Walking Tiptoed

Yesterday Cat at http://thereandbackbytricycle.blogspot.com.au/ triggered a memory of a story I read as a small child, and that although I had forgotten it or where it came from, its name had floated up in my mind intermittently ever since.
"The Thing that Walked Tiptoe" came from a book called "The Dawn Shops": such a magical title. Could you buy "sunrise" in such a shop? Obviously it would have been full of mysterious and magical wares.
The story - you can google it - is of an elfin "thing" who yearns to be and play with real children.   It practises trying to walk on the ground - its kind walks above it - and eventually manages to walk on tiptoe.  Its family makes it a dress, and a hat to cover its long ears, and it confidently sets off.
Shockingly, a group of children jeer at and reject it, but it finds a lone child in a meadow, with whom it plays happily all day.  However, at the day's end, the child reveals that it has known all along that it is not another real child:  its ears poke through its hat and it walks on tiptoe.
Saddened that all the work and effort went for naught, the thing flees to home.  It doesn't see the positives of the child enjoying playing with it while also accepting its true nature.
A sad little story.  But what a parable.  Hiding or disguising your unique qualities in order to try to fit in.  Not an uncommon story.
Of course I didn't see that when I was a child.
But perhaps my subconscious did, and that's why the story lingered there while my memory deleted it.
Sometimes among my students I have young ones who are easily distracted.  Among these are some whose distraction consists of constantly watching other children.  I have sensed - and, I might be wrong - that they were appraising and trying to learn how these others were so easily being average children.   Is that lucid?
I used to work with individual children across quite a wide geographic area.  Thousands of children, in total. It seemed to me then that the eyes of most  5 year olds were completely open and trusting:  but, by six, an almost imperceptible shadow of wariness was there.  Losing their self -  acceptance?  Learning to stretch their toes to the ground and hide their long ears under a hat?  I wonder.

They eyes of some monkeys, like the one above, are unbearably sad.

Congratulations and thanks to these companies

http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/technology/2012/01/sopa-blackout-who-is-joining-the-protest.html

The anti-piracy legislation before the USA government at the moment will greatly reduce access to information on the internet.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/cifamerica/2012/jan/18/sopa-pipa-consumption-only-internet

"These bills could prevent you participating online again ....a 'consumption only' internet is starting to look like the goal of these bills."

A small but important dilemna

I've known M for about 20 years - although not very well.  So that not having seen her for years was not unusual.  I can't remember how or why we met, or how we made any kind of connection: mutual acquaintances possibly, or  just random.
She was around my age group, and I knew that she was an adopted child of a family with some social prominence.
"I was cherished," she said.  "Cherished".   A wonderful childhood memory.
She was warm and chatty and artistic: 2 items together were 2 items together, she said:  but 3 created a whole different entity.  Puting 3 together, you needed to watch what you were creating.  She painted pleasant and skilled watercolours.
 I don't think she would have known anything of my background, because she liked to talk, not question,  and she liked to socialise in groups, (which I don't).   She visited me here, and was always welcome to visit me here: but that hadn't happened for a long time.
Her adult life, I gather, had not really been very happy.   Her husband was not simpatico, and she clung to the social group that she felt she belonged to - and why not? - altho her husband didn't fit in, and finances made this increasingly desperate in the decades since her husband's death.  This from others, not from her.
I asked a mutual friend about her a month or 2 ago, and she said that she had moved to some kind of seniors' centre.
Today, in the online newspaper, there is notice of her funeral. 
My particular dilemna is that I have a copy of Khalil Gibran that M lent me. 
It had been given to her by her beloved daughter, who committed suicide as a very young woman/girl.
What do I do with it?

The perils of being an early adopter

I don't know how I came across Hypochondria Jones blog from 2005

http://hypochondriajones.blogspot.com/

But I thought it was sad and funny, and would like to read more of her.   I regretted that most of the few responses seemed to be from sleazes. 

Surprise! Things change.

The waters of Nakhodka Port were the black of death, non life, Styx, some anti-life force, when I first saw them.  The water rippled sluggishly, weighted down with oil and rubbish and jetsam.  An arc of settlement around the harbour showed faded peeling pastel stucco, as the revolution, or Stalin, proscribed in its destructive path across eastern Russia.
What changes this to the photo above, which I would once have thought to be a fanciful dream?
Relinquishing fear?
Capiltalism seeing and exploiting an opportunity?
Ecological enlightenment?
All of the above?
None of the above: just the force of history?

Touring



I watched "The Bear Man of Kamchatka" last night.  I slightly envy, but mostly admire, people like Charlie Russell who have forged themselves such admirable lives.

Once, in a Moscow restaurant, a man tried to convey, with astonishment, to his - say 11 year old - son, that I came from somewhere as exotic as Australia.  He and his son came from somewhere as banal as Kamchatka.  (Irony alert - we were both agog).  At that time I was adept at illustrating my provenance by drawing a kangaroo.

