Everyone has one thing they want more than anything else: one thing they follow through their lives, like the donkey after the proverbial carrot. Sometimes it's vague - a feeling of happiness or contentment they had as a child - and sometimes it's specific: a place, a beach, a square of a field in the sunshine, a person, a tree, a corner of a bed in the right room. More often than not nobody knows what it is but the person who chases, and even then they're not quite sure: propelled towards they don't know what, and they don't know how, but propelled just the same. And, every so often, it's a little easier to identify, and a little easier to name. A little easier to point at and say: that's my carrot, and always has been. It always will be, even after I've eaten it right up.
For me, it's a book with my name on the spine: a story I can leave behind. But for my sister it's even more specific than that. And his name is Buddy.
As teeny, tiny children - a couple of blonde heads, wearing identical clothes (thanks mum) - there was rarely a day that went past when my sister didn't ask for a puppy. When she wasn't asking for a puppy she was running towards a puppy; when she wasn't running towards a puppy she was hanging onto a puppy by the neck; when she wasn't hanging onto a puppy by the neck she was asking for a puppy again. Every Christmas, she would write a letter to Santa, and every Christmas - when my list stretched on, sometimes, for pages (I was often just writing for the sake of it, or because I wanted to test Santa's patience) - it would read: Dear Santa, I want a puppy, Love Tara. Sometimes, when she was worried that she wasn't being polite enough, it would read, Dear Santa, Please please please can I have a puppy, Love Tara. Or, when she got frantic, Dear Santa, Have I been bad? Please may I have a puppy this year. Love Tara. In fact, before she could write those infamous words, her letter to Santa involved a rectangle with four sausages coming out of the bottom of it, two circles attached to the top of it and a smiley face, under which - when she hit three or four - would be carefully written the letters DOG. Her first word was: doggy. As a toddler she would go into an adoring trance whenever a dog was anywhere near by, and no amount of "leave it alone, Tara, it's dirty" would keep her away from stroking whatever mangy mutt wandered past. And for many years she was devoted to the idea of being a vet, until she realised that she had zero interest in any other household pets, and so might be a little too exclusive to make a living.
Sadly, I simultaneously had a phobia of dogs - thanks to being 'attacked' by a Rhodesian Ridgeback at the age of three - so needless to say my parents spent a large proportion of our country walks trying to keep my sister from breaking loose and sprinting across the fields towards an errant dog, and to stop me from breaking loose and sprinting across the fields away from them. Our Sundays were therefore punctuated, frequently, with pre-school screaming: both enthusiastic and terrified.
My sister has never really been able to put her passion for dogs into words, other than the fact that they are unconditionally loving, happily dependent and capable of being fiercely loved without getting twitchy: similar reasons, in fact, to why I prefer cats. All she has ever known is that a puppy would complete her, and that her life would be perfect from that moment on.
And a month ago she finally, finally got one.
His name is Buddy. He's a Boston Terrier, and when she got him he was eight weeks old, and small enough to fit into a hand. I've met him, via Skype, and I've never seen a funnier looking dog: he's all wide set eyes and droopy cheeks and set chin, like ET but covered in fur. He's extremely naughty - has ignored all of the many, many toys my sister bought for him in favour of her best bra, which he carries around in his teeth - and goes into a heavy sulk whenever he is taken for a walk: has to be dragged along Brighton seafront, with his little bottom resolutely planted in the sand. Apparently he has zero interest in any kind of fresh air, and will only participate in any of it if he's wrapped firmly in a blanket and carried around, and Tara gets appalled looks daily by her neighbours as they watch her pulling a teeny tiny, furious puppy along the pavement with his paws dug into the cement. I bought him a Santa outfit for Christmas, and he destroyed it before it was out of the wrapping, and his favourite activity - from what I can tell, via a webcam - is either sitting on my sister's lap and trying to get down her top, licking her face, or sleeping.
All in all, he is, in fact, quite a lot like her boyfriend.
And my sister is in love. She's the happiest I have ever seen her; like a wax figure with a lamp in the back of her head. She doesn't just see a dog: she sees 27 years of wanting and chasing and hoping and dreaming and sending letters up the chimney, all wrapped up in a 12 week old bundle of alien-like, cross looking fluff. Something to love, and something to love her back: unconditionally, unrelentlessly. She finally has her carrot, and - honestly - I've been scared for her. Scared that she would be disappointed; that nothing could ever live up to a quarter of a century of wishing.
"Is he what you thought he would be?" I asked her at the weekend, as we chatted with Buddy curled up on her lap, snoring.
"Holly," she said, looking at him and pulling at his ear. "He's not what I thought he would be. He's so, so much better than that. He's absolutely perfect."
At which point Buddy woke up and looked at my sister with an expression that simply said: Likewise. And then he climbed up to her shoulder again and tried to get back down her top again.
We all have one thing we chase: one thing to make it all worth it. Be it a person, or an object, or a place, or a corner of world that's ours, we should all keep trying to find it. Keep pushing towards it, no matter how hard it gets, or how many letters we have to write, or how many wrong ones we have to chase and hold onto first. Because all we can ever really hope is that when we get it - if we're lucky enough to finally get it - it won't be just what we wanted: it will be even better.
And if we're really, really lucky, it will be a carrot worth every single second of the journey.
Thursday, 20 January 2011
Tuesday, 18 January 2011
Maps
As a child, I didn`t know where anything was. In my immediate surroundings, yes, but also on a geographic basis: the world, to my tiny eyes, was Welwyn Garden City and the little bit of Hatfield we drove through to get to the swimming pool. I didn`t know where Norfolk was; I didn`t know where Ireland was, and I had no idea where or why Wales was; I knew where France was - because that was where my Aunty lived, and she bought me really nice presents - but I didn`t know where China was, or Russia, and I`m not quite sure I`d even heard of Japan. All I knew was that these places were very far away and had nothing whatsoever to do with me, and that was just fine thankyou very much.
Geography, in truth, was my least favourite subject at school. I wasn`t allowed to be creative when we coloured in maps - apparently I had to stick to the allocated colours and any attempted shading was not appreciated - and I had absolutely zero interest in anything that looked remotely like a symbol for a post office. For a child who loved every single moment of school that involved studying (and loathed any moment of school that involved any other children, which was unfortunate because there were quite a lot of them), I have no idea what kind of shocking techniques my Geography teacher employed, but I hated him and I hated his terrible subject with a passion I only otherwise felt for the art teacher who kept trying to draw on my work. So the world - after it was forced down my throat - simply bounced straight back up again. And at the age of 20 I still thought that Belize was in Europe and Nepal was in South America.
My love of the world and geography - of real Geography (which means, as far as I`m concerned, knowing where countries are and a little bit about each of them, and wanting to go there) - therefore came late. Really, really late. At around the age of 21, in fact, when I suddenly realised that if you went very far in any direction from any position in England you ended up in a much, much more interesting place: a place that wasn`t England. And that was a good thing.
So it`s ironic, really, that as a teacher of English abroad I`ve managed to do the absolute opposite for my students.
Encouraging a passion for the world - for different cultures, and different countries, and different people - is what keeps me going at work (that, and buying things on Ebay), so it stands to reason that the best thing I`ve bought to Kitago Elementary school is a Penpal exchange scheme with my sister`s class in Brighton. A Penpal exchange scheme that worked so smoothly - identical amounts of children, identical ages - that I barely even noticed we`d set it up. It started with mutual Christmas cards at the end of December, and now 34 nine year olds in Japan are Best Friends Forever with 34 nine year olds in England, and my sister and I barely had to lift a finger.
And the change has been astronomical.
Suddenly, England exists. I can stand as long as I like next to a blackboard, a living and breathing example of the fact that England exists, but I don`t think that any of the children in my second grade class actually believed me. One set of cards with little photos on them - their very own English person, to name and cut out and keep - and they suddenly know that England is real.
"Mine is so cuuuutttee!" one of my girls shouted, cuddling a photo of a girl from Hove called Hannah.
"Mine is cuter!" her friend yelled, trying to trump Hannah with Jessica.
"Well mine has red hair, just like Ron Weasley!" a little boy triumphed. "None of yours have red hair!"
"Mine could beat yours at skipping rope any day," someone else shouted.
"But mine has yellow hair like Holly Sensei, so I win!" another jeered.
And when I told them that my sister would be visiting in person in April, and that they would be getting new cards in a few weeks, they stood up, air punched and screeched "Whooooooooooohhhhooooooooo!" It is only a matter of time before they allocate each other points for various aspects of their Penpal, and start swapping them in the playground.
