time, in my innocent perceptions, could do no wrong, makes the world, even now, feel like a terrible place.


As I look back to that time, those mere two years were a blessing in disguise. My grandparents were there at that crucial time of human development, the shaping years, and I would not trade that time for anything as this time has moulded my view of the world: kindness, discipline the harshness of reality and…home.


*


The age of six is much harder than anyone should remember.

During this magical space in time, my first Holy Communion, first Confession, and given my first prayer book, that smelled, in my young mind, just like heaven.


Remember so holy, my white shirt and tie, my new Epistle, and grandpa in the back ground, proud of his grandson achieving and meeting this crucial stage in life.


During this short period, we began seeing much more of mother.


Before she would flit in and out like a butterfly on steroids. Suddenly she was around more; to then tell Lou and me that dad was coming over to see us.


I thought, “Dad, really… dad is coming back.”


I was ecstatic, Lou was silent.


When my father finally arrived, I truly believed he would be exactly like my grandfather, but was soon disappointed

A comment on George Orwell’s article, “Politics and the English Language”.

It is a fascinating exercise to watch one’s own thoughts, what produces them, how they connect and where they head and eventually fade. (This is a form of Solipsism that is guilt free) I’ve come to realize that “thinking” is a particular skill that can be honed and developed to achieve intended results. Today for example, looking out my kitchen window, our Melbourne day is overcast, drab, and slightly brisk with occasional drizzling rain. As my glance turned downward towards the sink, an image of my time in England presented, those long, comfortable grey afternoons, riding an old bicycle through East Grinsted’s narrow winding roads. My eyes turned back towards the window in the direction of the horizon, to think of an old article read many years ago by George Orwell entitled, “Politics and the English Language.”


Orwell was our quintessential Englishman, who drank tea and coffee by the buckets, smoked too many cigarettes and said that any serious writer producing less than one hundred thousand words a year is not doing their job or serious about the art. Intrigued about the article that came to mind, logging on the internet, found it within a few minutes to find its subject matter just as relevant today as when it was first published in April 1946. Orwell has always been a great influence on my generation and is starting to be so for the next generation as well.



In my youth, after reading Animal Farm and Nineteen Eighty-Four, I considered George Orwell to be that essential beacon of political conscience, that single moral compass, a man with a terrifying awareness of the evils of political subterfuge, a man who left us with an essential warning: be vigilant! But what was he telling us to be vigilant about?



The article begins:


“Most people who bother with the matter at all would admit that the English language is in a bad way, but it is generally assumed that we cannot by conscious action do anything about it. Our civilization is decadent and our language — so the argument runs — must inevitably share in the general collapse. It follows that any struggle against the abuse of language is a sentimental archaism, like preferring candles to electric light or hansom cabs to aeroplanes. Underneath this lies the half-conscious belief that language is a natural growth and not an instrument which we shape for our own purposes.”


Orwell’s arguments are two-fold: language has not “evolved” but has been consciously affected with its political influences and its use in clichés, dying metaphors, meaningless words, pretentious diction and euphemisms to create laziness or apathy in the reader that has all but infiltrated “modern” prose, particularly in “Ad Speak”, political rhetoric, journalism and literature itself, in other words, writing one thing and meaning another; or as my father used to say, “Baffle them with bullshit and the fools won’t know the difference.”


To quote Orwell’s article at length,


“In our time, political speech and writing are largely the defense of the indefensible. Things like the continuance of British rule in India, the Russian purges and deportations, the dropping of the atom bombs on Japan, can indeed be defended, but only by arguments which are too brutal for most people to face, and which do not square with the professed aims of the political parties. Thus political language has to consist largely of euphemism, question-begging and sheer cloudy vagueness. Defenseless villages are bombarded from the air, the inhabitants driven out into the countryside, the cattle machine-gunned, the huts set on fire with incendiary bullets: this is called pacification. Millions of peasants are robbed of their farms and sent trudging along the roads with no more than they can carry: this is called transfer of population or rectification of frontiers. People are imprisoned for years without trial, or shot in the back of the neck or sent to die of scurvy in Arctic lumber camps: this is called elimination of unreliable elements. Such phraseology is needed if one wants to name things without calling up mental pictures of them. Consider for instance some comfortable English professor defending Russian totalitarianism. He cannot say outright, ‘I believe in killing off your opponents when you can get good results by doing so’.”


