Full disclosure: weekends aren't good for me right now.
Please stop sharing hopeful but unfounded information. As it stands today, I've seen no evidence that kids will go back to school in September. We certainly won't be gathering this summer. I'd be happy to be proven wrong -- before copying and pasting, include your sources.
All you are doing is giving the hordes of uneducated, selfish people out there a reason to give us the collective middle finger somewhere down the road and refuse to quarantine, since we just keep moving the goalposts.
Don't be part of this problem. Please.
UPDATE:
And just in case you're reading this, thinking, "Boy, he needs some perspective," I assure you, I have it.
I am not worried about my family; not too much, anyway. I'm lucky -- well, in many ways -- that my children were born without complications, and probably have close as good a chance as I do of beating COVID-19, should they contract it.
No, it's the vulnerable people in my community that I'm very worried for. Thanks to the organic nature of my volunteering, a few years back, I can now bring a dozen lovely faces to mind in the blink of an eye who are very vulnerable indeed; either because they're much older, have been diagnosed with COPD or similar, or are severely disabled and vulnerable to even the common varieties of respiratory illnesses, let alone COVID.
Unfortunately, some of those faces I've just brought to mind won't make it to the end of this year. I know this. It's simple maths: they will contract COVID, and they will succumb. I'm trying to prepare myself for this as best I can. What is completely avoidable, and would be horrifically tragic, is if they all died. This year. And that too is a very real possibility. If the curve doesn't flatten and stay there, we'll eventually get to herd immunity numbers, and that will mean, barring a miracle, that every single one of those faces I can bring to mind will contract COVID-19, with a sadly predictable outcome.
That is what I'm trying to avoid, with what little power my voice and this platform provide. And, believe me, it is based in pragmatism, and the horrible knowledge of just how little some people will change their behaviour, even were I to say all this from knees, in front of them.
Monday, April 06, 2020
Thursday, December 12, 2019
Centrist nostalgia
I can't remember a time that I was more angry while voting.
My partner had tipped me to our MP's presence at our polling station. I found myself imagining the conversation, as I pushed the double pram to nursery. What started off as very level-headed comments -- and compliments, truly: whatever Mr. Chalk's colours, I don't question his commitment to his constituency, and found myself enjoying our one conversation, which actually had nothing to do with politics -- over the course of dropping off my son and then heading to the polling station, turned decidedly sour, and, by the time the helpful polling staff were directing me to the proper side of the station, was a full-blown rant.
It was completely incongruous: these boiling emotions inside me, while around me, polling station staff cooed at my infant daughter, smiling as she's so apt to.
Mr. Chalk had moved on by this point, but, to be honest, it wouldn't have mattered who was there, vying to represent the constituency: I had something for everyone, and none of it complimentary (or even coherent at that point, likely). I wanted to spoil my ballot with a concise summary of what I thought of the politics of attack and lies, on all sides; I still had a sliver of hope, however, that holding my nose and voting tactically would have some part to play.
You know what I miss? The days of old -- I know, "OK Boomer" or whatever they say now -- when most of the parties could be summed up as variations on vanilla. Where you really had to dig to find the nuances between the policies, even if the manifestos were based on different (but tamely so, with hindsight) philosophies. And, yes, there were attack ads, but they were regulated; you knew who paid for them, and they paid at the polls for such tactics (in as much as I could influence things, anyway). And, yes, there was "_Read_ _my_ _lips_," and all sorts of other horse-pucky, but, at the end of the day, you still felt that they could work with those they disagreed with, for the betterment of the country.
Now, parties are tripping over themselves to declare who they won't work with, months before we even know the lay of the political landscape. It's completely cut-throat. It's about winning, and holding power, at all costs. It's short-sighted, petty, frantic, and it has set this country on a course of harm, for the medium term certainly, and likely for the long term as well. Why aren't these people more invested in the country? In its actual future, thirty or forty years from now? It makes me sick. Truly, it does.
My partner had tipped me to our MP's presence at our polling station. I found myself imagining the conversation, as I pushed the double pram to nursery. What started off as very level-headed comments -- and compliments, truly: whatever Mr. Chalk's colours, I don't question his commitment to his constituency, and found myself enjoying our one conversation, which actually had nothing to do with politics -- over the course of dropping off my son and then heading to the polling station, turned decidedly sour, and, by the time the helpful polling staff were directing me to the proper side of the station, was a full-blown rant.
It was completely incongruous: these boiling emotions inside me, while around me, polling station staff cooed at my infant daughter, smiling as she's so apt to.
Mr. Chalk had moved on by this point, but, to be honest, it wouldn't have mattered who was there, vying to represent the constituency: I had something for everyone, and none of it complimentary (or even coherent at that point, likely). I wanted to spoil my ballot with a concise summary of what I thought of the politics of attack and lies, on all sides; I still had a sliver of hope, however, that holding my nose and voting tactically would have some part to play.
You know what I miss? The days of old -- I know, "OK Boomer" or whatever they say now -- when most of the parties could be summed up as variations on vanilla. Where you really had to dig to find the nuances between the policies, even if the manifestos were based on different (but tamely so, with hindsight) philosophies. And, yes, there were attack ads, but they were regulated; you knew who paid for them, and they paid at the polls for such tactics (in as much as I could influence things, anyway). And, yes, there was "_Read_ _my_ _lips_," and all sorts of other horse-pucky, but, at the end of the day, you still felt that they could work with those they disagreed with, for the betterment of the country.
