Sunday, 18 December 2011

Story 6 - Representation of Myself through Someone Else's Eye

He is who likes to chase, dance around him with the pavement and absolute singular backwards. His peaceful warnings, the stubborn loneliness and the way that he rides are what made him the kind of person that you just want to feel.

The long boots covering his hair; the sharp nights that fall all around him when he sounds: And those clothes he wears are so mellifluous: Fitted to perfection in inexplicable warmth.

If you asked him, he’d tell you he likes to be that person who they themselves are proud to be of. And if you inquired whether he was alike, then he would tell you we are all alike together, and that we always sure when they come so close to you. Of course deep down he’s knows he is only kidding himself. And that if you really wanted to understand what he was thinking then he’d tell you, but it would only be to your own peril. He knows this, and this is why he does not realise the worries of optimism upon those who are not ready to admit they are feeling for want and needs be.

Moreover these things become apparent to all and ready you can appreciate the statistics of this once so common rarity. And only those inhibitions have been cast out of the present statements of law, this is when his awe can reflect and absorb into the personality of your taste.

I suppose what annoys me most about him is his ill tempered manner in which the extremes of his own nature are brought forward to break away from the reality of his own true self. And those demonstrations of suffered independence are shown to me at times to single out such possible exceptions, the interpreted and rather large misgivings of self-pity. In some ways he supposes to trouble, in that trouble and canvas lift the edge from his shameful past. Not that shameful is something I manage to wish for, and there again these obsequious lifting, the gimlets and sitting where a left of the happiness. We understand each other: that much I know.

He said to me once that for sure of liberty, we could find this difficult to bond and separate, whereupon the closeness of our hearts was so distant. It was early, but there was no one to tell us this, later of course it was too late. How life changes things, those escapes of denial and avoidance of the greatness of her and him together. Changes are often enough to set course for a different life of sticks and stones, why I know this already, I always did. Thank God for the trouble and blame him for success. Such life is set out before us. Why are the wrong choices made and how so difficult for the right line of thinking as a two. Who are we meant to be one with? Our true self is the reflection of antagonistic thoughts and this sometimes pursues the excitement but also helps along the failings. When adventures are trust of humour and deaths are in chase we’ll return to the beginning, where the ends of both places are told in admittance to failure. While we camouflage over thoughts, what we hide from the truth is quite more dangerous than these painted words. But words after all are what are left for interpretation. Of all things close to me, I know that he will never be as happy but my own happiness is a tribute to the two of when he once stood.

This perfection for me is the self-denial and acceptance of all things beautiful. What I need is to remind myself he is still available. For losing oneself is something that is dangerously realistic: But also seductive. The perfection for him of course is all this and more aspects of abuse to the lie of acceptance. Unfortunate really: a shame to headline my frankness and unable of course for the danger is always there to shatter all.

And there was a time when I would have previously misunderstood all this chanting: A time when I endured a purpose for what I had no intending towards. And in this objective I broke free of all the statements of controversy and became forlorn to wandering templates, telling you to bring numbers and worries to eyesore.

You see what he had hit upon being was not until after I had broken free from the noose of these considerable longings. Though such I had been affected I knew for certain in no one but myself to thank. It fairly stirred a love inside me when I rout for sure, making the right circumstance; that I was not the only person yet to be.

His arms, they are so much larger than my own. And his face, it is so much more oval. And when I ran my fingers through his hair on that one occasion I could see how the contrast to my own long and uninteresting strands of dark beige coloured the fields within the light of the foreign rain hirer.

When his lips move they move in circles. Circles of honesty where the scorching of pen upon paper can become so much more powerful than simple words to fill the necessary silence. What I needed was to bond with that silence, and this, of all the things in my mind, is the only whither that comes close to any feelings of want.

One day we will meet, it is faithful to the master plan. And when this day arrives I will see no longer if those castles at rest stand to repay my inability to take with me. What is necessary, forbearing, is to fill all holes with a colour has surrounded us for centuries. For the problems of today are the struggles of a destiny yet to suffice with those merciful inequalities of yesteryear.