Today the same rhetoric and political “euphemisms” are used to hide the true agenda’s of governments, particularly in Australia’s current battle against “Terrorism”. However this rhetoric has evolved from euphemisms to out right lying.


A good example is the Howard Government sending more Australian troops to Afghanistan. This was the first time any mention of Afghanistan was heard in the press of any significance since the atrocity of 9/11. When the Prime Minister was asked why he was sending troops to the country, he said, more or less, terrorism is on the rise, we have intelligence that reveals al Qaeda are seeking refuge in the country and we do not want the terrorists to enter our own borders. This is of course paraphrased but the rhetoric is the same, we’re fighting a war on terror, the “terrorists” are in that country so we’re going there to prevent them from coming to Australia. Well, this is simply not the case. Afghanistan, like Iraq, is an occupied country, and because by its very culture, is made up of numerous tribes lead by various warlords, controlling the insurgents is getting out of hand for the American occupiers, thus our Yankee buddies need a hand to protect the construction of the new oil pipeline to the Caspian Sea, run by a consortium of Shell, BHP and other investors, a collusion of corporations and government with a vested interest in that precious resource, oil.


As Orwell states in his article, “But if thought corrupts language, language can also corrupt thought.”


Our language is fraught with relativism, old clichés, repeated well-worn phrases to the point that we simply believe what we read at face value, because our thoughts have been corrupted to the extent that we will believe anything if it seems not to have an immediate affect on our personal lives.


As a secondary English/History teacher, part of the curriculum is analyzing current issues and the use of persuasive arguments. The student is taught to recognize the use of language in order to express a particular point of view. Time and again we stress the importance of this skill in the application as future citizens and leaders of the future. Sometimes we are successful, sometimes not, however at the very least, the students now know to question what is placed before them, move beyond the surface and seek the truth of the matter. But it seems we as a people do not want the “truth” because it is too much to think about or the truth in most cases does not affect us in present time.


Journalism, at one time, used to be about telling the truth, communicating as clearly as possible, the subject or story being reported.


Orwell had some good advice for the writer to escape falling into clichés, euphemistic language, which makes the reader lazy, and at worst miss-informs, bending our thoughts to an apathetic state. The writer or journalist must read the classics, informing how writing works at its best, and at all costs avoid…” pre-fabricated phrases, needless repetitions, and humbug and vagueness generally.”


Orwell’s “elementary” advice is as follows:


“But one can often be in doubt about the effect of a word or a phrase, and one needs rules that one can rely on when instinct fails. I think the following rules will cover most cases:


1. Never use a metaphor, simile, or other figure of speech which you are used to seeing in print.
2. Never use a long word where a short one will do.
3. If it is possible to cut a word out, always cut it out.
4. Never use the passive where you can use the active.
5. Never use a foreign phrase, a scientific word, or a jargon word if you can think of an everyday English equivalent.
6. Break any of these rules sooner than say anything outright barbarous.


"These rules sound elementary, and so they are, but they demand a deep change of attitude in anyone who has grown used to writing in the style now fashionable. One could keep all of them and still write bad English, but one could not write the kind of stuff that I quoted in those five specimens at the beginning of this article.”


Fashionable writing seems now to be, in our popular media, to “cut and paste” other’s work, or change words around to manipulate a particular point of view. Journalism is now about entertainment, making the journalist the “story”, a celebrity, pushing the five second sound bite that has the most impact. Advertising, journalism, consumerism and in some cases, academicism, has morphed into a new kind of monster and it seems to me, we have become too lazy to do anything about it.


George Orwell’s last novel, in fact writing the final draft before his early death from tuberculosis at the young age of 48, fictionalized a government that killed language and reinvented its use in tired repetitive catch cries (advertising one liners) to mold the minds of a civilization, and succeeded. He titled this last work, “1984”


It is interesting how a morning gaze out the kitchen window at an overcast sky, connecting to a past time in England, jumping to an article read many years ago, would lead to thoughts about our use of language today and our society in general.


Orwell continues to be that beacon of political light in present time as he was for me so many years ago.


Craig William Middleton


Source:


Orwell, G., “Politics and the English Language”, first published in “Horizon”, GB, London, April 1946; taken from Web Site: http://www.orwell.ru/library/essays/politics/english/e_polit

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.