Now, parties are tripping over themselves to declare who they won't work with, months before we even know the lay of the political landscape. It's completely cut-throat. It's about winning, and holding power, at all costs. It's short-sighted, petty, frantic, and it has set this country on a course of harm, for the medium term certainly, and likely for the long term as well. Why aren't these people more invested in the country? In its actual future, thirty or forty years from now? It makes me sick. Truly, it does.
Tuesday, October 03, 2017
The Petty Season
My heart sank when I saw Tom Petty and RIP was trending on Twitter. But my infant son was crying, so off I went. Even later, quietly talking with my wife over the little guy's snoozing head, about how much the man's music has meant to me, I hadn't really taken it in. But seeing confirmation a few minutes ago has done it: a proper gut punch; it's still a ball there as I write.
I wasn't OG Heartbreakers or anything. As far as music goes, if it wasn't on the blandest radio stations, I didn't hear it. That's my childhood writ large, when it comes to entertainment: my brother and I would get to rent a VCR on our birthday, but other than that, it was the dozen or so channels of terrestrial TV and the radio. Then, when I was 15, we got cable! Muchmusic blew my mind! And one of the many tunes that grabbed me was I Won't Back Down by Tom Petty.
And I think it was probably after Into The Great Wide Open, one birthday, my favourite uncle bought me three cassettes: Damn The Torpedoes..., Pack Up The Plantation Live!, and Southern Accents. I've gotta be honest: I wasn't thrilled. The sound was different. But I kept playin' them, out of politeness more than curiosity, to begin with. And while Free Fallin' was still king of my Walkman, Damn The Torpedoes..., in particular, started creepin' up the play count. And then I bought the whole back catalogue.
Free Fallin' and Wildflowers got the most plays over the years, I'd say. I sunk a lot of time into Playback too. But it was more than that. Tom Petty got me into Bob Dylan (I know, I know), Jeff Lynne... The Travellin' Wilburys' first album is still one of my favourites, period. I didn't keep up with the catalogue, to be honest, but it was all on my wish list. Even at Petty's cheesiest, I found joy.
And there was more to come. I just keep thinking 66 is way too soon. It feels like I've been thinking that for ages: we lost my wife's dad to cancer this year. He was 66, and so excited to be a grandfather. You can't help but think about how short our time is. My 20s seem like yesterday. I know I'll be 60 in the blink of an eye. I read a quote last night about how it can help new parents to think of their life in terms of seasons. Without a doubt, the soundtrack to the season of my youth would be full of Tom Petty.
I wasn't OG Heartbreakers or anything. As far as music goes, if it wasn't on the blandest radio stations, I didn't hear it. That's my childhood writ large, when it comes to entertainment: my brother and I would get to rent a VCR on our birthday, but other than that, it was the dozen or so channels of terrestrial TV and the radio. Then, when I was 15, we got cable! Muchmusic blew my mind! And one of the many tunes that grabbed me was I Won't Back Down by Tom Petty.
And I think it was probably after Into The Great Wide Open, one birthday, my favourite uncle bought me three cassettes: Damn The Torpedoes..., Pack Up The Plantation Live!, and Southern Accents. I've gotta be honest: I wasn't thrilled. The sound was different. But I kept playin' them, out of politeness more than curiosity, to begin with. And while Free Fallin' was still king of my Walkman, Damn The Torpedoes..., in particular, started creepin' up the play count. And then I bought the whole back catalogue.
Free Fallin' and Wildflowers got the most plays over the years, I'd say. I sunk a lot of time into Playback too. But it was more than that. Tom Petty got me into Bob Dylan (I know, I know), Jeff Lynne... The Travellin' Wilburys' first album is still one of my favourites, period. I didn't keep up with the catalogue, to be honest, but it was all on my wish list. Even at Petty's cheesiest, I found joy.
And there was more to come. I just keep thinking 66 is way too soon. It feels like I've been thinking that for ages: we lost my wife's dad to cancer this year. He was 66, and so excited to be a grandfather. You can't help but think about how short our time is. My 20s seem like yesterday. I know I'll be 60 in the blink of an eye. I read a quote last night about how it can help new parents to think of their life in terms of seasons. Without a doubt, the soundtrack to the season of my youth would be full of Tom Petty.
Wednesday, August 16, 2017
On history and reverence
I had planned to write a post questioning the wisdom of removing the statue of General Robert E. Lee from Charlottesville, Virginia. While I thought I understood the motives behind it, the whole enterprise struck me as wrong-headed; the energy could be better spent, was to be my sentiment. (Plus, I'd loved the Dukes of Hazzard as a kid!)
I've had a change of heart.
But a few hours' research has shown this latest effort by Charlottesville's City Council to be but one part of a groundswell across the American South, over many years, against all symbols of the Confederacy. I'd remembered that there was a lot of controversy around the Confederate flag about two years ago, but it was the many retailers' bans that stuck with me; and that, as erring on the safe side, for sales. What I didn't take in, at all, was the public sentiment against the flag, particularly amongst black, and more educated white, Americans in the South.1 And now reading about locals avoiding, not only the vicinity of these monuments, but also parks bearing the prominent names2... It strikes a chord.
The Mayor of New Orleans, Mitch Landrieu, was quoted referencing the decision to remove their statue of Lee:3
Even if I had the hubris to rail against the wishes of the people who must live in the shadows of these monuments, that distinction -- history versus reverence -- has undone the last of my conviction. It isn't about
It sounds to me like these communities need this.