For my class, though, English children are exciting, but not unimaginable: they can speak a little English (I hope: I try, anyway), they know where England is (now: it`s taken me nine months of map pointing) and they see me every day, and I fly the English flag for them far more passionately than I would anywhere else in the world (I`m up against all the Americans here). For my sister`s class in Brighton, on the otherhand, the concept of writing to a Japanese class has - according to Tara - taken them to a level of excitement she doesn`t otherwise see unless chocolate is involved.
"I`m serious," she told me last night. "They`re obsessed. It`s scary. We`re talking about a class full of nine year olds who don`t know where London is, and they`re coming in to registration every morning full of facts about Japan, because they`re all going home and they`re looking it up on the internet every night. It`s all, `did you know that that in April the cherry blossoms come out and they`re called Sakura, Miss Smale` and `Tokyo is the capital of Japan, Miss Smale,` and `did you know that Manga is what they call their cartoons, Miss Smale`. They made me set up a Japanese display on the wall. They want me to play games in Japanese - I`ve had to learn basic words so that I can teach them - and today we`re making Origami. One Christmas card from a Japanese class and my students are absolutely in love with the entire country. I`m just terrified of the next question, which is going to be: Miss Smale, when do we get to go to Japan and meet them?"
And that, I think, is the whole point of teaching. Within a month, over 60 children who had no interest whatsoever in any part of the world other than Kitago and Brighton are fascinated in somewhere else, and in the people who come from there. They want to know everything: what they eat, what they wear, how they speak, what games they play. And they`re realising already what it took me 21 years to conclude: that the world isn`t a big flat bit of paper to shade in and stick pins in, but a place full of people to talk to and things to learn and fun things to do. That they can go there. That they can communicate with it. That they can be a part of it too.
So, while I may not have known where anything was as a child - or have been interested in any part of the world I wasn`t standing directly on - I think I`m finally making up for it now. By bringing the world to where I am, and giving it to my children.
And sending a little bit of it back home to England.
Geography, in truth, was my least favourite subject at school. I wasn`t allowed to be creative when we coloured in maps - apparently I had to stick to the allocated colours and any attempted shading was not appreciated - and I had absolutely zero interest in anything that looked remotely like a symbol for a post office. For a child who loved every single moment of school that involved studying (and loathed any moment of school that involved any other children, which was unfortunate because there were quite a lot of them), I have no idea what kind of shocking techniques my Geography teacher employed, but I hated him and I hated his terrible subject with a passion I only otherwise felt for the art teacher who kept trying to draw on my work. So the world - after it was forced down my throat - simply bounced straight back up again. And at the age of 20 I still thought that Belize was in Europe and Nepal was in South America.
My love of the world and geography - of real Geography (which means, as far as I`m concerned, knowing where countries are and a little bit about each of them, and wanting to go there) - therefore came late. Really, really late. At around the age of 21, in fact, when I suddenly realised that if you went very far in any direction from any position in England you ended up in a much, much more interesting place: a place that wasn`t England. And that was a good thing.
So it`s ironic, really, that as a teacher of English abroad I`ve managed to do the absolute opposite for my students.
Encouraging a passion for the world - for different cultures, and different countries, and different people - is what keeps me going at work (that, and buying things on Ebay), so it stands to reason that the best thing I`ve bought to Kitago Elementary school is a Penpal exchange scheme with my sister`s class in Brighton. A Penpal exchange scheme that worked so smoothly - identical amounts of children, identical ages - that I barely even noticed we`d set it up. It started with mutual Christmas cards at the end of December, and now 34 nine year olds in Japan are Best Friends Forever with 34 nine year olds in England, and my sister and I barely had to lift a finger.
And the change has been astronomical.
Suddenly, England exists. I can stand as long as I like next to a blackboard, a living and breathing example of the fact that England exists, but I don`t think that any of the children in my second grade class actually believed me. One set of cards with little photos on them - their very own English person, to name and cut out and keep - and they suddenly know that England is real.
"Mine is so cuuuutttee!" one of my girls shouted, cuddling a photo of a girl from Hove called Hannah.
"Mine is cuter!" her friend yelled, trying to trump Hannah with Jessica.
"Well mine has red hair, just like Ron Weasley!" a little boy triumphed. "None of yours have red hair!"
"Mine could beat yours at skipping rope any day," someone else shouted.
"But mine has yellow hair like Holly Sensei, so I win!" another jeered.
And when I told them that my sister would be visiting in person in April, and that they would be getting new cards in a few weeks, they stood up, air punched and screeched "Whooooooooooohhhhooooooooo!" It is only a matter of time before they allocate each other points for various aspects of their Penpal, and start swapping them in the playground.
For my class, though, English children are exciting, but not unimaginable: they can speak a little English (I hope: I try, anyway), they know where England is (now: it`s taken me nine months of map pointing) and they see me every day, and I fly the English flag for them far more passionately than I would anywhere else in the world (I`m up against all the Americans here). For my sister`s class in Brighton, on the otherhand, the concept of writing to a Japanese class has - according to Tara - taken them to a level of excitement she doesn`t otherwise see unless chocolate is involved.
"I`m serious," she told me last night. "They`re obsessed. It`s scary. We`re talking about a class full of nine year olds who don`t know where London is, and they`re coming in to registration every morning full of facts about Japan, because they`re all going home and they`re looking it up on the internet every night. It`s all, `did you know that that in April the cherry blossoms come out and they`re called Sakura, Miss Smale` and `Tokyo is the capital of Japan, Miss Smale,` and `did you know that Manga is what they call their cartoons, Miss Smale`. They made me set up a Japanese display on the wall. They want me to play games in Japanese - I`ve had to learn basic words so that I can teach them - and today we`re making Origami. One Christmas card from a Japanese class and my students are absolutely in love with the entire country. I`m just terrified of the next question, which is going to be: Miss Smale, when do we get to go to Japan and meet them?"
And that, I think, is the whole point of teaching. Within a month, over 60 children who had no interest whatsoever in any part of the world other than Kitago and Brighton are fascinated in somewhere else, and in the people who come from there. They want to know everything: what they eat, what they wear, how they speak, what games they play. And they`re realising already what it took me 21 years to conclude: that the world isn`t a big flat bit of paper to shade in and stick pins in, but a place full of people to talk to and things to learn and fun things to do. That they can go there. That they can communicate with it. That they can be a part of it too.
So, while I may not have known where anything was as a child - or have been interested in any part of the world I wasn`t standing directly on - I think I`m finally making up for it now. By bringing the world to where I am, and giving it to my children.
And sending a little bit of it back home to England.
Monday, 17 January 2011
Pink rashes
Drugs work.
Six months of drugs, and I'm no longer unhappy: I'm no longer in any kind of pain. I no longer pine for The Boy, or for love, or think about him in any way other than with distaste at my own weakness. I no longer hate myself, or agree that I am 'poison'; I no longer care what others think about me, or feel the need to claw for some kind of reassurance that I am worth loving. I don't cringe when I look in the mirror anymore, and I don't cry at parties; I don't sob in the shower, and I don't run to the toilets in the middle of class for any other reason than to go to the toilet. I don't wish I was smaller, or darker, or more American, or owner of a different shaped nose; I don't imagine what life would be like if I could be louder, or quieter, or much cleverer, or much less so. I don't look at the past and wish I could change it, and I don't look at the future I wanted and still wish I could have it. I don't play scenes over and over again in my head, as if I could ever change them. For the first time in my life I have started to believe that losing me is a loss, and that just because someone doesn't know doesn't make it any less true: it just makes them more stupid than they were for losing me in the first place.
And, while I'm still instinctively raw - while I still automatically shy away from any kind of romance or intimacy - it's in a scabbing, healed over kind of way: not in a fresh wound kind of way. And it's with the knowledge - a new strength that runs through the middle of me like the steel pin in a broken bone - that none of the past will ever happen again. Because I'm no longer a person who will let it.
The drugs work, but now it's time to stop. I don't need them anymore, and I don't want them anymore. I don't want to feel hard, and resilient, and distant. I don't want to feel impervious to everything around me: untouchable and unreachable. I don't want to feel calm, and serene, when I've never been calm and serene. I don't want to feel incapable of love, even if I'm also incapable of pain, and I don't like the smile I've started to believe is my own: a placid, peaceful smile, that doesn't reach my eyes. I don't like the fact that my own laughter surprises me, and I hate the fact that my writing has become so empty, and so emotionless, and so devoid of beauty, because I can't feel anything at all, and so when I write that's all that comes out: nothing.