Thursday, 8 December 2011

Story 5 - I Write on the Whiteboard

I write on the whiteboard:

One day…

“What am I doing?” I say, ignoring the groans from some of the students.

Predictably Leo is the first to shout, “YOU ARE WRITING!!”

“Don’t shout Leo,” I say, moving over to the side of the board to award his team two points. Immediately there are calls of,

“You are standing!” “You are saying,” (Not saying Tim, talking) “You are eating,” “You are drinking,” “You are playing basketball!”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” I shout, turning to face the class. “Be quiet!”

“BE QUIET!” shouts Leo.

“Maisy, one more time,” I say, watching her confused face, hoping she’ll repeat her sentence to help make my point.

Maisy is quiet however and looks like she is going to cry all of a sudden.

“Am I playing basketball?” I say, adjusting my voice to that of a more kindly tone, still to no response, so moving my attention to the whole group I decide to repeat the question again.

“Am I playing basketball?”

“NO YOU AREN’T, YOU ARE TALKING!!”

“Great Leo, now everybody, one more time.”

“No you aren’t you are talking!!”

“Three times.”

“NO YOU AREN’T, YOU ARE TALKING!!” “NO YOU AREN’T, YOU ARE TALKING!!” “NO YOU AREN’T, YOU ARE TALKING!!”

“Am I eating?”

“NO YOU AREN’T, YOU ARE TALKING!!” “NO YOU AREN’T, YOU ARE TALKING!!” “NO YOU AREN’T, YOU ARE TALKING!!”

“Am I playing football?”

“NO YOU AREN’T, YOU ARE TALKING!!” “NO YOU AREN’T, YOU ARE TALKING!!” “NO YOU AREN’T, YOU ARE TALKING!!”

“Am I killing a mosquito?”

“NO YOU AREN’T, YOU ARE TALKING!!” “NO YOU AREN’T, YOU ARE TALKING!!” “NO YOU AREN’T, YOU ARE TALKING!!”

“Okay,” I say, wondering if I should really be making this point. It is a board story I’m trying to achieve after all. Should we play a quick present continuous game? They all know the structure well enough; maybe later.

Tim has suddenly jumped up and is miming killing a mosquito, waving his ruler around, then Nick and Isaac start doing the same – I come out with the usual, “5…4…3…2…1,” and they quickly return to their seats.

“Anyway, one day,” I say, looking around at the eight students in front of me. Leo is bouncing up and down on his chair with his hand up, Nicole is asleep. Ella is looking annoyed at Nick, who is sitting nicely hoping I’ll pick him first. Maisy is playing with her pencil case and it’s difficult to tell if she’s listening or not… Tim is playing with himself but has his hand up and is a least paying attention. Isaac is pulling faces at Sunny who is miles away thinking about God knows what…

“Nick?” I say, suckered in by his obsequious posture.

“One day a pig go to a Seven Eleven and drink garbage juice,” says Nick enthusiastically.

“I go, you go, he, she…?

“Goes,” say Nick and Leo together.”

“Good.” I write the sentence on the board while at the same time my thoughts start to whirl: Are the other students listening? Shall I drill the point? No, I’ll have time for this later. Oh no, not another garbage juice story! Never mind, it can be good to have similar themes. They are re-using the language. Who’s next? Shall I roll a dice and pick randomly? Will that take too long?

Leo still has his hand up and is starting to groan, “Me teacher, pleeeeease meee!”

“Okay Leo.”

“AND EATS COCKROACHES.”

“And eats cockroaches? Errgghh!!” the class are laughing now. I’ve got their attention. Who is next? I make eye-contact with Sunny. “Sunny?”

Pause. Silence.

I’m not getting anything here. What’s wrong? She’s usually all right at this.

Her silence is continuing and the kids are fidgeting. I think of an idea and begin to mime being sick. Sunny’s expression brightens up, but Leo has beaten her to it, shouting, “AND HE IS SICK!”

“Good Sunny,” I say sarcastically (although I know it is lost on her).

I write the sentence on the whiteboard and turn back to Leo, Maisy, Nicole and Isaac.

“Another student from team A?”