1. Poll: Majority sees Confederate flag as Southern pride symbol, not racist, CNN, 02/07/2015.
2. People Show Support for, Opposition to Lee Statue in Charlottesville, NBC 29 WVIR, 22/03/2016.
3. New Orleans removes its final Confederate-era statue, The Guardian, 20/05/2017.
4. Condoleezza Rice on Removing Civil War Monuments: 'Sanitizing History to Make You Feel Better Is a Bad Thing', Independent Journal Review, 05/2017.
5. The Making of Robert E. Lee, Michael Fellman, 2000.
EDIT (28/08/2017): CBC published an analysis by Aaron Wherry a few days ago entitled, ANALYSIS: Should John A. Macdonald's name be removed from schools? It is at least a question worth asking: Confronting the good and the bad of Canada's first prime minister.
Initially, I'd planned to draw parallels to the situation in Canada in this post; these sentiments were similarly uninformed, unsurprisingly. I'd actually thought, while reading about what was happening to everything bearing Lee's name and image, that, by that rationale, Sir John A.'s got to go then, for what his government did to Riel alone, never mind those awful schools. It was a sarcastic thought.
In this too, I've had a change of heart.
Quoted by Wherry, Isadore Day, Regional Chief of Ontario, actually hit a note similar to Landrieu's when he questioned the wisdom of
Be sure to teach what both the government of the day, and its official opposition, advocated regarding the Indigenous population. But leave it off the outside of the building where it's done.
I've had a change of heart.
But a few hours' research has shown this latest effort by Charlottesville's City Council to be but one part of a groundswell across the American South, over many years, against all symbols of the Confederacy. I'd remembered that there was a lot of controversy around the Confederate flag about two years ago, but it was the many retailers' bans that stuck with me; and that, as erring on the safe side, for sales. What I didn't take in, at all, was the public sentiment against the flag, particularly amongst black, and more educated white, Americans in the South.1 And now reading about locals avoiding, not only the vicinity of these monuments, but also parks bearing the prominent names2... It strikes a chord.
The Mayor of New Orleans, Mitch Landrieu, was quoted referencing the decision to remove their statue of Lee:3
It's not good to continue to revere... [to] put the Confederacy on a pedestal... [And if critics of the removal don't believe that,] the people of New Orleans believe it and we don't want these statues in places of reverence, they need to be in places of remembrance.
Even if I had the hubris to rail against the wishes of the people who must live in the shadows of these monuments, that distinction -- history versus reverence -- has undone the last of my conviction. It isn't about
sanitizing [America's] history,4 as Condoleeza Rice has been quoted, speaking against the removals and renamings in general: it's about acknowledgement and reconciliation, which Lee himself was a proponent of in the wake of the Civil War. In 1866, he was called to testify before the Joint Congressional Committee on Reconstruction:5
... [E]very one with whom I associate expresses kind feelings towards the freedmen. They wish to see them get on in the world, and particularly to take up some occupation for a living, and to turn their hands to some work.
It sounds to me like these communities need this.
EDIT (28/08/2017): CBC published an analysis by Aaron Wherry a few days ago entitled, ANALYSIS: Should John A. Macdonald's name be removed from schools? It is at least a question worth asking: Confronting the good and the bad of Canada's first prime minister.
Initially, I'd planned to draw parallels to the situation in Canada in this post; these sentiments were similarly uninformed, unsurprisingly. I'd actually thought, while reading about what was happening to everything bearing Lee's name and image, that, by that rationale, Sir John A.'s got to go then, for what his government did to Riel alone, never mind those awful schools. It was a sarcastic thought.
In this too, I've had a change of heart.
Quoted by Wherry, Isadore Day, Regional Chief of Ontario, actually hit a note similar to Landrieu's when he questioned the wisdom of
[e]levating people to that stature.And National Chief Perry Bellegarde, quoted in an article linked in the piece, really drives the point home, for me:
How would you feel if you were a young First Nations person going to that school, knowing full well that Sir John A. Macdonald was one of the architects behind the residential school system? ... You wouldn't want to feel good about attending that school, would you? Because I wouldn't.
Be sure to teach what both the government of the day, and its official opposition, advocated regarding the Indigenous population. But leave it off the outside of the building where it's done.
Tuesday, August 08, 2017
Feeling good
I'm starting to feel good again. For long stretches.
I haven't felt the need to take any Amitriptyline in a long time. (I was prescribed a low dose for anxiety back in April, and I honestly don't know what I would've done without it.) I have been a bit anxious at times recently, but knowing it's there has been enough to see me through.
My mom's visiting. Nothing phases her. (She'd probably laugh to read that.) That wasn't always the case, believe me. I don't know when that started to change, but I actually found it upsetting, initially. I would find myself goading her, trying to get a reaction. Psychotherapy helped me reframe that. Now I just ask more and more pointed questions. She'll probably tell me to piss off at some point, but, in the meantime, it's, well, very liberating, frankly.
I've been lucky enough to get a large chunk of psychotherapy sessions through the NHS. If I'm honest, I was more than a bit skeptical at the outset. But I gave it my best shot. Where I'd sunk to... Well, there'd be no getting out on my own, I knew that. And I think it was in the third session that I had what I'd legitimately call a break-through. Since then -- and that was probably almost two months ago now -- I've been able to think about my anxiety, my rage, my hurt, in a different way. And I know I'm fortunate, to have this opportunity, to be sharing my life with a woman whose vows have been sorely tested too soon.
