In skipping this the time still passed
the page left blank not long did last,
but recognised my error sown
returned again so- not alone.
And as the words and ink did dry
I wondered at my reason why
I did decide to choose to fill
the page that, forgot, could blank be still.
©TheHairyTeacher2013
Now there is a fine line between impatience and over-tolerance and whereas I’m prone to the latter my decision to walk out 25 mins after ordering a bundáskenyér/french toast was certainly not, as far as I was concerned, an undue criticism of Anker (Anker köz ).
The problem with student staffed places is that the attitude can align itself with the service while professionalism falls by the wayside. It takes a good manager to strike the right balance but Anker is just not up to scratch.
Walking out took effort as I was hungry and, mid-morning, running between classes. On an empty stomach I alighted onto the street and while I could have dwelled on my misfortune I chose to steal a silver lining: at least I’d be early for my lesson- no rushing necessary. That I popped into Tesco for a sausage roll and subsequently food poisoning may be utterly unrelated but I smell voodoo, the karma of non- pacificists!
(See previous review: http://thehairyteacher.com/to-pin-it-down/ )
©TheHairyTeacher2013
I’m loving it or I’m hating it? I’m not sure cos, for starters, I’m not even sure where to begin! The fact that I seem, semantically, to be answering a question suggests that I have recognised the statement form above as question: rendered, as it is, intonationally in the spoken form. I learnt or learned this, though I do not profess myself the learned man, in a random French class of my youth. As it happens, my odd-Catholic mother ( odd because she adheres to the practice while not believing in shit) furthered my education when, one day, I proclaimed I had French letters in my bag. Ah, but that is, as they say, scéal eile!
Returning to another point I’m not even sure I’ve made yet: I’m loving it. Taught as incorrect by desperate ( panicky rather than terrible) EFL, or other acronymical, teachers everywhere because of those damn stative verbs and yet more recently contradicted by Ronald and his cronies, I do now have to add my 50 Cents(!), or tuppence or 5 forint or whatever.
Those who teach languages as rule-based risk being discredited by popular culture. Those who don’t risk unnerving their students. I, however, have just this to say:
and because Otis said it, I believe it, and… A. that’s that! B. that’s fuckin’ well that!
Your choice. My opinion;)
©TheHairyTeacher2013
Just reading an article on blogging, BloggingTips, and the tips it gives, and I’ve been inspired to write this down. I’m not a blogger! I’m a writer…and by that I mean only that my medium is the pen and paper, first, always. This is what makes having a blog page a pain in the posterior for me. I have the idea, scribble it down and am later compelled to put it once more in typed form onto my blog page. This sounds an awful lot like hard work, and whereas there was a time when I even tried to improve the voice recognition software* on my laptop (speaking practice is always good as a teacher, even better when a Best Man’s Speech is coming up) I gave up on that too. Now where do I go next. Let you tell me!!!
“A villamoson…nem hallom!”
Well we certainly could hear her but gladly she made this her insistence point and hung up. The idea right now mid-Friday afternoon – just having been to the doctor with Tara, my own chest paining – of having to listen to this woman would have been frightful. Frankly, I needed rest. I’d slept some last night, but rather erratically. Tara being feverish – fighting a throat infection – tossed and turned the whole night through and was tracing buses and trams and trains across the ceiling by the skylight. My first impression had been that she was still dreaming. Now I’m more inclined to believe she was being just a little bit delirious. Nothing like a fever to push the mind to other streams of consciousness…
Arriving into Barcelona all those years ago, 44°C on the roadway sign, me huddled up in a thick blanket shivering with a soul deep chill, I can only reminisce to the comedic concerning my mind’s wanderings.
The gay guy at the petrol station who would have gladly taken me home. No doubt he had a cure for my fever.
The campsite we stayed at where I marked, like a wagon rut, a trail between the tent and toilet, each time a pot to hand in case both ends decided to erupt at once. They didn’t, then, to my knowledge but I’m certain they would have had I forgotten the pot.
What a place to have been. An arse-hole ripped from posterior propulsion, sitting grimacing, looking through tear-filled eyes at a lap full of vomit! Not that I was getting the satisfaction of a projectile puke by then anyway. Bile, and blood vessels bulging – ah, what sweet memories.
As for the city itself, well, I have the occasional figmented memory, flashes, though in all sincerity, beneath the brief returns I have at once an underlying and overwhelming appreciation for the toilets in that city, especially the McDonalds on Las Ramblas!
Oh, how the mighty had fallen!