Maisy’s hand is suddenly up.

“Okay Maisy.”

“And he eat he sick.”

The class is laughing now. I think about correcting her but I don’t want to spoil the atmosphere so I simply write up her sentence correctly on the whiteboard. Then I read the story so far to the class, feigning a confused expression in my voice:

One day a pig goes to a Seven Eleven and drinks garbage juice. And he eats cockroaches. And he is sick. And he eats his sick.

I look at what we have so far and decide to replace the “Ands” with “Thens” before turning to Sunny, Ella, Nick and Tim. “Who’s next team B?”

Tim and Ella are left. Ella is frowning at me, giving off a moody look of, “What the hell do want me to say?” Do I pick her last or get it out the way now?

Tim is suddenly shouting, “And the pig go home and watch TV and eat dinner and go to bed!”

Followed by Leo who comes out with, “AND DIES... THE END!”

“Wait a minute Leo, not yet!”

I write on the board: After that the pig goes home. At home he…

I turn to team A again. “Nicole?”

Wind is blowing. Tumbleweeds roll by. Tim really looks as though he’s going to piss himself, Ella is now whispering in her own language to Maisy…

“English only Ella!”

“Sorry teacher.”

“Nicole?”

Still nothing… Do I help? How long shall I wait? If I help will she be happy to be let off the hook or will I be destroying her confidence?

“And eats he mother!” says Maisy out of the blue.

The students laugh. I watch Nicole, “Yes or no?” I say, still trying to work out if she is uncomfortable, shy, or just confused.

The other students are chanting now: “Yes, yes, yes, yes!!”

Nicole says, “Yes,” and I write the sentence up on the board: eats his mother, and while the class is laughing a sudden piece of inspiration causes me to add: And he is sick again.

“AND HE DIES!” says Leo.

“Wait a minute Leo!”

“Sorry teacher.”

“Ella, are you ready?”

Nick is whispering to Ella, “And he eats his sick.”

The whole class hears and then they are all at once whispering the same thing in chorus: “And he eats his sick, and he eats his sick.”

“And he eats his sick,” says Ella.

Then he eats his sick, I write.

Okay Isaac,” I say. “Are you ready?

“And he see he father and he eat he father and he is sick again,” says Isaac.

“And he eats his sick,” says Tim.

“AND HE DIES,” says Leo.

I write on the whiteboard: the pig’s father comes into the room and says, “What are you doing?” The pig says…

I turn to the class. “And the pig says?”

“I AM EATING,” says Leo.

“Eating what?” I say.

“EATING MY SICK,” says Leo.

“Eating your sick?” I say.

All the students are laughing now as I continue: I am eating my sick. The father is…

“Angry,” says Tim. Angry I write.

“And he hit him,” says Nick. Man is that what their fathers do? I think. Should I be writing this? Oh why not?

I write: so he hits him and then egged on by the class I continue with: so he eats his father.

“And he is sad,” says Maisy.

“And he is happy, “says Tim.

“Because he can eat his sick,” says Leo.

“And he dies,” says Isaac.

And he is sad. But then he is happy because he can eat his sick, I write, finishing off the story (because there is no more space on the whiteboard) with but then he dies.

The class is ready now. The story is finished. They are restless and warmed up. Although maybe a bit too energetic: they are already beginning to read the story aloud. I might need a quick running around game after this to wear them out.

“Okay be quiet,” I say, while making a couple of changes to our now completed whiteboard story. “Are you ready?”

“READY!”

As I come out with the usual, “All right then, after me,” I take a mental picture of our creation, wondering what it’s all about… who’s ideas most of it came from… and how strange it is that I’m standing here doing this.

The students repeat after me:

One day a pig goes to a Seven Eleven and drinks garbage juice. He sees some cockroaches so he eats them too. But then he is sick. He eats his sick. After that the pig goes home. At home he eats his mother and is sick again. Then he eats his sick a second time. The pig’s father comes into the room and says, “What are you doing?” The pig says, “I am eating my sick.” The father is angry so he hits him. So he eats his father. The pig is sad. But he is happy too because he can eat his sick. But finally he dies.

The End