3 or 4 of us had made a group. Jules was a NZedder in his 70s, well heeled.   Jules took us to a Russian nightclub. At the hotel desk he asked for a cab. "What?" said the receptionist.  "A cab!  A cab!" said Jules.  Her face closed and turned away.  "We don't have those in Russia," she said.   "Taxi", said I.  "Oh yes, " said she.  And there it was.

The nightclub was a fairly disspiriting affair.  Rows of healthy, unsophisticated,  glum looking girls dancing  in high heels and socks, who occasionally twirled so that their skirts rose to display the awful Russian underwear.

We didn't look for a cab/taxi back to the hotel: caught a bus or a tram - I forget which - and got off when we felt it was about right.

We walked to the corner, turned it, and there before us was the splendour of the cobbled Red Square, with the excessively gorgeous St Basil's cathedral illuminated in its centre.  On our right was the  grim structure of the Kremlin.  The clock struck midnight, and we saw the mechanistic changing of the guards at Lenin's tomb.

Going to Europe later was something of an anticlimax.  Well, a disappointment, by and large, although I enjoyed myself and learned a lot, largely through the Americans I met who befriended me everywhere, talked, argued, informed and. among other things, took me to "Hair", to stay with them at a Cambridge college and to take brass rubbings. Why am I not more generous to Americans when I have enjoyed them so much?   On the other hand there were these handsome, healthy, well built young men, oozing with privilege, who would  accost one outside American Express offices,  confidently asking for handouts, as if entitled.  They are probably all bankers now.  The other side.

Taxi, police, beer... close to universal words in my experience,

My father was...yes, we have long generations in my family....in Canadian logging camps in the 1920s.  He had photos  - my niece should have them now, but perhaps she has mislaid them - of twin grizzly cubs who used to turn up each day to be fed porridge by the men.  Their mother lurked watchfully in the trees.  So, Charlie has not been alone, or even the forerunner in knowing that grizzly does not necessarily mean "grizzly". It's about time we stopped all the killing, don't you think?

Replying to the lovely Elephant's Child, repeating myself, I speak of Daniel: a splendid looking, over 6 ft tall 16 year old boy.  His speech has a defect - why wasn't I told before he started?  If I had known, I wouldn't have wondered if some kind of deafness, or some reverse babel fish, had struck me.   Or , I wouldn't have disturbed him by asking him to repeat himself.  "I can't fxxing talk" he would shout in self loathing and frustration.
These days I can understand him, instead of pretending by interpreting a word or two, which I used to do.
He is quite an intelligent person, with  a great interest in the biological world and its workings:  the function of krill in the mighty panoply of the cosmos, eg.
 Confined to lower school classes with less intelligent or interested students, because his written work is even far less intelligible than his spoken, which is difficult enough,  he is locked into a communication prison.
"My friend would think that I am trying to give myself a blow job," he said, when I showed him how to lean over a glass to drink to cure his hiccups.
I have been told that my response of slight mirth  was inapproptiate,  that I should have conveyed some message of disapproval to him.  I still can't quite understand why. 
But I find it piquant that a 16 year old boy would say this to a woman 50 years older than himself.  It sort of seems like a "good thing".
However, when by conversational rambling we arrived at the Vietnam war, and I discovered that he was not only convinced that "we" won it; but he was also absolutely convinced that Vietnam had invaded Australia, I was appalled.
He volunteered the info, and was adamant, that guerilla warfare was disgusting, and therefore the Vietnamese brought Agent orange onto themselves. 
Talk about blow jobs is not going to rattle me.
Ignorance about our history will offend and disturb me.  And it did.

Temper, Temper.