I'm scared. I'm scared of going back to where I was: to the place where everything hurt, and I thought about him all of the time, and I hated myself all of the time. I'm scared of waking up in the morning and crying, and going to bed at night and crying, and walking around in the middle of the day and crying. But I'm far, far more scared of never crying again. And of never hurting again. And I'm terrified of drugging myself so far and so deeply that I forget who I was in the first place.
It's time to start feeling again: the good, and the bad. It's time to wake up in the morning and not know exactly how I'll feel at every minute of the day; to hear and see from the inside, instead of constantly on the edge. I want to get excited again, or upset if I have to. I want the pink rash on my neck that turns up when I'm embarrassed or shy or nervous or anxious - a rash I haven't seen in six months - because it means that I'm reacting to the world again, and letting it in. I want to feel as if things are real again, instead of running past me like a film I'm always, always watching. And I want to be inspired again, so that when I speak there's something to say.
I've had the rest I so desperately needed: the six months of sleep and nothingness, away from the hurt and emotion that wore me out. I'm finally ready to wake up again.
The drugs work.
And that is exactly why I don't need them anymore.
Six months of drugs, and I'm no longer unhappy: I'm no longer in any kind of pain. I no longer pine for The Boy, or for love, or think about him in any way other than with distaste at my own weakness. I no longer hate myself, or agree that I am 'poison'; I no longer care what others think about me, or feel the need to claw for some kind of reassurance that I am worth loving. I don't cringe when I look in the mirror anymore, and I don't cry at parties; I don't sob in the shower, and I don't run to the toilets in the middle of class for any other reason than to go to the toilet. I don't wish I was smaller, or darker, or more American, or owner of a different shaped nose; I don't imagine what life would be like if I could be louder, or quieter, or much cleverer, or much less so. I don't look at the past and wish I could change it, and I don't look at the future I wanted and still wish I could have it. I don't play scenes over and over again in my head, as if I could ever change them. For the first time in my life I have started to believe that losing me is a loss, and that just because someone doesn't know doesn't make it any less true: it just makes them more stupid than they were for losing me in the first place.
And, while I'm still instinctively raw - while I still automatically shy away from any kind of romance or intimacy - it's in a scabbing, healed over kind of way: not in a fresh wound kind of way. And it's with the knowledge - a new strength that runs through the middle of me like the steel pin in a broken bone - that none of the past will ever happen again. Because I'm no longer a person who will let it.
The drugs work, but now it's time to stop. I don't need them anymore, and I don't want them anymore. I don't want to feel hard, and resilient, and distant. I don't want to feel impervious to everything around me: untouchable and unreachable. I don't want to feel calm, and serene, when I've never been calm and serene. I don't want to feel incapable of love, even if I'm also incapable of pain, and I don't like the smile I've started to believe is my own: a placid, peaceful smile, that doesn't reach my eyes. I don't like the fact that my own laughter surprises me, and I hate the fact that my writing has become so empty, and so emotionless, and so devoid of beauty, because I can't feel anything at all, and so when I write that's all that comes out: nothing.
I'm scared. I'm scared of going back to where I was: to the place where everything hurt, and I thought about him all of the time, and I hated myself all of the time. I'm scared of waking up in the morning and crying, and going to bed at night and crying, and walking around in the middle of the day and crying. But I'm far, far more scared of never crying again. And of never hurting again. And I'm terrified of drugging myself so far and so deeply that I forget who I was in the first place.
It's time to start feeling again: the good, and the bad. It's time to wake up in the morning and not know exactly how I'll feel at every minute of the day; to hear and see from the inside, instead of constantly on the edge. I want to get excited again, or upset if I have to. I want the pink rash on my neck that turns up when I'm embarrassed or shy or nervous or anxious - a rash I haven't seen in six months - because it means that I'm reacting to the world again, and letting it in. I want to feel as if things are real again, instead of running past me like a film I'm always, always watching. And I want to be inspired again, so that when I speak there's something to say.
I've had the rest I so desperately needed: the six months of sleep and nothingness, away from the hurt and emotion that wore me out. I'm finally ready to wake up again.
The drugs work.
And that is exactly why I don't need them anymore.
Sunday, 16 January 2011
Amazon
It arrived. My scary electronic baby substitute arrived, just at the point when I wasn't ready and my flat was a mess again, which is probably what happens when it's a human being as well.
To celebrate my giant leap in technology - despite the fact that I can't quite work out which buttons to press - in 72 hours The Write Girl will be available in Kindle Blog format, on Amazon. Feel free to snap it up like cold cakes, because apparently they're going to try and charge you for it. It's simply there if you suddenly need a way to get it in four inch sized font (grandad), or on a bus on a far flung part and exotic piece of the world (Sarah), or on set location for your next blockbusting film (Johnny Depp or James Franco).
Me, I'll be reading something better. Because I'm going to be reading everything.
To celebrate my giant leap in technology - despite the fact that I can't quite work out which buttons to press - in 72 hours The Write Girl will be available in Kindle Blog format, on Amazon. Feel free to snap it up like cold cakes, because apparently they're going to try and charge you for it. It's simply there if you suddenly need a way to get it in four inch sized font (grandad), or on a bus on a far flung part and exotic piece of the world (Sarah), or on set location for your next blockbusting film (Johnny Depp or James Franco).
Me, I'll be reading something better. Because I'm going to be reading everything.
Friday, 14 January 2011
Delivery
It hasn`t been delivered yet, and in the interim I`m going a little bit bonkers.
I`m not even shopping for books in advance: I`m shopping in advance of advance shopping, which means making a mental note of everything I want, in advance of making a physical note of everything I want, in advance of purchasing it. That`s two stages removed from shopping, which is probably the furthest I`ve ever got. I`ve been browsing for accessories, even after I`ve already bought accessories. And the excitement - the stomach clenching Oh My God I Will Have Every Work by Dickens Right With Me All The Time, Like Seriously All The Time excitement - is making it difficult to function. Every time I try to speak to people, all I can think is: That includes A Christmas Carol. I`ve not read A Christmas Carol. I`ve always wanted to read A Christmas Carol. Which means that I block out the actual conversation I`m having and end it by staring in to the middle distance and muttering to myself about Tiny Tim. I`ve even cleaned my house, so that the Kindle feels nice and welcome. I don`t want the Kindle coming in to a mess, so I`ve arranged a nice chair, with a nice table, and a nice space on the nice table for the Kindle to sit on and feel happy and at home.
Worse, I`ve just - and I`m a little bit ashamed of this - stolen a piece of black card from the staff stationary cupboard and cut it into the shape of a Kindle with precise measurements so that I can make a little Japanese silk holder for it before it arrives, because I have a sudden almost uncontrollable desire to sew something. I`ve also practiced holding the card so that I get a feel for the size of it; a couple of times I`ve actually put the piece of cardboard into my bag and then pulled it out again with a flourish, pretending to show somebody with shy and yet tangible smugness. And, when that grew a little dry, I decided to actually show somebody. Regardless of the fact that it hadn`t arrived yet.
"Look," I told Harai.
"It`s a bit of black card."
"Yes. But look, isn`t that a great size?"
"It`s a bit of black card."
"But next week it will be my new Kindle."
"Ok. But now it`s a bit of black card."
"Use your imagination, and don`t be rude about my black card."
"Okay."
"And then next week you can hold it if you want."
"Ok."
"But only if you promise not to drop it."
"Ok."
"Do you want to hold it now?"
"No. It`s a bit of black card."
"Ok. You think I`m a bit mad, don`t you."
"Always."
And all of this would obviously be extremely worrying if I hadn`t just come to one, alarming conclusion:
I`m nesting for a Kindle. I`m 29 and while I`m by no means ready for a baby - or in a position to have one, get one or keep one, which is handy - clearly something biological has started happening to my chemicals, because now I`m nesting for a piece of electronic equipment. Preparing, fluffing, protecting, readying myself. Talking about it to anyone who will listen, thinking about it when somebody else is talking. Getting my surroundings perfect, just in case. So while I am going bonkers, it`s a relief to know that at least it`s in exactly the same way that most other female 29 year olds go bonkers: a predestined, natural kind of bonkers. A chemical kind of bonkers. Except that I`m doing it for a bit of plastic and not a human being, which makes it a little more concerning. Or less. At least this way I`m not roping anybody else into my mania, or prowling the streets looking for somebody to become co-owner.
According to delivery times, I`ve got another five days to wait, and it`s becoming uncomfortable. I just want it to arrive, now, because I`m anxious to see just how long I can keep this thing functioning before I break it, lose it, lose interest in it or decide that I hate it and give it to somebody else. Because maybe if I practice and practice and practice, then when I eventually get a baby I`ll have learnt how not to break it, lose it, lose interest or decide that I hate it and give it to someone else.
