365 Ways With Words

And Another Thing...

               

                                                go!

                                                welcome mat's gone

                                                failure – ultumatums – fucker

                                                nugatory demonstrator

                                                leave, because sin

 

                                                remember always

                                                you're charged

                                                you tripped

                                                you must feel guilt

                                                you – you – you!

 

                                                there's no putting right

                                                not permitted

                                                there's no way – no – way

                                                door's locked

                                                key's gone

 

                                                still, it turns

                                                delicious twists

                                                between the ribs

                                                wince – cry me out

                                                go!

Taking Stock

A little over two and a half years ago I handed in my notice. It was not too difficult a decision. I had been working as a teacher in one of Hong Kong's most prestigious schools for 12 years and decided that rather than end my days at the chalkface, I would quit by the summer and try pastures new. Although I wanted to write, and blogged often, quite what would happen next was as mysterious to me as I'm sure it was to everybody who asked.

Teaching was a stressful job. I liked it  – the students were pleasant, but their constant drive for high exam grades made them a demanding lot. In addition, the ever-encroaching culture of box-ticking, meetings, target-setting and hoop-jumping changed the ethos of the school I had joined in 1999 from that of colour and human interest to that of an artificial target factory. The changes did not have the desired effect of endless improvements in grades – quite the reverse. The students' 'careers' were as hard (sometimes harder) as their parents in paid employment. It became obvious to me that I did not share the values of a school culture that perceived excellence in children only in terms of a comparative international scale of International Baccalaureate grades. For the few that attained these targets all would be well; the majority rest would forever remain failures.

And so the end of term arrived. There were farewells and goodbye speeches in which I presented a positive outlook on an unknown future. Was it the full-stop of my career, or the beginning of something new? Could I cut it as a writer? How would I know success if I saw it?

At that time my wife was completing her PhD. I was happy to sit pretty for the hot and humid summer months, but by September we'd got itchy feet. A one-way flight to Bangkok started a month of travel in Asia. I constantly blogged (Daily in Asia) as we went. From Bangkok we took the train to Trang, a minibus to Satun and a boat journey on flat calm waters to Ko Lipe. Summer is a tricky time in the Andaman Sea, and the weather was unpredictable. Thus far it felt like a holiday. The onward trip to Langkawi was potentially catastrophic – an over-packed boat driven blind across lightning-struck green waters made prayers rise faster than stocks in Apple before a product release. Langkawi, the 'Jewel of Kedah' was wet –it being the rainy season– but staying in the old colonial era houses at the Temple Tree At Bon made up for it. It was only on the ferry from there to Georgetown, complete with hundreds of holidaying Saudis, that the journeying finally felt like 'travel' and not 'trip'. Indeed, of all places in the mystic and incense-laden orient, Penang and Georgetown felt the most enjoyable: beautiful Chinese merchant houses, excellent Tamil curries, more than a smattering of colonial monuments and history and views to die for from atop the funicular-railway ascended Penang Hill, this place felt like it could be 'home', that elusive something we all search for. The train trip up to Ipoh and from there to the wonderful Cameron Highlands also had its moments, chiefly being the approving ghostly presence of long-past relatives when staying in the mock-tudor, mock-British delightful nonsense that is The Old Smokehouse. From there to Kuala Lumpur and on to Singapore felt like a progressive return to normality, and indeed we cut our travel onwards to Indonesia short for a return to HK and an unsuccessful interview. The daily blogging sewed a seed that came to fruition in this very vehicle, of which this is the penultimate entry.

There remained the vexing question of where to go? It was decided that jobs must come first. So, we waited for something to turn up, and by December two had appeared – Limerick and Olomouc. We had to see both places. The wintry-wet drive through England, Wales and Ireland was enjoyable enough, but within days we had flown to the dry and cold Czech Republic. Had we found what we were looking for? Olomouc was a wintry and wonderful city with picturesque buildings and friendly locals. Limerick turned out to be unsuccessful, and on advice from a friend ("a quarter the rainfall of Ireland") we settled on Moravia. I would remain in a supportive role, and keep on with the writing until something worked out.