Of late I’ve found myself amid the glory of early morning and late evening, the former extending itself into my dreams, the barriers of sleep often not yet passed. The latter by its volition has accompanied me on the weary path home, trailing my feet, distracting my mind, not yet able to sleep. There is a restlessness, as I’ve discovered, in tiredness which I dare say can be both inspiring and disconcerting. The mood, the fears, are founded on instability, which offers plenty to the imagination, both good and bad.
However, what I’ve deemed most signicant in these tainted musings is the urgency to see things in their immediacy rather than flitter off in protracted fantasy; observing because that’s all that the mind can muster, ironically, allowing one to be more lucid. The feelings are subtle, the shifts come, from darkness to daylight, but in the void, exploration of those changes, the passive state, seems to empower itself.
1.
The train left the station on time, it’s just that I had been too early and had, in my haste to not be late, already been twenty five minutes in my seat. I didn’t, however, waste this time. Instead i used it to find a voice, my voice, which considering my sleep deprevation, came forth in gushes. I chose all the media at my disposal to record my flurry of thoughts, and each one worked. Even a haphazard text to my woman seemed to find itself, amidst the muddle of words that I’d intended. I’ve often argued that I’m an early morning man but I’d never considered this before, the pre-dawn world of late night revelers, shift workers and the bleary-eyes commuters still adjusting to this new day. To all intents and appearances the last two groups shared the purpose of coming and going and work, while the first two shared the notion of bed as an imminent destination. Maybe even the first and last shared the disconnection born of drink and fading dreams. All were traffic, aligning with the chaos of the morning’s streets, transport, shadows.
Sitting, observing this, more a stranger than any, being sober and newly awakened to this rhythm, I was out of my comfort zone but needed to move without thinking, to remain inconspicuous, to just fit in. What was I to them on whom I placed so much expectation? They knew the plan! Did they, in me, see the same depth of wonder: the personal dramas, stories, histories, that I indulged in with them? However they behaved, they were intensely and collectively my muse. Apart from those others when in a lamp lit room, listening to the howls down below, the faceless voices, here on the street, at this hour (apart from the drunks) they were faces, voiceless. I’d listened, I’d observed, I’d done it all but today I tried to see myself as they saw me What is it that I conveyed unto the complete stranger? A mirror could tell me I wasn’t handsome, yet not, still, twisted ugly. I had certain discernible features, things which made me stand out from the crowd, or at least, a crowd. I could be viewed as different, but what I wanted to know was; did my appearance bring others stories of integrity, interest; did I cut it with the tough guys, intrigue the pretty ladies, not the dolly birds I’m sure, and did people see me first as intelligent, or dumb?
So I set off on this, my odyssey – my objective to be subjective, but through the imagined eyes of others.
2.
The bicycle is placed against the building’s front wall, just beyond the entrance. Leaning back to pull the door shut, the darkened shadow passes me. I only catch him from behind, a weary walk about him, his step the step of early morning. His pony tail drops to midway down his back. My eyes run to his ass. I haven’t forgotten lust; I just don’t find it in the early hours. He’s skinny beneath those jeans, but in a rolling fantasy he may emerge a lover. I step onto my bicycle then; I have a way to go. It’s early but I’m late. Gustavo’s still in bed, lucky creature.
3.
Pulling the bins to the edge of the footpath I turn back to the door, to the entrance to my building. A bried flurry as a man skips out around me, and the bin. He glances at me, I at him. He is bearded, his eyes look tired. I turn aside and enter again my domain. Do I have time for a quick cigarette and coffee? I always do! I am my own boss.
4.
A man approaches from behind as I pull up to the bus-stop. I worry ever so slightly; I mean I’m just suspicious. His quick step has slowed. He steps out almost exaggeratedly, however, perhaps to convey his unthreatening state. He turns and looks back, he stomps his feet a bit. He’s waiting too. As the bus approaches I catch him further in the headlights; he’s not rough looking as his initial demeanour, he’s just an easy-going, dressed down sort of guy, probably foreign by his colouring. As we both jump on the bus, I notice his blue eyes as well as the blond hair. He could even be Scottish, a Viking maybe, but he’s too short to be really Swedish.
At the terminus I step off and head towards the railway station. He does too but I soon lose sight of him as I get distracted by the oncoming faces.
5.
Somebody sits in behind me. Busy on my laptop I’m not inclined to look up, and certainly not turn around. My thesis is due and this hard copy in front of me is a mess of ink stains and half-arsed ideas. In any other country I would be able to get across my meaning more succinctly, perhaps, based upon the linguistic similarities but here everything is so different, and the bureaucracy is beyond painful. I mean slip my professor an envelope and see all doors open but at the moment it’s nothing but forms and more forms from ladies in offices who, not blaming them, don’t know anything about the said forms and can only pass me on to the next person. Did they have it this bad in Kafka’s Czechoslovakia?
