Stiff Lip

Is it a natural human condition to deconstruct each element of one’s facial features? With the incessant barrage of air brushed notions of perfection, has facial analysis become a common pass time? Might it be that Narcissus was not in love with his own image, but instead obsessing about the shape of his chin? To avoid subjecting myself to such unhealthy comparisons I have eliminated a third of my face by introducing a fringe, which I then cut myself and now have to wear a hat for two months until it stops looking ridiculous. I have also attempted to grow a beard and so eliminate another third of my face. Subject as I am to rules of convention, I achieved a half millimeter of growth before heating the hot wax, spreading it on my upper lip, laying down a strip of fabric and attaching orange gunk to the infested area, only to rip it off and find I had created a sticky mustache. Several plucks with the tweezers later I inspected the upper lip which was not stiff.

If such dedication to upper lip perfection does not result in a stiff one then I have no idea how I can achieve such a state of being. After-all it is a British thing; it is part of our Dunkirk spirit. It is staying calm and carrying on.

I know of no one who stays calm and carries on. I know of faces set like stone trying to do what they must and crumbling and crying like an overused pillow each night, because staying calm is hurting them. For those not crying each night, there are those drinking each night. The others are not crying and appearing to stay calm because the Doctor has given them drugs to do so. Others are running, not metaphorically, but literally running around streets and country lanes in a kind of escapist way and also because that sort of exercise releases endorphins which work a bit like the drugs and alcohol the rest of us are surviving on. No one’s lip is stiff.

This lack of stiff lip, this myth of Britishness has been more than evident in the Scottish referendum. There were no stiff lips from politicians, but red faces and “heart” felt pleas and then there were the threats. The kind of threats received when you go to a party your mum doesn't want you to go to. “If you go I’ll take your Playstation away.” In this case Tesco was going to leave. I don’t see the problem more space for Lidl and Aldi.

During the past two weeks I have seen not resolve but pessimism as a British trait: the general message being if you do things differently it’s going to be a failure, bad things will happen, the man will be angry.

Well here’s a thing. What if you go for what you believe in? What if the outcome is a good outcome? What if change is positive? Why not? Why for once can’t good things happen?

The No campaign won but the positive attitude of the Yes campaign has lead to change, a change that was due and a change that must be for the good.

  

A Writers Vision

I have a vision of a writer. It is a dream like vision that fluctuates with the movement of the clouds; on a dark windswept night, when the rain drops are so heavy that you can see each fall individually past the light of the lamppost; the writer is frantic; an Einstein like character, working obsessively, words falling from the finger tips. By morning, the storm has passed; the writer is composing at the sort of desk an Edwardian lady, having inspired a range of Laura Ashley furnishing is now writing at, with a fountain pen, in a beautiful note book. It is a balmy summer evening, the writer smokes, drinks, paces the floor, searches for the right word, whilst a neon motel sign flickers on the study wall.

Illustrated by http://andyartisand.carbonmade.com/

The writer is a mysterious thing, elusive, reserved, inaccessible; Oh to penetrate the writers deepest thoughts.

Give me one glass of white wine and I will tell you my elusive, mysterious thoughts. I will talk to anybody about anything; things that actually happened, which I always prelude with “That actually happened” as though every other word was a lie, and things that sort of happened but not quite in the way I described, which of course is the writers gift, it’s the story tellers way.

I may have failed to achieve the writer image; of one consumed with a passion that only the written word can express. I have read a wealth of books, articles and blog posts of writer’s tips; the most reoccurring of which is to develop discipline; a Jedi like commitment to work, a Fame costs and right here is where you start paying; determination towards my craft; an attitude in conflict with my Einstein vision.  Someone somewhere wrote that you should treat each word as though you would be charged for its use; this, paired with regular committed writing has been the best advice I have received. I have no idea if this blog is increasing my readership and will enable me to break through. I do know that my commitment to write this every week, has instilled a level of discipline I have not previously known and that to limit myself to a word count of 500 words* has helped with that discipline, that ability to choose the right word; as well as provide a good excuse for the pacing of floors and drinking.

I find it close to impossible to impose a word count on my student’s essays, and emphasize constantly that I require concise work, not repetition or a plumping out of the words, I just want to know what they have to tell me, and I don’t have all day.

The truth is you need one eye on the word count and the other on the words. This is certainly working for me and now I feel somewhat lost without a word count, fortunately this blog allows me to share while I practice. Hopefully you enjoy the practice and perhaps you will see the difference it makes.

*504 words in total.