By the end of January we were prepared to move countries, but were we ready to move minds? It quickly transpired that doing anything in the Czech Republic is a challenge, not least the finding of an apartment where three dogs and a cat would be welcomed. Such a thing, it transpired, was impossible. So we bought. It meant an investment of nearly all our cash and additional money to finish the transformation of kitchen and bathroom, but six months on it was done. I was already on to a new local blog Anglicky in Olomouc, but knew it was high time to focus a little more on the writing – I had already started on a few books whilst in Hong Kong and found short stories engaging. I worked steadily on them, but knew my literary ability lacked something... experience and depth. I reasoned I could get this by writing –forcing myself to work– each and every day. I began 365 Ways With Words in the belief that a little more of what I fancied would do me good. It would be a daily struggle; at times harder than any other task I'd set myself.

Whilst the new job allowed for enjoyable travel to conferences across Europe and beyond, and all seemed well and good, there was trouble ahead. Here comes the tough part: we had a falling out. Separated by a 3-month stint in Sweden, we found our courses going in separate directions. It fell to me to be an idiot and think things worse than they actually were. And instead of patching things up, we argued – fiercely. I was to blame.

And so we separated. In my quest for new beginnings I had not actively sought an end to everything from before. But life has a funny habit of turning things around and of forcing pressing items that require attention onto the top of the desktop pile. By August, I came to the realisation that the little money that I could earn from teaching English conversation was spread all-too thin on the ground to support myself, three dogs and a cat. I was nowhere near completion of a book on travel writing and the other project, 10 Beers With Czechs – a collection of interviews with Czechs 25 years on from the Velvet Revolution, needed more time. So I had to get a job, and got one working in Olomouc's one and only English international school. Ostensibly, it allows for time in the afternoon and evening to devote to writing: in reality, there is barely enough for more than a few glib changes in overlooking a marginal point in a paragraph.

The future, therefore, is a little less glamorous and exciting than had been imagined. I will continue to write, albeit with a steadier focus on quality rather than on mere output, and my attentions will be on completion of the works already begun. But unlike the stretched life lived in Hong Kong, life here in Olomouc feels more like the real world, where sincere people strive to earn enough cash to pay the bills and have a little left over for a beer or two with friends. Czechs read a lot (it's cheap and enjoyable) and enjoy rock and drinking in parks. On a side note, and whilst I am a long way from speaking the lingo, it's interesting to see how people here put meaning and emphasis together in a form unconnected with western latin or germanic languages.

So here I am; back to teaching (and writing). It's not quite full-circle, because the experience of writing over the past two years has taught me much – about the literary craft, about moving and changing and about the priorities of life, albeit how not to do things. And as this project draws to a close, a little later than exactly a year, and tomorrow's is the last entry of 365, so another task is already set: to complete those books and short stories for publication. This has been a rather personal entry in what is in reality a very personal blog. Writers cannot fail to open up now and again, letting the world see the quivering wreck of humanity that is, in effect, within each of us. As Art is a jealous mistress, I will leave the last paraphrased word to Winston Churchill, who writted a few books from time to time:

“Writing a [daily blog for a year] is an adventure. To begin with it is a toy and an amusement. Then it becomes a mistress, then it becomes a master, then it becomes a tyrant. The last phase is that just as you are about to be reconciled to your servitude, you kill the monster and fling him to the public."

A Nip In The Air

                                                By mid-September thin light burrows

                                                Upon a goosed skin, upping the caress –

                                                The last wind of a high-minded summer –

                                                On the curling whisps is carried 

                                                A glowering nip in the air

                                                Light brush of divine winter death

 

                                                A crack in the sky bowl permits

                                                Demons and devil to whip all access to mercy

                                                Sewing heartless seeds in dust, unfolded misery

                                                Deep down beneath the glacier's binding

                                                Iced out, iced in, iced on

                                                Freeze still, and move no more

 

                                                Have all memories of our summer perished?