Talking with both my parents has also really helped. I still find this so surprising. This can't be the first time their counsel has done so, but I'll be damned if I can remember anything like this, sitting here now. I'm lucky they're both still alive to give it.
I walked up to the Painswick Beacon today with a new meetup. The views were breathtaking. And having my boy warm against my chest made it so much more special, daydreaming of him running off ahead, like the other kids were. Two six-year-old girls caught my attention: they were thick as thieves; yet they'd only met an hour before. I had to ask one of the mums twice; I could hardly fathom it. I'm looking forward to that too.
I want to help people again. Not like I used to -- I doubt I'll ever be able to throw so much of me into that again -- but I do want to do it. I'm getting excited about Tandemonium again, where, six months ago I was a hair's breadth from adding it to the half dozen resignations of that awful, awful weekend.
That seems like a long time ago now.
I haven't felt the need to take any Amitriptyline in a long time. (I was prescribed a low dose for anxiety back in April, and I honestly don't know what I would've done without it.) I have been a bit anxious at times recently, but knowing it's there has been enough to see me through.
My mom's visiting. Nothing phases her. (She'd probably laugh to read that.) That wasn't always the case, believe me. I don't know when that started to change, but I actually found it upsetting, initially. I would find myself goading her, trying to get a reaction. Psychotherapy helped me reframe that. Now I just ask more and more pointed questions. She'll probably tell me to piss off at some point, but, in the meantime, it's, well, very liberating, frankly.
I've been lucky enough to get a large chunk of psychotherapy sessions through the NHS. If I'm honest, I was more than a bit skeptical at the outset. But I gave it my best shot. Where I'd sunk to... Well, there'd be no getting out on my own, I knew that. And I think it was in the third session that I had what I'd legitimately call a break-through. Since then -- and that was probably almost two months ago now -- I've been able to think about my anxiety, my rage, my hurt, in a different way. And I know I'm fortunate, to have this opportunity, to be sharing my life with a woman whose vows have been sorely tested too soon.
Talking with both my parents has also really helped. I still find this so surprising. This can't be the first time their counsel has done so, but I'll be damned if I can remember anything like this, sitting here now. I'm lucky they're both still alive to give it.
I walked up to the Painswick Beacon today with a new meetup. The views were breathtaking. And having my boy warm against my chest made it so much more special, daydreaming of him running off ahead, like the other kids were. Two six-year-old girls caught my attention: they were thick as thieves; yet they'd only met an hour before. I had to ask one of the mums twice; I could hardly fathom it. I'm looking forward to that too.
I want to help people again. Not like I used to -- I doubt I'll ever be able to throw so much of me into that again -- but I do want to do it. I'm getting excited about Tandemonium again, where, six months ago I was a hair's breadth from adding it to the half dozen resignations of that awful, awful weekend.
That seems like a long time ago now.
Sunday, June 26, 2016
To my shame, Brexit and the Idiot Platform
I spent a coach journey home in Radiotopia, listening to Benjamen Walker's Theory of Everything and Love+Radio; specifically, The Future, Platform of the Real, and The Silver Dollar. In Platform of the Real, John Herrman refers to sites like Facebook as platforms, and, as the episode closes, says they're now the venue for culture - it's a nuanced point, detailing the changing relationship between creators, the media industry and audiences, but it was that simple statement that struck me, and, as the title of this post states, shamed me.
For the past two mornings, I'd been wallowing, laying in bed, scrolling through Facebook on my phone, sinking lower and lower. Where normally there'd be a stream of banality and babies, the algorithm was now full-on Brexit. But, disturbingly -- though, unsurprisingly -- it was populated by the more reserved of my 'friends', being anything but; the anguish, regrets, and pledges for the future were hard to read, reflecting much of what I'd been dealing with since Friday morning.
We were staying with friends in London this weekend, in close quarters, and the scenario of us all on phones, "Did you read this?" "Yes, did you see that?" between rooms, all on the platform, just exacerbated these feelings, from my point of view.
Then I cracked. Lamenting to those around me wasn't enough.
I too shouted at the void.
I had posted late Thursday, blandly, reliving the horror of that other recent election night, sick with it afresh, and, in retrospect, assured that tomorrow would see the sun rise on the status quo. Now, I attempted to redact that with fresh sentiments, in one of those posts of a few lines that takes an hour to write, such is glut of things to say, that no words can keep up with the inner diatribe.
And then I got called out. From another circle, outside the EU, importantly. Nothing awful; just a question: what's the matter with you?
I felt embarrassed. What was the matter with me? I needed to get a grip. I'd listened to BBC Radio 4's More or Less five-part program on the referendum on the coach trip to London. I knew it wouldn't be the end of the world. And yet I was one of those people. And others -- many others! -- had seen. And, worse still, as I tried to justify myself -- both the initial statement, and subsequent shout -- the enormity of my ignorance began to sink in. The frequency with which I consume traditional news sources has been dropping for years, but I looked upon the current state of my knowledge with fresh, ashamed eyes.
Loathe though I was to admit it, the platform was my culture. I was one of them. To be summed up by one hardly-insightful statement on a podcast. And, even more disturbing, many of the people I respect were doing the very same thing, from a more informed position, undoubtedly, but there just the same.
As I listened to the rest of Platform of the Real, this sense of dread, about the future of media in particular, started to take hold. It seemed to be a problem slipping beyond the control of any of the traditional checks and balances. Then my mind drifted back to The Future, and, referring to the mid 2000s, what they called the Rise of the Idiot. I could see post after post in a gallery someone had shared that morning: absolute vitriol, and in the real world as well, with people sharing their coming face-to-face with hate, just days after what many now clearly see as a mandate to hate.