My dog is depressed

My dog Doc is depressed. He has taken himself to his bed and refuses to partake in the small world around him. I once saw an interview with Carrie Fisher who, after Star Wars, suffered depression; she said that the clincher was a bubble bath in shape of Princess Liea; you unscrewed the head and poured liquid out of the neck. This was too much and she retired to her bed, where she hid under the blankets and lost herself in a book. Doc does have a book “A tale of a dog” which I once read to him on a train just to annoy the lap-top type next to us, but alas Doc is unable to read. Doc’s malaise will pass; he has suffered no such horror as seeing his own head unscrewed.

A week ago he was in pensive mood as he watched the humans gather various belongings stuff them into bags and dump them into the hall, he sniffed, he paced and occasionally made high pitched winey sounds. The pensive mood was justified and once in the car, with four adults, one child and two other dogs, Doc became frantic with excitement. He danced about on my thighs, stuffed his nose out of the car window, allowed his ears to flap in the breeze, sniffed with such extreme intensity as to emit small sprays of dog wet and repeatedly stood on my bladder.

Illustrated by andyartisand 

Unleashed he burst into the bungalow, skidded across the laminated flooring, tore through the garden, ran wildly though the grass and in the dramatic downpour of hurricane Bertha’s left over’s he barked the bark of an adventurer. Having collected a considerable amount of grass between his toes he set forth like an explorer, tail erect, nose to the floor and each room was scrutinized. Certain areas were considered worthy of his mark and he cocked his leg here and there while the humans cleaned the mark away. Having established his surroundings, scattered grass throughout our lodgings and made known his presence to all of Cornwall, he then sought to ascertain the canine social order.  

Harry* a dog in turmoil, wanted to be his friend and yet was afraid of close contact, he growled, he snarled, he snapped, made tremendous displays of white fangs and his mistress brought forth the muzzle. Lucy a glossy black beauty of fifteen watched Doc’s lamb like dance of invitation with nothing short of regal amusement. She bestowed an honorary wag of her magnificent tail and walked away in her high heeled fashion to seek the most comfortable seat in the household; meanwhile Doc sought spoils from beneath the dining table.

That night, each night, he slept like a furry baby, his tubby belly softly rising, his nose sniffing astral smells his woof subdued and dreamlike.

By day he clambered rocks, sniffed flowers, walked villages, saw cows, sheep and horses, slipped in seaweed, dug in the sand, paddled in rock pools and with fore-paws low, bum high and tail a blur, invited the other holidaying dogs to play and many responded.

Now he has returned to our little world, where there are no other dogs. If he could take alcohol he would drink gin, he would cry and talk of the old days, of the wild times, he would sing maudlin songs and slump over with a half chewed bone.

I do believe Doc thought he had found a new life and I believe he will recover as the memories fade.

* Harry was rescued, he was badly treated as a pup and when we first met him he was downright scary, what the in laws have done with Harry is remarkable and he is a happy dog.

  

Creative Types

Having recently turned forty three, I have come to the realization that I can do things. I don’t just mean I can make it rain, a special skill of mine that only works if I have washing hanging on the line, or that I can pick out the most inappropriate piece of conversation from a class of chattering students, and draw everyone’s attention to it: “You did WHAT with a Garibaldi biscuit?”

Somewhere between the ages of seven and forty I learned that I couldn't do things. I was not clever enough, fast enough, strong enough; my all time favorite is that I wasn't able to learn to ride a motor bike, because …I would be too weak to lift if off me. Notice the implication of immediate failure; I would be so shit at motorbike riding that no sooner had I broom broomed away than the thing would be on top of me, wheels spinning and I in my frailness yelping Hey-Alp like Penelope Pitstop.

From time to time I tell my students about competitions; mostly 3D modeling and they won’t enter, because they say there are not good enough yet. Just over a year ago a colleague told me I had had won the competition at December House and I replied. “I think you got that wrong.”She hadn't.

It turned out I could write, one of the few things I ever really believed I could do. But that was it: that was my one good thing. I never understood how a pop singer could also act, design a fashion range and make a perfume. How a stand- up comedian could write a children’s book, make a movie, and hold an art exhibition. I didn't believe that they could be good at all those things. Sometimes they’re not good at all those things. Further more the pop singer; comedian, celebrity chef or whatever usually has some help. They don’t go in the lab and mix the perfumes themselves, or draw the patterns and cut the fabric. I saw Danni Minogue on TV where her contribution to a fashion range appeared to be creating a mood board of other clothes she liked and talking about colours. I could do that! Do you see? You could do that too.