                                                Fears proud and timid poked the living to a still?

                                                Or are there bulbs yet beneath the chilling

                                                Ready-steadying to a new triumph?

                                                Breasted milk sap of comfort arise

                                                Take full the draught and let long light lead

I Say, You Say

                                        
                                                                Where the good earth became steamy air

                                                                And rolling mountains tore into sea

                                                                There was often a serene serendipity

                                                                Some things were all right

                                                                Wines flowed between our lips

 

                                                                In a sudden break

                                                                With tradition, with continuity,

                                                                The old onward path turned unkind

                                                                A necessary change occurred

                                                                Only a change was needed

 

                                                                But storms came, the worst yet

                                                                The boat sank with all hands

                                                                Being lost in the open sea is terrifying

                                                                Alone, a mighty empty thing

                                                                After the struggle all hope becomes lost

 

                                                                The second vision was clear –

                                                                A total crash; a tumbling write-off

                                                                Leaving us standing in trembling shock

                                                                Alive but together on the dark forest road

                                                                Ready for the next unknown phase

The Kissers on the Bench

Sweet sixteen, or was it seventeen? They huddle, because life depends upon it, on the cold slats of the park bench – a public refuge from the cruel vaguaries of late-adolescent life, an open book for those without respect for their free modesty.

She sits on his knees, her long virgin hair cascading down his protective arm, and allows his tender fondling, his benign embracure, of her curves – both inner and outer. They pretend to talk, but each squirming move she makes awakens further his raging, each squeeze of his hands drives her wild with a tremble-legged desire. They coil together; their underwear wetter by the minute, their tongues never far from each other, their focus only on the amazing stimulation each now receives from the other. He holds her firm like a man – she is his eternal soft woman.

The grip tightens as his height ascends in the clouds. She is the urban meadow within which they are camped. As the dinnertime deadline passes, and night falls, they are once more in the red with parents. Another doorstep talking-to will wash over them. All they want is their freedom. She longs to care, he longs to be near her. They will text all night and into the next day. They will see each other on random buses, on TV, talking to strangers, until the truth is verified. A jealous god guards their powerful attentions.

And then one day the bench will be empty: a callous act, some quick words untrimmed, the heat turned down. It will finish on a misery – wet faces in pillows and hearts stopped: how could breath be drawn when such pains enwrap the very soul? But then the sun will shine, and movie laughter will return with a pal. The streets will be full, and the past will become history. As weeing dogs and vagrant sleeps take turns on the private seat, so the world will turn a few more times. That is, until the next couple make it their own.

About-Heart-Break

                                            Inspired-inculcated-cardholdheld-handshine-shiny-shake-keeled-keeper

                                            An earful accumulator in distracting detraction

                                            Drown and deafen and empty and deep

                                            They are the same

 

                                            On the rock-strewn road near the end there are few stops worth the time

                                            Spiteful eyes converge with daubed memories

                                            Emotic erotic rocket fire

                                            Spits up the morning

 

                                            Sleepy wellspring of devotion pushes in a proud undetected direction

                                            And effortlessly leaves a trail of star tears

                                            Ahead are cold mornings

                                            Shoulder skin frozen

Seize The Moment

                                                
                                                The moment is here

                                                At last

                                                Novelty

                                                It is always new

                                                And now

                                                Next and next again

                                                Neotenic

                                                Fresh without blemish

                                                To change before stagnation

                                                To mould before finality

                                                Realise the innovation

                                                Go, inch on, or run

                                                Begin and set in motion

                                                Crack the egg

                                                Build the house

                                                Start the dance

                                                Immediate flight

                                                Pen to blank paper

                                                Paddle back that water

                                                Fire up the barbie

                                                Tear open the presents

                                                Put the needle on that record

                                                Tuck in and gorge

                                                Say what you are busting to say

                                                Voila!