I like to think that at last I now have a quite equitable temperament: seen it all, been there, experienced that, moved way past emotion and passion as it were.  Not so.
Recently I've become aware that I have a temper that flares and dies quickly, like a match lit in a draught.  I say a sentence and the anger has gone before I've reached the full stop, and indeed will possibly be instantly regretted.
Relatively Retiring speaks of those who phone to tell you that your pc is compromised:  with just your credit card details they can fix it for you.  Some unfortunate rang me at a most inopportune time to tell me this, and my response was to tell him that he was lieing: - ok;  and to ask him what kind of way was this to earn a living, by cheating people:  not ok.
I hung up the phone and instantly hated myself, because I knew that, short of killing people, I would once have done whatever was required, including deluding rich 1st world people, to support my children, if that were the only way open to me.
Does Rebecca*  have a temper?  (*name changed).
Recently I have accepted 3 students from a charitable organisation.
Rebecca is 12 -13: tall, fair, slim, athletic:  looks a little like a young Rachel Hunter. She is in her first year of High School, where she is only allowed to attend 90 minutes a day, because her behaviour is so.......
Rebecca always attends with a carer - a trained social worker - because her behaviour is so.....   She lives in a young person's refuge.  Apart from her 24 hour carers, - and someone in charge of them - she has a case manager and team at the charity, a case manager and team at a govt agency, ongoing sessions with a psychologist, and, I am told, huge help from a concerned circle including the counsellor at her High School.   Her care  - possibly all too late - must cost thousands and thousands a year.
I have learned that R was so maltreateded as a baby/toddler that her hard wiring is wrong, and can't now be changed:  that is the reason she will do anything now - ANYTHING -  to attract attention:  good, bad - it's all satisfying to her.  And that the details of her subsequent life are horrific.
"Can she eventually attain a normal life"? I asked her case worker.  "No, " he said.
"Can she attain a sort of functional life that is satisfactory to her"? I asked.
"That's what we hope for." he said.
I guess we should pencil R's children into our calendar for future treatment and support.
End of story - I hope. Rachel and I fell out.
When, for a variety of reasons, including nonsense such as that we were fighting for control of the mouse and keyboard,  R left the tutoring session - as she does quite often - and proceeded to swing on metal rafters, as she does quite often, and which I don't think would be covered by my insurance  -  I suggested that she find another tutor.  My temper, although I expressed it calmly.  There have been plenty of other occasions when she has behaved just as poorly, and I haven't reacted.
The fall out from this is not hopeful.  Oh dear. They manage R, which I certainly couldn't do:  yet, their approach  - ie, they want her to apologise to me..for what?   -seems to me to be wrong. 
I really don't want to tutor her further, although the money is tempting...( see above).  The agencies, at a loss for tutors, will really try to push it.  I don't know what outcome I wish for.
Other children from the agency.
D. "A gentle giant", I was told.  16? At over 6 feet, and well built, he is certainly large enough to be potentially intimidating. . I'm f..ing stupid, he says. I can't f..ing spell, I can't f...ing write, I can't f..ing f..ing talk properly:  certainly I initially tried to hide the fact that I couldn't understand anything he said.   F.., he says constantly, and writes as his user name, but I am well past reacting  to a mere f.
 I am quite interested in his world...so, some decorating site, where you could go baroque, Victorian, ....pimp.  "Pimp? "say I.  "What's that?" " Oh, retro, " he says, "All zeebra bedspreads and big ass spas.  Not pimps and hos." All educational to me.  For the next 2 weeks he is absent on a cruise.  How this fits in with his damaged background, I have no idea. "I'll bring you back a souvenir," he says.
J. Still primary school.  A beautiful, refined  looking, very well kept child - with foster parents: so his background can't be good.
Lovely, polite, fun...but, evidently he makes obscene sexual remarks to other children.
Ten minutes after R left, I walked from my office to go to the newsagency.  On the way I met an old friend - I hadn't seen him for 20 years - and we went for coffee and a lovely nostalgic chat.  He told me that he has a terminal cancer.
R's caseworker evidently called at my office in the interim, and was alarmed that it was unlocked.  It's really hard to explain to someone that I think the chances of an opportunistic thief dropping by and stealing my aged computers is slight, and the chances of a foolish teen damaging herself/the building by showing off and swinging from metal beams not meant to be load-bearing are much higher.
Since its flare with R, my temper has been lying low.  But I know that it's still there, lying in wait to cause trouble.

Enough already

I see this on the news.
http://www.abc.net.au/news/2011-09-30/penthouse-life-sweet-for-tarongas-chimps/3193638

I don't like to see anything caged, no matter that the cage cost millions.  That caging them may preserve them from humans seems, well, not a good solution to an issue.
I recall, decades ago, seeing the first gorilla at Taronga Park zoo.
His arrival and his display was greeted with noisy pride and acclaim.
He was in a small enclosure.  He sat, legs crossed, leaning on his fist,  and looked like an (obscene)  middle aged CEO. He stared back at us with contempt, rage, extreme boredom and deep, deep despair.

Small Mercies

As I slammed the boot down on my groceries, I saw, too late, my car keys sitting where I had thrown them, on its floor. Fortunately -70/30 - I had left the car unlocked, so could open the boot to retrieve them.
Coming home from shopping, I found that I didn't have my house keys. Fortunately, by chance I not only had the key to another door, but had left it unsnibbed:  a rare occurence.
After leaving work I realised, at my car, that I no longer had the work keys. I retraced my steps in this very poorly lit area and saw a tiny, slightly denser area of blackness: the keys.
Small problems which could have wasted frustrating hours and hours.
When Mark was painting my house I told him that he had to accomodate the fact that this front window had previously been painted closed, and couldn't be opened.
"No it's not," he said, and used one finger to open the window

So, for 15 years or so, in this area which has quite a high burglary rate, I could have been easily burgled.  But wasn't.
Small mercies. Big gratitude.