The deep trauma of fish revisited

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Walking on sand

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I love the yielding, generous nature of sand
Holding my presence for a moment.
Long enough for the earth to remember how,
This walk lasted forever
In my mind.

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Everything is ever, even now, all

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Even after everything after me speaks,
I am breathing this into the blinds,  the chair, the stones we picked up,
so the trace of me in everything might (with the friction that grief brings to stuff) do this,

remind you not of all of me who ever trod on your heart, but of,

of the me who knew always with the ever sureness of the light of a day that we did give (knowingly so) the essence of love to each other true.
I know beyond the every daily grind of days that
(and let the artefacts of my being retain this)

of all the everythings I ever held,  or saw or knew
I love you.
Every now that is left holds this as a true to give still.
The dusty everythings I own have more ever in them than me,
But I have enough love in me for them to remind you forever after,

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On art

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Visiting my brother in Ingagane,  South Africa recently I found this piece I had made sometime in the early 90’s. It returned me to the emotions I felt then. It also made me realise why I have always been drawn to image, sometimes more so than words.

An image is a more immediate conduit of the soul. Writing is more difficult for me because the material,  words, are not as pure as colour. Colour is essentially honest and to find honesty with words involves intense excavation of the self.

It reminded me as well that the primary task of artists is to find and express that honesty.

That’s a tough gig. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. Maybe I’ll get there,  maybe not. The effort though has made all the difference.

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[a teacher's sonnet] by Dane P. Yates on SoundCloud – Hear the world’s sounds

https://m.soundcloud.com/daneyates/a-teachers-sonnet

My talented friend, Dane Yates,  composer extrodinaire,  set my sonnet to music,  take a listen.

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A teacher’s sonnet

DSC_0178Let me not to the marking of scripts

Let me not to the marking of many scripts
admit ineptitude. Sanity is not sanity
which fails when it flaws finds
or bends with the writers who are deluded.
Oh no! It is an ever flowing cup
of coffee trudged through calloused catacombs to invigilate
in the long grey hours that are cold, lonely, never up.
Oh these hours on hours on days. These days I hate.
Sanity’s not for sissies, fool! It’s a fragile brew
within the double coiled loops of this lamentable distillery
where load shedded neurons along the grey folds are few
still hoping through hell for relief from this pillory.
And if it be shown that this is sanity
I’ll trade my next paycheck for a frontal lobotomy.

M scallan

A meditation on the sea

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For the sea is a vast, churning thing that crushes sea shells into sand. My parents ashes have been flung into its relentless froth. Mine may also find their way to its brutal edge.

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Always, the sea has coughed back the cares I bring to the beach with my towel,  sandwiches and dogs. Its heaving, shuddering mass does not care for the little trials of man. It has seen them all again and again and again. The sea is an unsympathetic bastard. That’s why I keep coming back to it. I understand.

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The sea licks clean the wounds of living. That is also why I return. Scudding, soothing, consistently chaffing rough stuff smooth

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A fish by any other name would be a grand piano

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The evolution of a grumpy old fart

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I once had a solar powered plastic yellow daisy with a smiley face that would sway left and right when it was in full sun. Much like a suburban alcaholic walking home from the bottle shop in summer. The object sat on the dashboard of my car. Not for long. One afternoon after a particularly difficult day at school I caught the bobbing gaze of the contrived, smug flower and it did not induce warm ripples of love. I promptly threw the palm sized manifestation of joy out of the window. There were no cars behind me, I checked, so no one was hurt. It landed near the week old carcass of a kangaroo. Poetic justice. I, on the other hand was perplexed. What had possessed me to do this? More importantly, what had possessed me to buy it? Had I experienced what sloppy murderers call ‘temporary insanity’?