On the other hand there is absolutely no reason why a pop singer, comedian or chef can’t pen a good children’s book or act or paint. They are by their very nature creative types, specializing in entertainment; they will be “acting” when they are on stage. It should be of no surprise that Einstein played violin, or that he had a great imagination, he was a creative type you see.

But here’s the thing, we are all creative types, good at baking, at gardening, at building kitchen cupboards, at sewing, at making things from matchsticks. Chances are you are good at several things. So when someone asks can you host an embroidery evening or run an up-cycle workshop? If it appeals, then you should probably go for it. If it goes wrong like my no sew rag rug, then you learn from it, even if all you have learned is that you are absolutely brilliant at turning strips of fabric into an impenetrable tangle of knots.

Illustrated by http://andyartisand.carbonmade.com/

*disclaimer: Johnny didn't do anything with a Garibaldi biscuit, I deliberately miss-hear for sake of a good laugh.  

Here comes the Judge.

You shouldn't judge others, right? Who are you to cast judgement? That woman on the bus screaming at her kid, what do you know of her story? She might have been up all night nursing an abandoned budgerigar, no wonder she just lost it for a moment.

We all judge and we know that we are judged also. We are judged within seconds of entering the interview room: judgments made on our body posture and our appearance. We are judged in exams, in our performance reviews and in some cases (such as teaching observations) on spot checks of our performance. Once judged we are sorted into categories and filtered into situations that require further judgement on a wealth of subjective matters: how well we understand something, how much we have improved even how creative or original we have been.

How do you pass judgement on creativity? In November Culturemouse, wrote that when reading submissions for publication, she is always sure to remember that the act of writing is a creative process, the words on the page demonstrate that creativity has taken place, regardless of the quality of the work.
As a teacher I have to make a lot of judgments. I have to write my own criteria specifying the requirements of a Distinction piece of work, a Merit and Pass. I find the process torturous. By listing requirements I am limiting creativity. By specifying justification of decisions made, I am asking my students to sell their work to me, but they are not training to be sales people they are training to be Game Designers and Producers. My husband once explained that during his brief stint at Art College he was often required to justify his art, he said he couldn't do that, he was an artist not an orator, were he able to express himself via another medium he wouldn't be expressing himself through the medium of paint.*

On Saturday I popped my judgement into my handbag, alongside an umbrella because rain was forecast and a packed lunch, because I couldn't be sure I would like the food and set off for the Roland Levinsky building at Plymouth University. I was a judge in the semi finals of the YRS Festival of Code. But who was I to judge?

Illustrated by http://andyartisand.carbonmade.com/

I met the other judges and wondered how they were judging me: somewhat overdressed in blue lace and potentially oozing incorrect body language. I got a judges pack, and listened to the young people “selling” their talent, so young, so coherent, so imaginative. They were all wonderful. I had been worried that I wouldn't know what to say about each presentation, that I would have to write “creativity implicit” or in a worst case scenario that is was an “ecumenical matter”.

In fact it was easy, because we all know a good thing when we see one. You don’t need to say why, you can just tell, fortunately during the judge’s discussion, I had the words to say why it was good (I took rather a lot of notes) and the best kids went through.
Some got it more right than others. No one got it wrong.
If there must be a competition; then there must be a judge and I hope that in my role I was fair, honest and above all non judgmental.

*This is a translation.

Battling the Paper

My mythical six week holiday has begun and I shall use it to write, or at least I would use it to write were it not for my suffering from a rash of paper. I am plagued by paper, masses of it everywhere threatening paper fleas at any moment.

Ever surface in this house has paper on it. The kitchen table plays host to an assortment of objects: bits of Lego, a roll of sellotape and a cardboard minecraft cube but most tellingly four note books.  The spice cupboard provides a surface on which objects are piled precariously, bank statements, letters, birthday-cards, envelops, the boy’s exercise books, cooking books,  the dogs brush, a tube of shuttlecocks and more, but mostly paper.  The paper is becoming unmanageable.

A few years back I began to dedicate three or four days each summer to the clearing of paper, in much the same way that Anna Karenina’s lover timetabled one day a year to the sorting of his finances. I sorted, I alphabetically filed and I shredded until the wheelie bin was so full that I stood the boy in there to stamp down the paper mound. Last year the shredder broke. The paper has piled further, I have bank statements going back to 2002 and wage slips from 1998.

illustrated by http://andyartisand.carbonmade.com/

In Saul Bellow’s “Herzog”, Moses writes to the president bemoaning the fact that American Citizens are being turned into Clerks. Moses might have had a cardboard folder like I do that categorically states “filing is everyone’s responsibility”. This was presented to me by the National Health Service when I departed with my new born son. I dutifully filed it. 