What’s he doing back there? Whatever it is it’s annoying. Jesus my whole seat is wobbling. I tried pushing back already and admittedly he seemed to quiet down. How do I know it’s a ‘he’, call it woman’s intuition, or plain evidence. He’s a scratching, snorting, marauding bear, shuffling constantly. Probably the fleas!
After a while the wobbling becomes more tempered, there are even moments, not long mind you, when there is peace and tranquility reigning but curse those trays attached to the seat backs.
Gyor comes and I pack my stuff to leave. I turn to see my tormentor as I leave. God knows he’s much younger, and thinner, than I imagined. I look away and on looking back I catch his eye. He’s not altogether attractive, and I’m no lamb, but there is a flicker, a delight. Is he flirting with me? Am I colouring? I pick up my bags and head for the doorway. I’d better wait there I guess.
(TBC)
Though a definition to partner includes the idea of two people undertaking any amount of actions, the word can be found littered across business to sport, from dance to relationships, in all instances it does have that cooperative feel but within the realm of romance I get the feeling that now, well for the last 10 – 15 years ( I’m working to the prehistoric scale here), it has taken on a role much like Ms did before it. Exploring Ms /miz/ we find ourselves delving into the feminist world, and the struggle within it, as with PC (political correctness not personal computer), to redefine somebody without attaching a stigma. Miss was very much unmarried, Mrs married, but Ms allowed for ambiguity, of which an advantage may be gained where people would be of the tendency to discriminate on the first two titles. Employers come to mind.
Well for me the word partner cropped up more and more often as the nineties grew older with people perhaps finding themselves victims of discrimination if their marital status or sexuality was to become public knowledge. In a world too often dominated by conservative values unmarried couples with children and same sex marriages were, and let’s be honest, still are frowned upon even in more liberal socities. Whereas the latter group have highlighted this point through their reception at Gay Pride marches, the former too finds itself getting the short end of the stick when it comes to basic legislation. A former student of mine, on hearing that my girlfriend was expecting, actually advised me to get married if I wanted to avoid the reams of paper work which would most certainly be incurred. I didn’t listen to her and needless to say in hindsight it was the worst thing I could have done.
I, personally, still use girlfriend when referring to my partner as we are unmarried but sometimes wonder as to the juvenility of that. Some of my friends have even suggested that girlfriend seems less commital, though these people also reside in the married domain and therefore may be begging the question.
Occasionally I have to wonder as to a person’s sexuality if they mention their ‘partner’ but allow time and further information to raise me from my ignorance. Now ‘girlfriend’ as sometimes used by my female students to refer to their friends who are girls still manages to draw a giggle. Boys will be boys!
On the whole whether you use partner, wife, lover, girlfriend, spouse it makes no difference for love by its nature renders the inane tolerable, and by inane I mean any debate on titles! Careful now!
The first thing I want to say is that it is my intention to create a language based site where students can come to read articles, correspond, ask and even answer* questions concerning usage of grammar and vocabulary. Because (!) English is a rapidly expanding language and is important in so many fields, not only business, I feel that an open mind is necessary to appreciate exactly what these changes mean. Forget what your teacher told you in school ten years ago, well not forget exactly, just keep in mind that things have moved on even in the last decade and that what was once true of the language may not now necessarily be so. With the advent of TV the influence of American English started to first creep back across the water, and now so much farther down the line, internet, SMS, for example, we find a truly blended usage of the living language, sometimes to the point that I, as an English teacher, am uncertain as to the original usage.**
*/** As a teacher I have come across questions which I have answered confidently only to learn later that what I’ve expressed is old-fashioned, or maybe even too colloquial. English has this capacity which is one of the reasons that makes it durable, as well as exciting. Come along with me and I’ll show you how.
In Jim Cashman’s, Tara-val, Andi is shopping…
She stirs, she rubs her eyes; her nose it itches, maybe.
She snorts, and shuffles, and settles back.
She’s a babe in wraps, encased as she is within the atmosphere of this Irish, this Cork pub.
She sleeps while the atmosphere resonates. I wonder if she dreams in Cork, the Corkonian lure fluttering at the veils of her subconscious.
The notion that she is among people, their chattering, the clink and clatter of dishes, the voice of the barman querying, and here the words fall torrential on this page racing from back to front to meet a centre…
And still she sleeps.
Szeretlek!
Between choices I found myself again, having biting the bullet and letting emotion cloud my judgement. I had been wrong; I had reasoned incorrectly and because of this, now, here, I find myself, once more, sitting, wondering as to the consequence of my next move…