I recall a morning when a television salesman and his stupid smile tried to sell me a purple and blue vacuum cleaner that promised to last a lifetime. I was furious at the blatant lie. A pattern was emerging. Irrational anger would rise to the surface of my consciousness at lightning speed. Advertisements for cleaning products, toothpaste, banks that cared and once in a lifetime sales sent me over the edge of relative normality. A year later I was driving with my good friend Lilian who had on her dashboard, a smiley solar powered daisy. I had an epiphany. I smiled back this time and understood what had happened that day the daisy died . I had not reacted badly to the notion of happiness as a consumer commodity. I was not experiencing a moment of existential rage. It was far simpler and more benign than that. I was evolving into that dark spectre of suburban homes everywhere: the grumpy old fart.

I am coming to terms with my new condition. I suspect I am still in denial. I insist to my daughters and son that I am only being realistic and just weary of commercial crap. They respond the way I reacted to my father, they roll their eyes. Wait, their turn is coming. There will always be a market for stupid plastic smiling flowers. Nonsense, like humanity’s ills is cyclical.
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Photographs of objects created by Sean Scallan

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Will Self: The Charlie Hebdo Attack and the Awkward Truths About Our Fetish for ‘Free Speech’ | VICE | United Kingdom http://www.vice.com/en_uk/read/will-self-charlie-hebdo-attack-the-west-satire-france-terror-105

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What is progress?

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I contemplate progress through Ernest Hemingway’s maxim – “never confuse movement with action.”

As a teacher I ought to say that progress is quantifiable through rigorous assessment during 12 years of formal education. However, education often appears to resemble movement under duress. Much of our modern education is about compliance with set curriculum, testing to establish standards and allocating percentages to students to facilitate their swift processing through the system. It seems we are less interested in the individual’s progress than in their results that will justify the efficacy of the system.

Authentic progress is a series of internal shifts for which there is no accurate means of measurement. An individual’s progress is determined by the context of their lives. There is no universal standard for personal progress. Social or institutional criteria of progress are set and administered for the benefit of the organisation to which the individual belongs. An improvement in social standards and education does not equate to progress. History reflects that an educated society can be swayed by the demands of irrational and psychotic dictators.

Progress is not a state of being, a process or even an objective. It is an abstract social artefact, a dialect of power. Like truth, justice and equality it is a language that those in power speak to synchronise the social machine they control. It creates the illusion of concern for the individual.

After 25 years of teaching I have past students who have become doctors, CEO’s and leaders in their chosen field. They have advanced spectacularly. However, the student whose progress made the most lasting impression on me was the young man who, after spending 18 months in detention, whispered to me “I can’t read and I want to. Can you teach me?” Some students acquire knowledge because they can, some to satisfy parental ambitions and some because they know that this is what is expected of them. They move. A minority of students pursue knowledge to sate their curiosity of the world. They understand that knowledge is a personal quest for which reward is irrelevant. They progress. I have told fretful parents that their children are ‘making progress’ to assuage parental neurosis and relieve myself of lengthy philosophical diatribe. Most students get to where they need to go despite their parents and the education system that has formed them.

Young people will navigate their unique path through and beyond school. Their progress will depend on the quality of their humanity, not their qualifications. Progress in schools may reflect the student’s ability to comply more than their personal development. Education is like a waltz. Instead of assessing who has danced and how they danced we should be teaching the dancers to appreciate the music. Would Sisyphus be progressing each time he summited the mountain with his boulder? Perhaps mankind’s progress is an ongoing struggle with himself? We must assess progress alongside our brutality and our ability to be gentle. We are all born into the species Homo sapiens, not everyone progresses to become human.

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51 Of The Most Beautiful Sentences In Literature http://www.buzzfeed.com/jenniferschaffer/i-am-i-am-i-am?s=mobile

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Pope Francis criticism stuns Vatican

Pope Francis criticism stuns Vatican http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-30577368

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Henri Rousseau’s Heartening Story of Success after a Lifetime of Rejection, Illustrated | Brain Pickings http://www.brainpickings.org/2014/12/09/the-fantastic-jungles-of-henri-rousseau/

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Paris Review – The Art of Fiction No. 131, Grace Paley http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/2028/the-art-of-fiction-no-131-grace-paley

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