I can handle a little bit of administration, I am after all a teacher and I do have a tendency to collect bits of paper, right now there are three note books on my desk, there is a clip board of A4 paper containing storyboards for some long forgotten project, a short story written by an ex student, some information about marking City and Guilds Functional Skills and an article on why Gone Home is so Immersive. As an artist my husband also has lots of paper, sketch books, cartoons and so on and the child has amassed a huge amount of paper from his own creative endeavors, and from school: teacher’s awards, school news-letters, Cub Scout news-letters and information leaflets.

I don’t have a problem with the creative paper. I do have a problem with unending leafleting, a bombardment of credit card offers, internet service provider offers, and endless bank statements, which are getting bigger and now include one extra piece of paper which is all but blank apart from containing my name and my account details. The bank statements are printed on thicker paper than the wage slips and won’t go through the new shredder. I tried to set fire to them in the garden, but became afraid that a piece of burning bank statement might blow away and cause a major incident.I poured a cup of water over the bank-statements and now have an ashy mess, in a biscuit tin, in the yard.

In “The Artists Way” Julia Cameron suggests that we should not let chores get a hold over our creativity, so now the bank-statements are at the foot of the stairs awaiting a safe disposal method. Unfortunately I also have an ironing crisis to battle and it refuses to be ignored, the ironing is right next to me, next to the computer and it is monstrous in size.  

http://www.psychologyofgames.com/2013/09/why-gone-home-is-so-immersive/

Good Intentions

I bet every household has a well intentioned but unused gadget. The gadget could be anything from a juicer (great idea but impossible to clean), to a Betterware cucumber cutter (because you always wanted to cut your cucumbers in the mythical patterns of the Aztecs) through to a can crushing device that you have  affixed to the garage wall in order to reduce recycling clutter.

On Friday I said goodbye to my well intentioned dream: a burgundy coloured Marlboro Ladies bike. I had it for my fourteenth birthday. I bombed around the back lanes of Canton Cardiff on it with my friend Joanne. But I got older and for about twenty five years my bike sat in Dad’s garage. I don’t know how it started, perhaps I shared my fantasy about being able to ride around and feel that youthful freedom or maybe Dad got stuck into a project that involved spending hours of serenity in the shed.  Whatever the cause, we went to visit and I went out on my renovated bike.  

It was just like riding a bike, though if a cloud moved across the sky, I went all wobbly. I rode on the pavement, but had to get off when a car went past. The fact was I needed to be in a totally derelict space of a five mile radius before I could ride the bike.

Nevertheless it came home to Devon with us where I would re-learn the art of bike riding, affix a basket to the front and having added a Toto like dog, ride to the village. This was going to be the Little House on the Prairie meets Rag Dolly Anna. I would be Holly Hobbie, lazily pottering along country lanes, heavy with foliage, dripping with hedgerow fruit, Toto’s fur would ruffle in the gentleness of a bicycle breeze. Toto and I would arrive at the village to drink ginger beer before purchasing a baguette and a hunk of cheese wrapped in muslin cloth. I do believe this fantasy is set in the Devonshire countryside regardless of the baguette, the other more erotic,    soft focus version of "La promenade à vélo"* is yet to be committed to paper. 

What really happened is that one day we wheeled the bike out on to the street. I pushed it up the hill, because I have never understood gears. I pushed it down the hill, because otherwise I would go too fast and become afraid. I rode round the field twice and then pushed it home: into the kitchen.

In the kitchen we hung tea towels on it, the boys school bags and the dogs lead. It sat and gathered dust until last week when a friend said it would be good for his partner, who should like to get out and about. I have never met her, but I bet the first thing she does is get a basket and ride to the village where she will buy good bread and strong cheese. She will have a Toto like dog, though I understand they have a cat, which may have to act as a substitute. The new bicycling lady will of course look good in Laura Ashley; she will have two plats and boots like the girl from True Grit and the burgundy coloured Marlboro Ladies bike will ride on again.

French translation provided by Welsh Bint's French teacher friend Lindsey.

Me and The World Cup Final

There’s a bloke in work who really likes his football, you can see it in his face, in his eyes. When he talks football he sort of sparkles a bit. Football bloke organsied a sweep-stake and I got Belgium. I embraced the spirit of the venture and decorated my desk area with Belgium icons: Hercule Poirot, Tin Tin, some nice looking chocolates and so on. I even kept an eye on the Belgium match, whilst I read Jack Vance.

I’m not into football. Being Welsh I’m more into my Rugby, not that I understand all the rules or can conceive what might take place in a scrum, but football has never been part of my heritage.