And how can we safely oppose them? Daryl Davis, interviewed for The Silver Dollar, recounted unquestionably-great successes by, one on one, giving people a platform to be heard, and replying in measured tones, over time. But that was a long time ago, and this Rise of the Idiot seems a problem on an entirely different scale. What to do, in the face of this mob? I too want to stand beside my friends in a pledge to do more, but feel woefully ill-informed and awash in the hate.
For the past two mornings, I'd been wallowing, laying in bed, scrolling through Facebook on my phone, sinking lower and lower. Where normally there'd be a stream of banality and babies, the algorithm was now full-on Brexit. But, disturbingly -- though, unsurprisingly -- it was populated by the more reserved of my 'friends', being anything but; the anguish, regrets, and pledges for the future were hard to read, reflecting much of what I'd been dealing with since Friday morning.
We were staying with friends in London this weekend, in close quarters, and the scenario of us all on phones, "Did you read this?" "Yes, did you see that?" between rooms, all on the platform, just exacerbated these feelings, from my point of view.
Then I cracked. Lamenting to those around me wasn't enough.
I too shouted at the void.
I had posted late Thursday, blandly, reliving the horror of that other recent election night, sick with it afresh, and, in retrospect, assured that tomorrow would see the sun rise on the status quo. Now, I attempted to redact that with fresh sentiments, in one of those posts of a few lines that takes an hour to write, such is glut of things to say, that no words can keep up with the inner diatribe.
And then I got called out. From another circle, outside the EU, importantly. Nothing awful; just a question: what's the matter with you?
I felt embarrassed. What was the matter with me? I needed to get a grip. I'd listened to BBC Radio 4's More or Less five-part program on the referendum on the coach trip to London. I knew it wouldn't be the end of the world. And yet I was one of those people. And others -- many others! -- had seen. And, worse still, as I tried to justify myself -- both the initial statement, and subsequent shout -- the enormity of my ignorance began to sink in. The frequency with which I consume traditional news sources has been dropping for years, but I looked upon the current state of my knowledge with fresh, ashamed eyes.
Loathe though I was to admit it, the platform was my culture. I was one of them. To be summed up by one hardly-insightful statement on a podcast. And, even more disturbing, many of the people I respect were doing the very same thing, from a more informed position, undoubtedly, but there just the same.
As I listened to the rest of Platform of the Real, this sense of dread, about the future of media in particular, started to take hold. It seemed to be a problem slipping beyond the control of any of the traditional checks and balances. Then my mind drifted back to The Future, and, referring to the mid 2000s, what they called the Rise of the Idiot. I could see post after post in a gallery someone had shared that morning: absolute vitriol, and in the real world as well, with people sharing their coming face-to-face with hate, just days after what many now clearly see as a mandate to hate.
And how can we safely oppose them? Daryl Davis, interviewed for The Silver Dollar, recounted unquestionably-great successes by, one on one, giving people a platform to be heard, and replying in measured tones, over time. But that was a long time ago, and this Rise of the Idiot seems a problem on an entirely different scale. What to do, in the face of this mob? I too want to stand beside my friends in a pledge to do more, but feel woefully ill-informed and awash in the hate.
Wednesday, June 15, 2016
Potential versus fame, or Be all that you can be versus Be more of a somebody
I just finished listening to Episode #9 of Millennial, entitled "Becoming More of a Somebody" and it's brought up a lot of conflicting emotions. Right at the top of them is that this is the sort of thinking that comes from growing up believing that you can do anything, which seems so much more prevalent today than it was in the 80s. (Which is the broadest of generalisations, I realise. I feel like stereotypes were so strong back then, with real power.) I found myself thinking that Lee, one of the three awarded the much-sought-after Kroc Fellowship, got it because he'd done something else; that NPR didn't want another enthusiastic, but -- in terms of varied walks of life and work -- inexperienced voice on the radio. Lee'd taught. Maybe something in his pitch or his approach was new to them, and they liked it.
The idea that everyone is a somebody is something I live now, every day. Working for a SEN charity, it's a given. What follows from that is helping people reach their potential - another phrase I don't think I really understood before seeing how people can be beaten down, through actions and words, obviously, but also through simple assumptions, to the point where they don't even know what they're really capable of, let alone believing they can achieve it. So you're helping them recognise and reach for that, and, ultimately, hoping they'll find a place in a community, and some happiness.
But it can also be a crippling idea.
For years I didn't have any strong feelings about what I wanted to do. I chose Computer Science as a field in my last year of high school, and accepted the first position I was offered upon graduating. I was earning good money in a stable job before I really had time to worry about it; something that the Millennial podcast has helped me appreciate, in retrospect. But that lack of strong feeling persisted, and then the "Be Somebody!" platform of the Internet arrived. Things like Geocities were almost exclusively soapboxes. And that's the danger I'm referring to. For me -- and Megan Tan obviously, given the title of that episode -- being somebody meant being somebody with something to say, and recognised as such; someone to stand out from the crowd; that there are somebodies and then there are SOMEBODIES, which, while obviously a contradiction, I found insidious.