                                                Seize it

                                                Now

                                                Immediately

 

                                                To delay

                                                        And defer

                                                                Means

                                                                        It's too late

The Scattered Ashes

So it was late when we arrived home. So the dogs needed a walk. So we took them out for a quick wee. So we didn’t bring the leads. So we didn’t –we couldn’t– foresee what would happen.

The reason for moving to a house in the country park was simple: we adopted a dog. Ordinarily this sort of commonplace thing means an adjustment of some sort, perhaps in daily habit, but this dog was different. He came as a pair.

To make this clear, I must explain that before the move to Hong Kong, we kept a beautiful (and rescued) Irish Wolfhound whose head was above my own when standing on his hind legs. He was a bounder—a real sight hound who enjoyed tearing off to the opposite side of a field because a hare had lazily lolloped beside a hedge. I can recommend no gentler nor more family-friendly a dog than a Wolfhound. When word came to us that an English Mastiff in the Sai Kung Country Park was similarly in need of rescuing and of proper care and attention, my interest was piqued. How many other people in Hong Kong had the experience necessary for large dog care?

I drove over to meet the Campbells, a missionary couple who were about to leave Ko Tong Ha Yeung to carry out work in Cambodia. They had seen 'Buster' hiding in the surrounding forest; this emaciated ghost-like apparition hid from all human contact. He had injuries, was scared witless, and would only approach the village houses in the dead of night and then only to drink from stagnant water and rummage for scraps. In the evening these kind souls left him food, each time a little closer to the house, until eventually they succeeded in trapping him into the enclosed space behind the gate where he immediately succumbed to their kindness. I was moved by their compassionate story, patting as I did so the other dog of the house, Batty. She was a very bright lanky and hairy ginger thing who, I was to find out, was to be taken along with Buster. The Campbells incidentally enquired if I liked any of the furniture they were thinking of leaving. And what about the house? Before the afternoon was out, I had acquired a mastiff, his ginger matey, some second-hand furniture and a new house way out in the wilds of Hong Kong!

Buster and Batty were good for each other: she was bright and intelligent and a more sociable dog I have never known, whereas he was scared of sticks, umbrellas and newspapers, thunder, Chinese people and sudden noises—in fact, he was an emotional wreck. It must be assumed that he had been severely mistreated. On top of that, he had severe heartworm, suffered poor blood condition and required fattening up. Our new life in the country park unfolded into a wonderful experience and with six months of care and trust things had also become much better for him – just in time for another addition to the family.

Brenda had been angered by seeing another smaller female English Mastiff that had been kept in a cramped pet shop window cage for some months. It was about time this poor animal was released. With the assistance of a good local vet and neighbour who promised all sorts of animal welfare trouble should the irresponsible pet shop owners not quickly sell the animal on the cheap, Bella was brought home. A soppy pup, she quickly grew into Buster's tan-coloured female companion, enjoying the same love of open water and stinking dead fish and was eager for soft affection. For a little more than one year the three dogs were happy together. And then two more turned up.

The domestic helpers in the village had been feeding two pups located beneath the roadbridge. Their swollen little bellies were suffering from too much kindness. And so whether they wanted it or not, the black and white pair were rescued, de-flea'd and formally introduced to Buster, Batty and Bella. We had difficulty naming them, but for some reason the names Squiddly and Diddly stuck. The two pups were semi-feral and required a little seasoning and training. But now we were 5. And all, except for Batty and Buster, were inexperienced youngsters.

Perhaps I should also mention at this point that at this time we had in addition acquired 4 cats!