And the Kindle? If it`s lucky it`ll be the first in a long line of things I learn to look after properly.
I`m not even shopping for books in advance: I`m shopping in advance of advance shopping, which means making a mental note of everything I want, in advance of making a physical note of everything I want, in advance of purchasing it. That`s two stages removed from shopping, which is probably the furthest I`ve ever got. I`ve been browsing for accessories, even after I`ve already bought accessories. And the excitement - the stomach clenching Oh My God I Will Have Every Work by Dickens Right With Me All The Time, Like Seriously All The Time excitement - is making it difficult to function. Every time I try to speak to people, all I can think is: That includes A Christmas Carol. I`ve not read A Christmas Carol. I`ve always wanted to read A Christmas Carol. Which means that I block out the actual conversation I`m having and end it by staring in to the middle distance and muttering to myself about Tiny Tim. I`ve even cleaned my house, so that the Kindle feels nice and welcome. I don`t want the Kindle coming in to a mess, so I`ve arranged a nice chair, with a nice table, and a nice space on the nice table for the Kindle to sit on and feel happy and at home.
Worse, I`ve just - and I`m a little bit ashamed of this - stolen a piece of black card from the staff stationary cupboard and cut it into the shape of a Kindle with precise measurements so that I can make a little Japanese silk holder for it before it arrives, because I have a sudden almost uncontrollable desire to sew something. I`ve also practiced holding the card so that I get a feel for the size of it; a couple of times I`ve actually put the piece of cardboard into my bag and then pulled it out again with a flourish, pretending to show somebody with shy and yet tangible smugness. And, when that grew a little dry, I decided to actually show somebody. Regardless of the fact that it hadn`t arrived yet.
"Look," I told Harai.
"It`s a bit of black card."
"Yes. But look, isn`t that a great size?"
"It`s a bit of black card."
"But next week it will be my new Kindle."
"Ok. But now it`s a bit of black card."
"Use your imagination, and don`t be rude about my black card."
"Okay."
"And then next week you can hold it if you want."
"Ok."
"But only if you promise not to drop it."
"Ok."
"Do you want to hold it now?"
"No. It`s a bit of black card."
"Ok. You think I`m a bit mad, don`t you."
"Always."
And all of this would obviously be extremely worrying if I hadn`t just come to one, alarming conclusion:
I`m finally nesting.
I`m nesting for a Kindle. I`m 29 and while I`m by no means ready for a baby - or in a position to have one, get one or keep one, which is handy - clearly something biological has started happening to my chemicals, because now I`m nesting for a piece of electronic equipment. Preparing, fluffing, protecting, readying myself. Talking about it to anyone who will listen, thinking about it when somebody else is talking. Getting my surroundings perfect, just in case. So while I am going bonkers, it`s a relief to know that at least it`s in exactly the same way that most other female 29 year olds go bonkers: a predestined, natural kind of bonkers. A chemical kind of bonkers. Except that I`m doing it for a bit of plastic and not a human being, which makes it a little more concerning. Or less. At least this way I`m not roping anybody else into my mania, or prowling the streets looking for somebody to become co-owner.
According to delivery times, I`ve got another five days to wait, and it`s becoming uncomfortable. I just want it to arrive, now, because I`m anxious to see just how long I can keep this thing functioning before I break it, lose it, lose interest in it or decide that I hate it and give it to somebody else. Because maybe if I practice and practice and practice, then when I eventually get a baby I`ll have learnt how not to break it, lose it, lose interest or decide that I hate it and give it to someone else.
And the Kindle? If it`s lucky it`ll be the first in a long line of things I learn to look after properly.
Tuesday, 11 January 2011
Kindle
Addiction isn't pleasant, and it's taken me just 36 hours to crumble. 36 hours of chewing my nails and clawing at the walls and walking around school with a face like my sister's new puppy (Boston terrier. Cute, cross looking and dedicated to a life spent being carried whenever possible. My sister needs to drag him along the sea front for exercise). 36 hours of feeling panicky, and sticky, and unpleasantly anxious: as if something, somehow, somewhere, is wrong. Missing. Gone. 36 hours of feeling a bit sick, and I gave in. I've just bought a Kindle.
I don't want a Kindle. No: I want a never ending supply of English language books in a never ending library that stretches as far as I can see: much, much bigger than the stupid British library which smells of dust and weirdos and much, much more inviting than Cambridge University library which is full of the sound of people breathing too heavily through their mouths and licking their fingers so they can turn the pages over. I want my own private library: glorious and full of sunshine and books and books and books and the smell of paper and a million different stories, with a really cosy chair next to a fire, and - possibly - a sunken bath which is always ready made and yet the moisture never ruins my collection. I want a little oak ladder I can stand on and slide along the shelves with, and flowers in big pots next to the windows. I want to feel each and every page of the books that never end: because I can never, ever finish them all. To feel the immortality inside each of them, and breathe them in, and know that I can never be bored, and I can never be lonely, because the greatest minds and greatest characters and greatest places in the world - and outside of it - are all in one room. My room. That's what I want.
I don't want a little bit of grey plastic onto which I can download novels at $0.01 and then flick through with the click of buttons. That is not the fantasy. But I cannot be without books. 36 hours ago I ran out - I ended my collection with Catch 22, an epic satire - and the consequential breakdown was not pretty. At one stage I started reading the back of my box of tissues, like an alcoholic draining the last of the toilet cleaner. And then I found myself pawing at the Penny Vincenzi paperback - left behind by another teacher - before physically forcing myself to leave the house before I did myself anymore damage.
We all have our fetishes. My sister likes tv adverts: if she hasn't seen one in a few hours she gets jittery. My dad likes (men's) shoes: even when the shops are shut you have to drag him past, kicking and screaming to "just see in the window". Mum's a fan of Solitaire - it calms her down - but for me: it's books. The whole world could come to an end, and as long as I had a good collection of excellent novels I couldn't care less. I'd be escaping into a different one anyway.
36 hours of increasing desperation - of nervousness, of irritation, of genuine, obsessive stress (what do I do? what do I hold??) - and I've crumbled. Until I find my never ending library of real, paper books - and either stop moving around the world or get it to move around with me - I'll have to read from a Kindle. Another screen, which is just what I didn't want. And yet anything - anything - is better than the thought of another 36 hours with nothing to read.
Which is a shame, because that's exactly what I'll have to go through now. Hanging on Amazon's delivery service like a junkie waiting for their next shot. Hoping - shamefully - that it turns up before the weekend, even if it means missing my friend's house party because I'm at home, greedily stuffing my face on the works of Austen in a dark corner of the kitchen somewhere. Wondering if I can find another dark corner of the party and carry on when everyone else is asleep. Wondering if I can find an even darker corner and perhaps leave early in the morning so I can get home and carry on stuffing my face where nobody can see me.
Greed and obsession aren't pretty things, but you should never judge a book by its cover.
Because none of these will have one.
I don't want a Kindle. No: I want a never ending supply of English language books in a never ending library that stretches as far as I can see: much, much bigger than the stupid British library which smells of dust and weirdos and much, much more inviting than Cambridge University library which is full of the sound of people breathing too heavily through their mouths and licking their fingers so they can turn the pages over. I want my own private library: glorious and full of sunshine and books and books and books and the smell of paper and a million different stories, with a really cosy chair next to a fire, and - possibly - a sunken bath which is always ready made and yet the moisture never ruins my collection. I want a little oak ladder I can stand on and slide along the shelves with, and flowers in big pots next to the windows. I want to feel each and every page of the books that never end: because I can never, ever finish them all. To feel the immortality inside each of them, and breathe them in, and know that I can never be bored, and I can never be lonely, because the greatest minds and greatest characters and greatest places in the world - and outside of it - are all in one room. My room. That's what I want.
I don't want a little bit of grey plastic onto which I can download novels at $0.01 and then flick through with the click of buttons. That is not the fantasy. But I cannot be without books. 36 hours ago I ran out - I ended my collection with Catch 22, an epic satire - and the consequential breakdown was not pretty. At one stage I started reading the back of my box of tissues, like an alcoholic draining the last of the toilet cleaner. And then I found myself pawing at the Penny Vincenzi paperback - left behind by another teacher - before physically forcing myself to leave the house before I did myself anymore damage.
We all have our fetishes. My sister likes tv adverts: if she hasn't seen one in a few hours she gets jittery. My dad likes (men's) shoes: even when the shops are shut you have to drag him past, kicking and screaming to "just see in the window". Mum's a fan of Solitaire - it calms her down - but for me: it's books. The whole world could come to an end, and as long as I had a good collection of excellent novels I couldn't care less. I'd be escaping into a different one anyway.