It's the wanting to have something to say, wanting that creative spark, that put me in such a quandary for so many years. I was taking vocational tests, worrying about the colour of my parachute, searching for my passion, for my 'thing'. (Unfortunately, I didn't actually try anything, like joining clubs or volunteering my time.) I think a big part of why much of that has quieted in recent years is that I've finally come to realise that life isn't just about creating. It's also about doing; about, well, living. (Call it living by example if you want, although that makes me feel a bit uncomfortable, like I'm in church again.) For example, just by being there for someone, every day, or even once a week, gets that message across, that they're somebody, in a way that I could never express through essay, poem, short film, etc. And it gets played back to you, of course: I know I'm somebody because I see it in the faces of the people I help, the people I love. I don't know why it took me so long to understand that. Likely, it's that I wasn't doing enough, to get that positive reinforcement.
And it isn't that I'm now free from doubt. After listening to an episode like that, I'm still going down rabbit-holes: "I've experienced so much," "I could bring so much to a radio show," "What should I create?" And then I laugh and hop on my blog.
The idea that everyone is a somebody is something I live now, every day. Working for a SEN charity, it's a given. What follows from that is helping people reach their potential - another phrase I don't think I really understood before seeing how people can be beaten down, through actions and words, obviously, but also through simple assumptions, to the point where they don't even know what they're really capable of, let alone believing they can achieve it. So you're helping them recognise and reach for that, and, ultimately, hoping they'll find a place in a community, and some happiness.
But it can also be a crippling idea.
For years I didn't have any strong feelings about what I wanted to do. I chose Computer Science as a field in my last year of high school, and accepted the first position I was offered upon graduating. I was earning good money in a stable job before I really had time to worry about it; something that the Millennial podcast has helped me appreciate, in retrospect. But that lack of strong feeling persisted, and then the "Be Somebody!" platform of the Internet arrived. Things like Geocities were almost exclusively soapboxes. And that's the danger I'm referring to. For me -- and Megan Tan obviously, given the title of that episode -- being somebody meant being somebody with something to say, and recognised as such; someone to stand out from the crowd; that there are somebodies and then there are SOMEBODIES, which, while obviously a contradiction, I found insidious.
It's the wanting to have something to say, wanting that creative spark, that put me in such a quandary for so many years. I was taking vocational tests, worrying about the colour of my parachute, searching for my passion, for my 'thing'. (Unfortunately, I didn't actually try anything, like joining clubs or volunteering my time.) I think a big part of why much of that has quieted in recent years is that I've finally come to realise that life isn't just about creating. It's also about doing; about, well, living. (Call it living by example if you want, although that makes me feel a bit uncomfortable, like I'm in church again.) For example, just by being there for someone, every day, or even once a week, gets that message across, that they're somebody, in a way that I could never express through essay, poem, short film, etc. And it gets played back to you, of course: I know I'm somebody because I see it in the faces of the people I help, the people I love. I don't know why it took me so long to understand that. Likely, it's that I wasn't doing enough, to get that positive reinforcement.
And it isn't that I'm now free from doubt. After listening to an episode like that, I'm still going down rabbit-holes: "I've experienced so much," "I could bring so much to a radio show," "What should I create?" And then I laugh and hop on my blog.
Monday, February 29, 2016
Moments in Henley-on-Thames
Lost in heartache? Immerse yourself in art. It's cliché, but I was reminded of that advice last week while in Henley-on-Thames. I had a few days off, and spent much of it on that stretch of the Thames Path, and in the River & Rowing Museum.
As I recall, the advice suggests that such exposure will lead one to the inevitable conclusion that human suffering is ubiquitous, and, importantly, survivable. What came to mind, after exploring some of Hockney's works, and reading Murakami's focused memoir, was how a more general sense of connectedness and wonderment can also come from those sorts of moments.
David Hockney: from the beginning takes up but one room in the River & Rowing Museum, and, at first glance, didn't seem like much. Close to three hours later, I left, my head abuzz. From the collection highlighting his fascination with water to his narrating footage of his creating an etching and having it printed, I found the selections absorbing and compelling. My favourite was A Bigger Splash (1973) - all 105 minutes of it, and worth every one. I loved its pace and simplicity, and the way his works came alive in it - the live-action mirroring of The Room and Beverly Hills Housewife, for example, and growth of Portrait of an Artist (Pool with Two Figures). And to think that all this was created when my parents were in the prime of their youth. I can't explain why that thought kept circling my head. It was all so vibrant, crackling with an energy all the more apparent in the measured stillness; in a word, it felt modern.
And the day before, I'd spied a tantalising, stylised road to the horizon on the cover of a Vintage edition of Haruki Murakami's What I Talk About When I Talk About Running on a rack in the bigger Oxfam shop in Henley. Walking the Thames Path, listening to the wildfowl, and the terse instructions from a coach astride a bicycle - gosh, that's awkward... Cycling coach doesn't work... Nor does becycled coach, I'm sad to say - to his rowing student, as they both easily outpaced me in a matter of moments, I was reminded of Murakami's joy in running without music. As he comments, one can't help but feel privileged - in my case, as I looked out over patchwork sunlight on the distant marsh. And, simply put, it's inherently uplifting to read about someone harnessing that much energy - both physical and mental - particularly at the age Murakami is writing about (and at the age I'm reading it!).
In summary, I'd hoped that the opportunity for a few days away in a new place would be a short vacation of sorts, and, between the outstanding weather, beautiful surroundings and chance encounters with art, came away with so much more.
As I recall, the advice suggests that such exposure will lead one to the inevitable conclusion that human suffering is ubiquitous, and, importantly, survivable. What came to mind, after exploring some of Hockney's works, and reading Murakami's focused memoir, was how a more general sense of connectedness and wonderment can also come from those sorts of moments.