This weekend in the interests of social cohesion, and in respect for football bloke, I sat and I watched The World Cup Final between Argentina and Germany. What follows is my view, as an innocent, as a veritable alien to The Beautiful Game.

There was much running back and forth, much bounce boing bounce, and occasionally a real deep thud of boot to ball. The commentator explained when a good thing was happening and why things that looked good were actually bad.

I watched the boots dart about the field looking as though they had been dipped in Dulux’s Write Your Own Story, and the crowd told me through roars, screams and whistles, if I should open my eyes wide, gasp and feel excited.

The commentator introduced me to names that sounded so exotic I understood them in terms of drink and dance, Mesut Ozil, Jerome Boateng and best of all for sounding like a drink you should avoid at all costs Bastian Schweinsteiger. On the opposing team we had dancing names; Pablo Zabaleta, Ezequiel Lavezzi and Javier Mascherano. Incidentally legend has it that the Javier Mascherano, can only be danced in a pool of yack’s milk, whilst wearing pale blue organza, when the moon is full and the bats have shed their wings.

The footballers really did dance,  and they appeared to have hinged necks and thwacked the ball with their foreheads, with their chests, with their fists. The flying green goalie was so desperate to keep the ball away that his knee collided quite spectacularly with his opponent. There was much falling on the floor. The crowd were chanting something indistinguishable and yet tangibly familiar. Something similar happened to me in Bioshock Infinite, I worked out all the tunes bar one in that game.

The commentator announced that it had “been a terrific hour.” Yes in a way, there were moments when it nearly happened, but it didn't happen and that was disappointing, I had wanted to read a bit more Jack Vance before bedtime. 

 I then experienced extra time, which in this case had two periods.  By the second period the indistinguishable chant had become nightmarish as had the falling over. I grew concerned that this pained din might enter my dreams and a green flying giant would decapitate footballers with his knees.

I was becoming somewhat distraught or slightly bored and then there was a goal! The blue and whites in the crowd had tears in their eyes, which quite upset me, to see them so hurt, did not seem especially beautiful.

Germany won, it was interesting, and yet deflating, so much passion, so much energy and running around for one goal, just once the ball went into the net, then some people cried and some people cheered. It is over, until the next time, four years hence. I’ll watch if we do a sweep stake. 

Inconsistent Heat in waves.

I’ll say it in a whisper; I like the rain.

I like the rain at night, especially if it’s a hot night, as it is likely to be tonight, because we are having a heat wave. I know about the heat wave as I have seen news paper images of people on crowded beaches (there are so few beaches in the UK that people can only select from two or three; so it seems and cram themselves on) Topping the pictures is a Heat Wave headline, scorchio but more imaginative and pun like.

I like heat waves too. I like heat waves if I am lay next to a warm clear sea, and I am totally free of body hair and cellulite, if the sand or pebbles are not so hot as to scorch my feet, and if there is icy cold juice nearby, and I have a wide brimmed hat that will not blow away in the wind. The trouble with heat waves is they are only suited to certain circumstances, beach body aside; the heat wave is ideal holiday weather. It is not suited to; DIY, gardening or as I recently discovered in a film of sweat; vacuuming. The heat wave is great if it coincides with your non working days and if you are prepared for it, watermelon in the fridge, garden clean and decorated with trendy colourful objects, a garden table with a bright cloth and a vase of white flowers, a jug of Pim’s; we've all seen the TV ads.

Heat waves, show up the dust, they make carpets feel dirty, they lead to open windows, the doors bang, the dog is afraid and tries to hide behind the ironing board (really he does that), through the open windows come the sound of women screaming, bellowing at their overheated over tired children, from the back lane we sometimes hear the man who gets drunk in the heat wave, he threatens to kill all sorts of people, I cover my nine year old's ears, his wife locks him in the garden where he boots  the bejesus out of the washing pole. Always nearby a teenager must show off his car, by playing music full volume, never, is it Nina Simone but some track performed by hyperventilating smurfs.

Heat waves are not suited to terraced house living. Neither are they in anyway reliable. Right now, in the middle of a supposed three month long heat wave; I am sat next to a basket full of wet washing, because every hour or so it has rained. The heat wave comes, the heat wave goes, the woman across the road is bellowing again and the dog has ventured outside to urinate on the pretty garden table cloth.

Maybe tonight it will rain, that warm rain, restful rain with the same lull as the sea and then I just might gently prod hubby in the ribs and suggest he do something about the leaky guttering…once the heat wave is passed you understand.