36 hours of increasing desperation - of nervousness, of irritation, of genuine, obsessive stress (what do I do? what do I hold??) - and I've crumbled. Until I find my never ending library of real, paper books - and either stop moving around the world or get it to move around with me - I'll have to read from a Kindle. Another screen, which is just what I didn't want. And yet anything - anything - is better than the thought of another 36 hours with nothing to read.
Which is a shame, because that's exactly what I'll have to go through now. Hanging on Amazon's delivery service like a junkie waiting for their next shot. Hoping - shamefully - that it turns up before the weekend, even if it means missing my friend's house party because I'm at home, greedily stuffing my face on the works of Austen in a dark corner of the kitchen somewhere. Wondering if I can find another dark corner of the party and carry on when everyone else is asleep. Wondering if I can find an even darker corner and perhaps leave early in the morning so I can get home and carry on stuffing my face where nobody can see me.
Greed and obsession aren't pretty things, but you should never judge a book by its cover.
Because none of these will have one.
Friday, 7 January 2011
Tissues and radishes
I`ve always known that at some stage I would turn into my parents - both of them - but what I didn`t realise was that at some stage on the journey I would metamorphosise into an old man from a 90s BBC television drama.
It started with the underwear. As single as I am, as stuck in the middle of nowhere as I am, I`m only just 29: I should have many years of buying useless and scratchy and ill fitting lace items ahead of me. But it`s cold: the kind of cold where the only sound you can hear hundreds of times a day is the world "cooollllldd" repeated resentfully over and over again (which is unfortunate, because in Japanese it is also the name of my ex: which leaves me a teensy bit on edge and a bit grumpy for the majority of winter). So I bought a nice, slightly fluffy thermal t-shirt to go under my clothes: ostensibly to render nice, summery clothes still wearable in the middle of December. A pretty, faded pink colour. Delicate. Feminine. Warm. And then, when I had realised just how warm it was, I realised that my legs were cold, too. And they had matching fluffy leggings. Leggings, I told myself. And leggings are cool, right? Leggings are hip. And I chanted to myself on the way to the checkout counter: I`m 29: it`s okay to wear cool, pink leggings under my clothes. It`s okay. It`s okay. Just don`t look at the old women next to you. Just don`t look and then they`re not there.
Except that the leggings were so fluffy and warm, that I started wearing them everyday, under my trousers. And when I realised that there was no elastic and they were starting to sag somewhere around the crotch area - sag down to my knee area, in fact - I didn`t care, because I was so damn warm. And when the top started to sag, and both items started fading from a pretty, fluffy pale pink to a sort of off, dubious looking white, I didn`t care, because I was so damn warm. And when the fluffiness went sort of bobbly, and the bit that held them all up gave way and started sinking down to meet the crotch - forcing me to, with no notice, pull them up with both my hands and do a little jump in the middle to get leverage - I still didn`t care, because I was so warm. Until the moment when I climbed into bed for my 4.30 nap (this is all I can manage before my heating turns on), waddled back out like a penguin and spotted myself in the mirror: white bobbled crotch by my knees and waist sagging to meet it, and one hand tugging them up by lifting my right leg in the air. Oh Good God, I whispered to my reflection. They`re not leggings at all, are they. They`re old man knickerbockers.
The second sign was the radish. It`s bad enough that my scooter has - as my dad pointed out - a basket. It`s bad enough that there`s one mirror missing, because the dude at the garage tried to impress me by "fixing it," and snapped it right off in front of my eyes. It`s bad enough that my scooter makes VRRRRRROOOOOO-eh-eh-eh-VRRROOOOO-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh sounds when I try to go above 30kmh, as if I`m committing scooter cruelty, and that I`ve tried to make it more road worthy by sticking reflective red things all over the inner parts of the wheels like some sort of training bicycle. But nothing makes you look less like a hip young 29 year old and more like a little old man from the countryside than a 2 foot Japanese radish sticking out of your basket. I didn`t even eat it: that`s how embarrassing it was. I resented it too fiercely.
The third sign was sticking tissues up my sleeve because I was scared of being caught with a runny nose, and the fourth and final sign was this morning, on my faltering, wobbling drive to work. A large car waited until I had indicated to turn right, pulled to the middle of the road, and then nipped past me - catching the back of my jacket and giving me a fright - and yet I didn`t swear and stick my finger in the air. No: I raised my hand, and I shook my fist. My whole, clenched fist. And then I screamed "Oooh, you..." and faded out into nothing. Which is - as we all know - just one step away from shouting "Why I oughta". And nobody knows what they oughta do, because the sentence is never, ever finished.
It`s been a nasty shock, frankly. One month into my 29th year, and I`ve accidentally stepped into the armchair in Last of the Summer Wine or Only Fools and Horses. And it`s not been pleasant. So I`ve pulled the tissues out, replaced the underwear, thrown away the radish, and practicised sticking my middle finger up like a nice, ill mannered youth. For the few remaining years where I still am. And my lovely, middle-aged, slightly bonkers parents: one of which lives in a series of brown leather jackets and the other of which sometimes wears black PVC in public?
If all I do is turn into them, I think I`ll be counting myself lucky.
It started with the underwear. As single as I am, as stuck in the middle of nowhere as I am, I`m only just 29: I should have many years of buying useless and scratchy and ill fitting lace items ahead of me. But it`s cold: the kind of cold where the only sound you can hear hundreds of times a day is the world "cooollllldd" repeated resentfully over and over again (which is unfortunate, because in Japanese it is also the name of my ex: which leaves me a teensy bit on edge and a bit grumpy for the majority of winter). So I bought a nice, slightly fluffy thermal t-shirt to go under my clothes: ostensibly to render nice, summery clothes still wearable in the middle of December. A pretty, faded pink colour. Delicate. Feminine. Warm. And then, when I had realised just how warm it was, I realised that my legs were cold, too. And they had matching fluffy leggings. Leggings, I told myself. And leggings are cool, right? Leggings are hip. And I chanted to myself on the way to the checkout counter: I`m 29: it`s okay to wear cool, pink leggings under my clothes. It`s okay. It`s okay. Just don`t look at the old women next to you. Just don`t look and then they`re not there.
Except that the leggings were so fluffy and warm, that I started wearing them everyday, under my trousers. And when I realised that there was no elastic and they were starting to sag somewhere around the crotch area - sag down to my knee area, in fact - I didn`t care, because I was so damn warm. And when the top started to sag, and both items started fading from a pretty, fluffy pale pink to a sort of off, dubious looking white, I didn`t care, because I was so damn warm. And when the fluffiness went sort of bobbly, and the bit that held them all up gave way and started sinking down to meet the crotch - forcing me to, with no notice, pull them up with both my hands and do a little jump in the middle to get leverage - I still didn`t care, because I was so warm. Until the moment when I climbed into bed for my 4.30 nap (this is all I can manage before my heating turns on), waddled back out like a penguin and spotted myself in the mirror: white bobbled crotch by my knees and waist sagging to meet it, and one hand tugging them up by lifting my right leg in the air. Oh Good God, I whispered to my reflection. They`re not leggings at all, are they. They`re old man knickerbockers.
The second sign was the radish. It`s bad enough that my scooter has - as my dad pointed out - a basket. It`s bad enough that there`s one mirror missing, because the dude at the garage tried to impress me by "fixing it," and snapped it right off in front of my eyes. It`s bad enough that my scooter makes VRRRRRROOOOOO-eh-eh-eh-VRRROOOOO-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh sounds when I try to go above 30kmh, as if I`m committing scooter cruelty, and that I`ve tried to make it more road worthy by sticking reflective red things all over the inner parts of the wheels like some sort of training bicycle. But nothing makes you look less like a hip young 29 year old and more like a little old man from the countryside than a 2 foot Japanese radish sticking out of your basket. I didn`t even eat it: that`s how embarrassing it was. I resented it too fiercely.
The third sign was sticking tissues up my sleeve because I was scared of being caught with a runny nose, and the fourth and final sign was this morning, on my faltering, wobbling drive to work. A large car waited until I had indicated to turn right, pulled to the middle of the road, and then nipped past me - catching the back of my jacket and giving me a fright - and yet I didn`t swear and stick my finger in the air. No: I raised my hand, and I shook my fist. My whole, clenched fist. And then I screamed "Oooh, you..." and faded out into nothing. Which is - as we all know - just one step away from shouting "Why I oughta". And nobody knows what they oughta do, because the sentence is never, ever finished.