David Hockney: from the beginning takes up but one room in the River & Rowing Museum, and, at first glance, didn't seem like much. Close to three hours later, I left, my head abuzz. From the collection highlighting his fascination with water to his narrating footage of his creating an etching and having it printed, I found the selections absorbing and compelling. My favourite was A Bigger Splash (1973) - all 105 minutes of it, and worth every one. I loved its pace and simplicity, and the way his works came alive in it - the live-action mirroring of The Room and Beverly Hills Housewife, for example, and growth of Portrait of an Artist (Pool with Two Figures). And to think that all this was created when my parents were in the prime of their youth. I can't explain why that thought kept circling my head. It was all so vibrant, crackling with an energy all the more apparent in the measured stillness; in a word, it felt modern.
And the day before, I'd spied a tantalising, stylised road to the horizon on the cover of a Vintage edition of Haruki Murakami's What I Talk About When I Talk About Running on a rack in the bigger Oxfam shop in Henley. Walking the Thames Path, listening to the wildfowl, and the terse instructions from a coach astride a bicycle - gosh, that's awkward... Cycling coach doesn't work... Nor does becycled coach, I'm sad to say - to his rowing student, as they both easily outpaced me in a matter of moments, I was reminded of Murakami's joy in running without music. As he comments, one can't help but feel privileged - in my case, as I looked out over patchwork sunlight on the distant marsh. And, simply put, it's inherently uplifting to read about someone harnessing that much energy - both physical and mental - particularly at the age Murakami is writing about (and at the age I'm reading it!).
In summary, I'd hoped that the opportunity for a few days away in a new place would be a short vacation of sorts, and, between the outstanding weather, beautiful surroundings and chance encounters with art, came away with so much more.
Friday, January 29, 2016
I think I've got the care bug...
What's happened to me? I'm honestly unsure. I got back from a 3-11pm shift last night completely charged up. And then today I wrote the organiser of a work trip in March - to take students to a Cardiff Devils' game! - about the possibility of helping out - despite the fact that it's a 4pm-midnight shift, and I'm already down for an 8am-3pm shift that day. Whether I'd regret it on the day is an open question, but that I'm even contemplating it... It's, well, mind-boggling.
I'm completely unused to thinking about work this way.
And it isn't just work. More generally, I find myself wishing I had more time to volunteer. There are so many great organisations and causes right here in Gloucestershire, like The Butterfly Garden, that I still haven't given time to. And I do still have some free time. But, the thing is, I know myself: I need time to recoup; otherwise, those folks I'm trying to help simply won't get my best. I'm hoping my stamina will increase as I get used to this lifestyle, but the fact is that I've spent decades sitting around at work, and then at home on my own pursuits; it's a work in progress.
Then there's other time that is free, to a point. But those evenings - and every second weekend - are, well, really important to me. I've made a lot of mistakes in my personal life, but if I had to pin down the biggest, it'd be failing to properly invest in my relationships. Back then, it wasn't about any causes I was supporting - it shames me to say that, up until a few years ago, I was living entirely selfishly - but that tension is the same; and I don't want to lose sight of what's most important to me, hands down.
Phew. That got a bit heavy. Sorry 'bout that.
Another concern is that my current roster of charities really represent squeaky wheels, of a sort. In a nutshell, they responded quickly and often to my early offers of help. They're all great, and so I'm now struggling with the idea that I should probably step back from a few - particularly some of the weekly commitments - so that I can devote time to other causes. It's particularly difficult because the motivation is mostly selfish: I want to try new things. I landed my current job that way, and a big part of me wonders what else is out there that I might like and be good at; it'll likely be related to social care, but, my goodness, what a breadth of roles that covers, even with my limited understanding.
In summary, I need to either a) prioritise where I really want to help, or b) get my mind and body fit, so I can spend those days off more effectively, or c) clone myself... Or d) all of the above.
I'm completely unused to thinking about work this way.
And it isn't just work. More generally, I find myself wishing I had more time to volunteer. There are so many great organisations and causes right here in Gloucestershire, like The Butterfly Garden, that I still haven't given time to. And I do still have some free time. But, the thing is, I know myself: I need time to recoup; otherwise, those folks I'm trying to help simply won't get my best. I'm hoping my stamina will increase as I get used to this lifestyle, but the fact is that I've spent decades sitting around at work, and then at home on my own pursuits; it's a work in progress.
Then there's other time that is free, to a point. But those evenings - and every second weekend - are, well, really important to me. I've made a lot of mistakes in my personal life, but if I had to pin down the biggest, it'd be failing to properly invest in my relationships. Back then, it wasn't about any causes I was supporting - it shames me to say that, up until a few years ago, I was living entirely selfishly - but that tension is the same; and I don't want to lose sight of what's most important to me, hands down.
Phew. That got a bit heavy. Sorry 'bout that.
Another concern is that my current roster of charities really represent squeaky wheels, of a sort. In a nutshell, they responded quickly and often to my early offers of help. They're all great, and so I'm now struggling with the idea that I should probably step back from a few - particularly some of the weekly commitments - so that I can devote time to other causes. It's particularly difficult because the motivation is mostly selfish: I want to try new things. I landed my current job that way, and a big part of me wonders what else is out there that I might like and be good at; it'll likely be related to social care, but, my goodness, what a breadth of roles that covers, even with my limited understanding.
In summary, I need to either a) prioritise where I really want to help, or b) get my mind and body fit, so I can spend those days off more effectively, or c) clone myself... Or d) all of the above.