The combination of animals in the family home certainly made for a lively time. The dogs suited long walks by the rivers and beneath the trees of the park, but their sociability together also formed them into a pack. Being naturally chauvinistic, they handled better under dominant hands, but whoever held the five leads had to content with other pets and pet owners. They had already met, and scrapped, with another well-meaning couple's five dogs that lived in the next village. Thus, the bad blood had been drawn: historical antipathy for canines is never far from the surface—without socialising, they just don't forgive each other.

So the night came at the beginning of the Christmas holidays, when these two packs found and fought each other. Amid the cacophony of barks and yells, I held onto big Buster as Brenda sought to intervene. Unfortunately, the other pet owners also put their hands in and were severely bitten by Bella intent on wiping out the opposition to her cherished new pack. Once fur had flown and blood had been spilt, I ran to meet them and apologised. It seemed there was little pleasantry to be said, and I felt there was only one course open to me: Bella had to go.

To keep a large dog is a responsibility. To keep a large dog that has drawn human blood is to invite condemnation as an irresponsible dog owner—quite apart from my own issue of trust. Why wouldn't she do it again? It was her job to protect the pack.

With a heart heavier than lead, I drove with her the next morning to the vets in Sai Kung and held her in the treatment room as the injection was administered. At the very last moment, she looked quizzically into my face: what was I doing? Was this a punishment? She was only doing her job...

I had to have a brandy to steady myself. I had taken away her life, the one that had been rescued, and for what? Things are simple in the mind of a dog, and her actions, although condemned by humankind, were natural and normal for her own. The next day, Christmas Eve, I took all the dogs for a long walk to the end of the Wan Tsai peninsula and sat alone taking in the view and weighing my actions of that night. If only we had brought the leads. If only we had left 5 minutes later instead of rushing out. And I sat to weep copious tears; for her, for having been irresponsible, for my betrayal, and for my stupid sense of duty.

New Year's Day the following year, Bella's ashes were scattered at her favourite place on the Wong Ma Tei hilltop above Wong Shek pier. And I love her still.

Buster

                                        Noble guardian of the besieged keep

                                            (Cringing coward at the first umbrella sighting)

                                        Advanced guard into the boar-filled underbrush

                                            (Earliest to flee at danger’s approach)

                                        Big Man of the Mountain – all on his path quake at his approach

                                            (Watch him instantly shy into the forest)

                                        Few deep barks mean hidden powers well kept

                                            (Transformer into a first thunderclap quivering quaker)

                                        The shadowed outlaw returned, restituted in human kindness

                                            (Insecure chicken dumping loyalty at the first stinking beached fish)

                                        Poor patient of heartworm and wounded flank soldiering on

                                            (Wincer at the briefest of nailtrim)

                                        My brave boy, my old friend, my pride and joy

                                            (My old stinking, maddeningly annoying and now sadly departed beauty)

 

                                        I so miss you. Always will.

Butterfly Heart

In the river’s course scoured deep through summer torrents, beneath the canopy and beyond the screen of bamboo, upon the bend where the afternoon light settles before the sun falls below the crest of the mountains above, the scene is played. The butterfly rests, its wings open, quiet, alone, in Lepidoptera meditation. 

The existence of one life amongst a myriad of forms is nothing unusual, even one so bright. And in this present, in this capture of time and place, the butterfly is at once without need and without being needed; it feels the satisfaction of hourless eternity, the successful connections of a billion genetic computations, the generous confluence of a sympathetic location with benevolent season, and can only be content.

It neither trusts, nor is cautious. Without a grasp, the hand reaches to support this moment of significance. And without a worry, the butterfly is at ease within the palm and on the fingertips. She dances, she stops, she turns, she closes her wings then reopens: there is no fear in the communication, for an open soul receives without hindrance or demand.

This is enough for both butterfly and hand. The gentle occasion over, the hand replaces her again to rest on to the warm rock face, safe within the glow of a golden sunbeam. Separated, each is happy with the exchange of time and consideration, fully respectful of the other. Of such honoured connections, there are precious few. They are the devout unions of separate souls.