It`s been a nasty shock, frankly. One month into my 29th year, and I`ve accidentally stepped into the armchair in Last of the Summer Wine or Only Fools and Horses. And it`s not been pleasant. So I`ve pulled the tissues out, replaced the underwear, thrown away the radish, and practicised sticking my middle finger up like a nice, ill mannered youth. For the few remaining years where I still am. And my lovely, middle-aged, slightly bonkers parents: one of which lives in a series of brown leather jackets and the other of which sometimes wears black PVC in public?
If all I do is turn into them, I think I`ll be counting myself lucky.
Thursday, 6 January 2011
It
As passionate as I am about the English language, I never thought I'd get into a scrap over personal pronouns.
I was wrong. Today, I had a forty minute fight - verbal, emotional, extremely loud and verging on the physical - about the use of subject markers in the teaching of English to Japanese children. Harai was on one side of the argument, I was on the other, and the head of English was perched awkwardly in the middle trying to get on with some marking.
"They're too hard," Harai shouted at me.
"What are you talking about?" I shouted back. "You just used one! They're not too bloody hard. I. You. We. He. She. They. On what planet are personal pronouns too hard?"
"They won't understand!"
"They're eleven years old! Why won't they goddamn understand? There's a direct equivalent in Japanese! Anyway, it's my job to make them understand! That is why I'm here!"
Harai pressed his lips together, which is his sign for: I am angry but far too repressed to tell you that.
"Don't press your lips together at me," I told him fiercely, because I'm not repressed in the slightest. "It's my job to teach them the English language whether it's hard or not. If you want to tell me it's boring, that's fine. It is boring. But don't tell me it's too hard."
"Your job," he said in a hiss, "is to make English fun."
"Oh. Oh. Now my job is to make English fun, is it? Because a few weeks ago I was making English too fun, you said. They were enjoying themselves too much, you said."
"Well your job is to make it just fun enough."
"No. I know exactly what my job description is, Harai. I'm trained approximately a billion times a term in a neverending round of ridiculous meetings that I could run myself while unconscious. I am here to assist as a native speaker with Junior High school, to serve as an introduction to English for the kindergarteners, and to prepare the ground from which the beautiful flower of English will bloom for the Elementary school children. And I mean that exactly, because at one stage I remember seeing yet another goddamn Powerpoint presentation with soil and a little watering can and some dude spreading imaginary Powerpoint fertiliser."
"I don't understand you," Harai admitted after a pause. "You speak too fast."
"I know that." I paused and sat down in defeat. "Oh, I don't care," I muttered. "Teach them what you want. I just don't care." Then I furrowed by brow and shot back up again, even though Harai had done nothing other than tighten his lips again. "Actually, Harai, I do fricking care. My job is to make these children love English by getting them used to it and fond of it before they hit Junior High school. And what the hell is the point in making them love English by only teaching them useless bollocks just so they can go to Masa's class in three months, get confused, and spend the rest of their lives hating English and looking back on my class as the only time in their short lives when they didn't hate English because all we did was play card games? Well? What the hell is the point in that? Maybe if I incorporate things worth learning into my fun lessons, they won't find the next grade so hard and they won't be confused and they won't end up hating English, like the rest of the adults in Japan. And maybe if they don't hate bloody English then they won't be scared to ever leave Japan like 80% of the population, and they might actually get out into the world and see that there is still one out there. And their lives will be fuller and better and more rich because of it. Because they don't hate English. That's my goddamn job, Harai, and it starts with personal pronouns."
And I sat down again, feeling very much the way Bill Pullman must have felt after he made that rousing speech in Independence Day right in front of Will Smith.
Harai jutted his chin out.
"Personal pronouns are hard and unecessary."
"Really? You want to try and construct a sentence about anything interesting without one? I can make them easy, and I can make them fun. It's no problem. You just have to let me do it. They can all learn together."
The head of English butted in.
"She is making sense, you know, Harai."
"Just subject pronouns," I wheedled. "No objects. Just subjects."
Harai scowled.
"You can have one," he finally muttered. "One pronoun."
"What can I do with one fricking pronoun?"
"Okay, two. You can have two pronouns. But no more."
"Six. I need at least six. I need I, you, he, she, it, they, we."
"No. It's way too hard. Way too hard. Not fun. Three."
"So which ones am I going to leave out? She, perhaps? Just let them think that everything in the world is male? Four. I need four."
"Four. Okay, four. But no more than that. Or English won't be fun anymore."
"Fine." I stood up and dusted my trousers off. "Four."
Harai glared at me.
"It had better be fun," he said.
"It's going to be so fun," I told him. "It's going to be too fun."
"Not too fun," he corrected. "Just enough fun."
"Yes."
"English sucks," he told me.
"And you're the English teacher," I sighed. "And we wonder why the government employ me too."
Four pronouns. A forty minute fight and all I got was four pronouns. I've chosen I, you, he and she. And when Harai's not looking, I'm going to sneak in it, too. When it's too late for him to do anything about it. And too late for him to do anything about it.
I never thought I would have to fight, kicking and screaming, for the personal pronoun: but I do. And if anyone needs to know why: that was three in one sentence. A sentence that would have made no sense otherwise. And I'll be damned if I'm going to let Japanese children hate my language because I haven't had the balls to fight for the tools they need not to.
There appears to be quite enough people who hate English teaching them it as it is.
I was wrong. Today, I had a forty minute fight - verbal, emotional, extremely loud and verging on the physical - about the use of subject markers in the teaching of English to Japanese children. Harai was on one side of the argument, I was on the other, and the head of English was perched awkwardly in the middle trying to get on with some marking.
"They're too hard," Harai shouted at me.
"What are you talking about?" I shouted back. "You just used one! They're not too bloody hard. I. You. We. He. She. They. On what planet are personal pronouns too hard?"
"They won't understand!"
"They're eleven years old! Why won't they goddamn understand? There's a direct equivalent in Japanese! Anyway, it's my job to make them understand! That is why I'm here!"
Harai pressed his lips together, which is his sign for: I am angry but far too repressed to tell you that.
"Don't press your lips together at me," I told him fiercely, because I'm not repressed in the slightest. "It's my job to teach them the English language whether it's hard or not. If you want to tell me it's boring, that's fine. It is boring. But don't tell me it's too hard."
"Your job," he said in a hiss, "is to make English fun."
"Oh. Oh. Now my job is to make English fun, is it? Because a few weeks ago I was making English too fun, you said. They were enjoying themselves too much, you said."
"Well your job is to make it just fun enough."
"No. I know exactly what my job description is, Harai. I'm trained approximately a billion times a term in a neverending round of ridiculous meetings that I could run myself while unconscious. I am here to assist as a native speaker with Junior High school, to serve as an introduction to English for the kindergarteners, and to prepare the ground from which the beautiful flower of English will bloom for the Elementary school children. And I mean that exactly, because at one stage I remember seeing yet another goddamn Powerpoint presentation with soil and a little watering can and some dude spreading imaginary Powerpoint fertiliser."
"I don't understand you," Harai admitted after a pause. "You speak too fast."
"I know that." I paused and sat down in defeat. "Oh, I don't care," I muttered. "Teach them what you want. I just don't care." Then I furrowed by brow and shot back up again, even though Harai had done nothing other than tighten his lips again. "Actually, Harai, I do fricking care. My job is to make these children love English by getting them used to it and fond of it before they hit Junior High school. And what the hell is the point in making them love English by only teaching them useless bollocks just so they can go to Masa's class in three months, get confused, and spend the rest of their lives hating English and looking back on my class as the only time in their short lives when they didn't hate English because all we did was play card games? Well? What the hell is the point in that? Maybe if I incorporate things worth learning into my fun lessons, they won't find the next grade so hard and they won't be confused and they won't end up hating English, like the rest of the adults in Japan. And maybe if they don't hate bloody English then they won't be scared to ever leave Japan like 80% of the population, and they might actually get out into the world and see that there is still one out there. And their lives will be fuller and better and more rich because of it. Because they don't hate English. That's my goddamn job, Harai, and it starts with personal pronouns."
And I sat down again, feeling very much the way Bill Pullman must have felt after he made that rousing speech in Independence Day right in front of Will Smith.
Harai jutted his chin out.
"Personal pronouns are hard and unecessary."
"Really? You want to try and construct a sentence about anything interesting without one? I can make them easy, and I can make them fun. It's no problem. You just have to let me do it. They can all learn together."
The head of English butted in.
"She is making sense, you know, Harai."
"Just subject pronouns," I wheedled. "No objects. Just subjects."
Harai scowled.
"You can have one," he finally muttered. "One pronoun."
"What can I do with one fricking pronoun?"
"Okay, two. You can have two pronouns. But no more."
"Six. I need at least six. I need I, you, he, she, it, they, we."
"No. It's way too hard. Way too hard. Not fun. Three."
"So which ones am I going to leave out? She, perhaps? Just let them think that everything in the world is male? Four. I need four."
"Four. Okay, four. But no more than that. Or English won't be fun anymore."
"Fine." I stood up and dusted my trousers off. "Four."
Harai glared at me.
"It had better be fun," he said.
"It's going to be so fun," I told him. "It's going to be too fun."
"Not too fun," he corrected. "Just enough fun."
"Yes."
"English sucks," he told me.
"And you're the English teacher," I sighed. "And we wonder why the government employ me too."
Four pronouns. A forty minute fight and all I got was four pronouns. I've chosen I, you, he and she. And when Harai's not looking, I'm going to sneak in it, too. When it's too late for him to do anything about it. And too late for him to do anything about it.
I never thought I would have to fight, kicking and screaming, for the personal pronoun: but I do. And if anyone needs to know why: that was three in one sentence. A sentence that would have made no sense otherwise. And I'll be damned if I'm going to let Japanese children hate my language because I haven't had the balls to fight for the tools they need not to.
There appears to be quite enough people who hate English teaching them it as it is.
Wednesday, 5 January 2011
Irony
Here is the fundamental irony of writing: when things are happening there is no time to write it, and when there is plenty of time to write it, nothing is happening. It's the essential paradox of creativity: in order to be active you have to be inactive. Even war poets have to sit away from the bombs if they're going to get anything down worth reading, otherwise their poetry would get blown up.
I don't like travelling. I need travelling, but I don't actually like it. I think about it all the time, I dream about it, I research it, I look at photos, I save money obsessively. The thought of going to Nepal, or India, or Thailand, or Mexico, or Russia, excites the very bones of me, and at no point in any of my life plans do I intend to stop. It gives my life a meaning I can't find through anything else: seeing new things, new cultures, new adventures. It's fuel, in the most basic, fundamental way, because without it I dry up and shrivel. But do I like it? Not particularly. I often get bored, and I often get frustrated. I get annoyed with the people I'm travelling with, and when I'm on my own I get annoyed with myself, and I get annoyed at public transport, and at getting lost all the time. I am spectacularly bad at travelling - can land in a tiny, three person village and still manage to miss the main tourist spot - and indecisive, which means that I spend a large proportion of my time staring at a map and at the sky and then at a map, and then at the sky again, continuously, until I throw my backpack on the floor and sit on it, sulking. I pack the wrong clothes, I get grumpy because everything smells within two minutes, and I get tired looking at all of the things I'm supposed to be looking at. And - regularly - I skip looking at the things I'm looking at so that I can go and sit in a cafe and read a book, which I could do at home. And do do at home. So essentially the highlights of my trips are very often the things I do for free when I'm not travelling anywhere.
But the point is: none of that is the point of travelling. Travelling is about testing yourself. It's about seeing who you are away from your comfort zones, and pushing yourself out of the habits you fall into more and more easily as you get older. And it's about those tiny, fleeting moments - the sunrise, or the mountain, the wave, the shrine or the person - that you wouldn't have found anywhere else. The ones you can save up and store for a day when fleeting moments are the only things you have left.
I've just come back from ten days in Kyoto, Nara and Osaka: three of the most exciting places in Japan that failed, spectacularly, to particularly excite me. In all honesty, this is probably because Japan feels like a home, now: I understand the food, I'm starting to understand the language, and I understand the culture. I couldn't see any of the cities as I would have done a year and a half ago, when temples and huge shopping malls and karaoke and fried octopus balls would have shaken me to the core. This time it was: oh. Osaka is like Tokyo but smaller. Or: oh. Kyoto is like Hamamatsu but bigger with some nice shrines. Or oh: Nara is kind of cute, but my God the rain is heavy and ooh - is that a shop that sells falafel? There are fantastic things about living in a different country - becoming part of another culture, rather than just bobbing along on top of it - but the downsides are: travelling inside the country doesn't really feel like travelling anymore. It's like going to Norfolk for a holiday if you're a Brit: nice, and pretty, but that's about it.
There were, of course, the moments that made it all worth it. There almost always are. Sunlight pouring through the thousands and thousands of red shrines at Funishimi Inari in Kyoto; making mochi with a group of cheering men and talking to them all in Japanese; Todai-ji, the world's largest wooden building and buddha; standing on top of a mountain as the sun went down on Christmas eve; wandering the streets of Gion; watching a big black car pull up outside a large old house in Kyoto and seeing a real Geisha bow to a man through the swinging curtains; smelling the Octopus in Namba, Osaka, which seems to fill everything and everyone. The snow on New Year's eve in Kyoto; ringing the temple bell on New Year's day. Drunk and giggling with one of my old girlfriends from Tokyo in a Purikura at 2am. Taking a public bath on a 14 hour ferry with the water moving up and down and trying to drown me. All amazing and worth every single minute of the infinitely long hours spent listening to strangers fart in the capsule next to me.
But here's the truth: the moment that made it all worth the most was the moment when I landed back in Miyazaki, in the blazing sunshine, and smelt the rice fields and trees and fresh air. The train journey back to my house, with the mountains on one side and the sea on the other. And my house, filled with the computer I needed to start writing again, and my beloved books for me to carry on reading. And there's the crux of the irony. For those who truly love creating - who breathe through it, and live for it, and can't really function without it - living life is always going to come second to processing it. And yet nothing can be processed unless it is lived first.
Some people create things around the things they do, and some people do so that they can create around it. And my trip to Kyoto, Osaka and Nara - as expensive as it was, and as fun (and often as lonely) - was the latter for me, because everything always is. And I only really realised that as I sat on the train home and knew that I had gone away purely so that I could come back again and write about it. Because all of that fuel was needed to keep me going. Because all of those moments have been stored away to use, as I need them, in creating.
Because here's the truth: if creativity can only come from the inactivity of activity, then one has to be active first. In order to write poetry about bombs, you have to see and feel them to start with. In order to create, you have to live in a way that makes it almost impossible. In order to make anything, you have to start by pulling it apart, and prodding at it, and working out what made it work to start with.
And if you want to process the world, you have to be a part of it first.
I don't like travelling. I need travelling, but I don't actually like it. I think about it all the time, I dream about it, I research it, I look at photos, I save money obsessively. The thought of going to Nepal, or India, or Thailand, or Mexico, or Russia, excites the very bones of me, and at no point in any of my life plans do I intend to stop. It gives my life a meaning I can't find through anything else: seeing new things, new cultures, new adventures. It's fuel, in the most basic, fundamental way, because without it I dry up and shrivel. But do I like it? Not particularly. I often get bored, and I often get frustrated. I get annoyed with the people I'm travelling with, and when I'm on my own I get annoyed with myself, and I get annoyed at public transport, and at getting lost all the time. I am spectacularly bad at travelling - can land in a tiny, three person village and still manage to miss the main tourist spot - and indecisive, which means that I spend a large proportion of my time staring at a map and at the sky and then at a map, and then at the sky again, continuously, until I throw my backpack on the floor and sit on it, sulking. I pack the wrong clothes, I get grumpy because everything smells within two minutes, and I get tired looking at all of the things I'm supposed to be looking at. And - regularly - I skip looking at the things I'm looking at so that I can go and sit in a cafe and read a book, which I could do at home. And do do at home. So essentially the highlights of my trips are very often the things I do for free when I'm not travelling anywhere.
But the point is: none of that is the point of travelling. Travelling is about testing yourself. It's about seeing who you are away from your comfort zones, and pushing yourself out of the habits you fall into more and more easily as you get older. And it's about those tiny, fleeting moments - the sunrise, or the mountain, the wave, the shrine or the person - that you wouldn't have found anywhere else. The ones you can save up and store for a day when fleeting moments are the only things you have left.
I've just come back from ten days in Kyoto, Nara and Osaka: three of the most exciting places in Japan that failed, spectacularly, to particularly excite me. In all honesty, this is probably because Japan feels like a home, now: I understand the food, I'm starting to understand the language, and I understand the culture. I couldn't see any of the cities as I would have done a year and a half ago, when temples and huge shopping malls and karaoke and fried octopus balls would have shaken me to the core. This time it was: oh. Osaka is like Tokyo but smaller. Or: oh. Kyoto is like Hamamatsu but bigger with some nice shrines. Or oh: Nara is kind of cute, but my God the rain is heavy and ooh - is that a shop that sells falafel? There are fantastic things about living in a different country - becoming part of another culture, rather than just bobbing along on top of it - but the downsides are: travelling inside the country doesn't really feel like travelling anymore. It's like going to Norfolk for a holiday if you're a Brit: nice, and pretty, but that's about it.
There were, of course, the moments that made it all worth it. There almost always are. Sunlight pouring through the thousands and thousands of red shrines at Funishimi Inari in Kyoto; making mochi with a group of cheering men and talking to them all in Japanese; Todai-ji, the world's largest wooden building and buddha; standing on top of a mountain as the sun went down on Christmas eve; wandering the streets of Gion; watching a big black car pull up outside a large old house in Kyoto and seeing a real Geisha bow to a man through the swinging curtains; smelling the Octopus in Namba, Osaka, which seems to fill everything and everyone. The snow on New Year's eve in Kyoto; ringing the temple bell on New Year's day. Drunk and giggling with one of my old girlfriends from Tokyo in a Purikura at 2am. Taking a public bath on a 14 hour ferry with the water moving up and down and trying to drown me. All amazing and worth every single minute of the infinitely long hours spent listening to strangers fart in the capsule next to me.
But here's the truth: the moment that made it all worth the most was the moment when I landed back in Miyazaki, in the blazing sunshine, and smelt the rice fields and trees and fresh air. The train journey back to my house, with the mountains on one side and the sea on the other. And my house, filled with the computer I needed to start writing again, and my beloved books for me to carry on reading. And there's the crux of the irony. For those who truly love creating - who breathe through it, and live for it, and can't really function without it - living life is always going to come second to processing it. And yet nothing can be processed unless it is lived first.
Some people create things around the things they do, and some people do so that they can create around it. And my trip to Kyoto, Osaka and Nara - as expensive as it was, and as fun (and often as lonely) - was the latter for me, because everything always is. And I only really realised that as I sat on the train home and knew that I had gone away purely so that I could come back again and write about it. Because all of that fuel was needed to keep me going. Because all of those moments have been stored away to use, as I need them, in creating.
Because here's the truth: if creativity can only come from the inactivity of activity, then one has to be active first. In order to write poetry about bombs, you have to see and feel them to start with. In order to create, you have to live in a way that makes it almost impossible. In order to make anything, you have to start by pulling it apart, and prodding at it, and working out what made it work to start with.
And if you want to process the world, you have to be a part of it first.
Saturday, 1 January 2011
Countdown
You can say what you like about my parents, but nobody can accuse them of not having perfect timing. They wanted to wish me Happy New Year at midnight, and they were damn well going to wish me Happy New Year at midnight, regardless of my thoughts on the topic.
It was a quiet, sweet sort of New Year. A few friends, some great nabe (traditional Japanese winter casserole), some great sho-chu (traditional Japanese potato-based spirit) and some great comedy on television (traditional Japanese end of year show where eight comedians get locked in a resort for 24 hours and try and make each other laugh: if they laugh, a masked man runs in and whacks them very hard on the bottom with a large trojan. Very funny, and very Japanese. In England watching fully grown men bend over tables and get their bottoms whacked by other fully grown men is the sort of television you have to pay for on your credit card).
At thirty seconds to midnight, we filled our glasses, held them aloft and waited for the countdown.
And my phone rang.
"Happy New Year!" my dad shouted down the phone! "Where are you?"
"In Kyoto," I shouted back. "Happy New Year!"
"What time is it?"
"Thirty seconds to midnight." I looked at my friends, holding their glasses aloft and waiting for me to finish my conversation.
"Oooh, just in time! Did you get the packages?"
"No, not before I left."
"Oh. Well I got the camera lens you sent, but there's a problem, Hol, because apparently we have to pay VAT on it and they won't let me have it until I pay the extra seventy quid..."
Twenty five seconds! the tv cried behind me.
"Well, um, can we write to them, dad?"
"Maybe, but it's outrageous that I have to pay VAT on a gift - it's the bloody customs department - seventy quid VAT, I don't see why I should have to pay that on the..."
Twenty seconds!
"Dad, I love you very much, but I have twenty seconds to go before midnight and I don't want to start the new year talking about VAT."
"Well, we have to talk about it sometime, Holly."
"Yes, but please - " fifteen seconds! "not right now?"
"Okay, okay. Sorry. Thoughtless of me. Speak to your mum and wish her a Happy New Year."
"Dad- hurry up, I've got fifteen sec..."
"Happy New Year sweetheart!"
"Happy New Year, mum."
"Where are you?"
"Kyoto."
"Are you on your own?"
"No."
"Oh thank God for that."
"It's okay. I'm okay."
"Are you safe?"
"I'm in a living room, so: yes. Mum, I love you but I -"
Ten seconds! My friends were now glaring at me with their glasses still held in the same position.
"Darling, your Aunty Maine is here. Have a quick word."
"Mum, I really have to go -"
"It'll only take five seconds. Here's your Aunty Maine."
"Happy New Year!"
Five
"Happy New Year Maine. I love you! I have to go!"
Four
"Where are you?"
Three
"Kyoto. Happy New Year but I have to..."
Two
"What's the weather li..."
"Snowing!" I shouted, and slammed down the phone.
One
"Happy New Year!" my friends all cheered, with just enough time for me to pick my glass up and get glared at for creating such a celebratory, party atmosphere.
"Happy New Year!" I cried as the temple bells started chiming, and then sat down, exhausted.
It's going to be a good 2011, I can feel it in my bones. A year full of success and love and conversations I'm busy resisting. And the support of a family who offer it at all times, in all seasons, whether I want it then or not.
Which, as far as I can tell, is exactly a family is supposed to do.
It was a quiet, sweet sort of New Year. A few friends, some great nabe (traditional Japanese winter casserole), some great sho-chu (traditional Japanese potato-based spirit) and some great comedy on television (traditional Japanese end of year show where eight comedians get locked in a resort for 24 hours and try and make each other laugh: if they laugh, a masked man runs in and whacks them very hard on the bottom with a large trojan. Very funny, and very Japanese. In England watching fully grown men bend over tables and get their bottoms whacked by other fully grown men is the sort of television you have to pay for on your credit card).
At thirty seconds to midnight, we filled our glasses, held them aloft and waited for the countdown.
And my phone rang.
"Happy New Year!" my dad shouted down the phone! "Where are you?"
"In Kyoto," I shouted back. "Happy New Year!"
"What time is it?"
"Thirty seconds to midnight." I looked at my friends, holding their glasses aloft and waiting for me to finish my conversation.
"Oooh, just in time! Did you get the packages?"
"No, not before I left."
"Oh. Well I got the camera lens you sent, but there's a problem, Hol, because apparently we have to pay VAT on it and they won't let me have it until I pay the extra seventy quid..."
Twenty five seconds! the tv cried behind me.
"Well, um, can we write to them, dad?"
"Maybe, but it's outrageous that I have to pay VAT on a gift - it's the bloody customs department - seventy quid VAT, I don't see why I should have to pay that on the..."
Twenty seconds!
"Dad, I love you very much, but I have twenty seconds to go before midnight and I don't want to start the new year talking about VAT."
"Well, we have to talk about it sometime, Holly."
"Yes, but please - " fifteen seconds! "not right now?"
"Okay, okay. Sorry. Thoughtless of me. Speak to your mum and wish her a Happy New Year."
"Dad- hurry up, I've got fifteen sec..."
"Happy New Year sweetheart!"
"Happy New Year, mum."
"Where are you?"
"Kyoto."
"Are you on your own?"
"No."
"Oh thank God for that."
"It's okay. I'm okay."
"Are you safe?"
"I'm in a living room, so: yes. Mum, I love you but I -"
Ten seconds! My friends were now glaring at me with their glasses still held in the same position.
"Darling, your Aunty Maine is here. Have a quick word."
"Mum, I really have to go -"
"It'll only take five seconds. Here's your Aunty Maine."
"Happy New Year!"
Five
"Happy New Year Maine. I love you! I have to go!"
Four
"Where are you?"
Three
"Kyoto. Happy New Year but I have to..."
Two
"What's the weather li..."
"Snowing!" I shouted, and slammed down the phone.
One
"Happy New Year!" my friends all cheered, with just enough time for me to pick my glass up and get glared at for creating such a celebratory, party atmosphere.
"Happy New Year!" I cried as the temple bells started chiming, and then sat down, exhausted.
It's going to be a good 2011, I can feel it in my bones. A year full of success and love and conversations I'm busy resisting. And the support of a family who offer it at all times, in all seasons, whether I want it then or not.
Which, as far as I can tell, is exactly a family is supposed to do.
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