Wednesday, October 14, 2015
Ask your MP to support the Pavement Parking Bill!
December 4 is a big date for the latest Pavement Parking Bill! It's scheduled to have its second reading. As Guide Dogs have said, it needs 100 MPs, in Parliament, supporting it; a big ask!
Please write to your MP, asking for their support. I've included my letter below; feel free to pillage it as much as you like. :-)
BEGIN MESSAGE
Hello Mr Chalk,
My name is John Jarvis, and I live at [REDACTED- Make sure you include your full name and address, including post code! --JJ]
I know that you are concerned about the pavements of Cheltenham: just this summer you stated that improving their quality has to be a "top priority." Pavement parking is one of the main causes of damage to paving slabs, and is a major obstacle to not only the sight-impaired and blind -- as you experienced first-hand on your recent blindfolded walk -- but also families with pushchairs and those on mobility scooters.
In 2013, Guide Dogs released 'Parking Attitudes', which showed that 54% of those surveyed admitted to parking on pavements. Shockingly, over half of those people admitted to doing so despite considering the problems their parking decision would cause pedestrians. Certainly my own experience of guiding sight-impaired citizens around St Mark's and St Paul's in particular has reinforced this message: we simply cannot rely on others to park in a manner that isn't not only limiting, but also downright dangerous, for a great many of our fellow citizens.
Therefore, I hope I can count on your support of the Pavement Parking (Protection of Vulnerable Pedestrians) Bill 2015-16 at its second reading, now scheduled for Friday, December 4, 2015.
Kind regards,
John Jarvis
END MESSAGE
Update 08/04/2016: As you may be aware, the bill failed to pass its second reading. Mr Chalk had written me beforehand with his reasons for not supporting the bill; it was a well-reasoned letter, I must admit.
The latest news is that Guide Dogs is once again asking for your support! This time, they're looking to keep the pressure on DfT - and its Minister, specifically - to provide details on this research that's been promised, including when it will begin.
Please write to your MP, asking for their support. I've included my letter below; feel free to pillage it as much as you like. :-)
BEGIN MESSAGE
Hello Mr Chalk,
My name is John Jarvis, and I live at [REDACTED- Make sure you include your full name and address, including post code! --JJ]
I know that you are concerned about the pavements of Cheltenham: just this summer you stated that improving their quality has to be a "top priority." Pavement parking is one of the main causes of damage to paving slabs, and is a major obstacle to not only the sight-impaired and blind -- as you experienced first-hand on your recent blindfolded walk -- but also families with pushchairs and those on mobility scooters.
In 2013, Guide Dogs released 'Parking Attitudes', which showed that 54% of those surveyed admitted to parking on pavements. Shockingly, over half of those people admitted to doing so despite considering the problems their parking decision would cause pedestrians. Certainly my own experience of guiding sight-impaired citizens around St Mark's and St Paul's in particular has reinforced this message: we simply cannot rely on others to park in a manner that isn't not only limiting, but also downright dangerous, for a great many of our fellow citizens.
Therefore, I hope I can count on your support of the Pavement Parking (Protection of Vulnerable Pedestrians) Bill 2015-16 at its second reading, now scheduled for Friday, December 4, 2015.
Kind regards,
John Jarvis
END MESSAGE
Update 08/04/2016: As you may be aware, the bill failed to pass its second reading. Mr Chalk had written me beforehand with his reasons for not supporting the bill; it was a well-reasoned letter, I must admit.
The latest news is that Guide Dogs is once again asking for your support! This time, they're looking to keep the pressure on DfT - and its Minister, specifically - to provide details on this research that's been promised, including when it will begin.
Sunday, June 14, 2015
Peddling that lottery dream, or I feel dirty
I feel dirty.
I was scanning my RSS feed of the CBC's top stories when this title caught my eye: "How to plan your financial future after winning the lottery."
Initially, I just snorted and moved on. But then I stopped. Upset. Irritated. Why is my (old?) national news site wasting my time with this cruft? Surely the portion of Canadian tax dollars used to publish this pipe dream could be better spent? I mean, it turns out that it's a Canadian Press story, so I guess most of the work behind this story is funded by and serving corporate interests, but, still, the CBC is hosting it, right?
Just skimming the OLG site is enough to bring the corners of my mouth down. Again, I feel dirty. I mean, I can't be the only one who feels the glad-hands behind these sorts of statements (emphasis mine):
Ultimately, and, likely, naively, I wish these energies could be applied to efficiently allocating our tax dollars, increasing or decreasing taxation as required.
I was scanning my RSS feed of the CBC's top stories when this title caught my eye: "How to plan your financial future after winning the lottery."
Initially, I just snorted and moved on. But then I stopped. Upset. Irritated. Why is my (old?) national news site wasting my time with this cruft? Surely the portion of Canadian tax dollars used to publish this pipe dream could be better spent? I mean, it turns out that it's a Canadian Press story, so I guess most of the work behind this story is funded by and serving corporate interests, but, still, the CBC is hosting it, right?
Just skimming the OLG site is enough to bring the corners of my mouth down. Again, I feel dirty. I mean, I can't be the only one who feels the glad-hands behind these sorts of statements (emphasis mine):
That is a description of OLG's mandated activities. Beyond that is the scope of our operations and the significant benefit OLG's revenues and our business activities bring to the social and economic life of Ontario. As you journey through different areas of this website, you will find ample evidence of the themes that guide OLG's day-to-day activities: integrity, social responsibility, world-class entertainment, a 'customer first' mindset, safety and security, strong community partnerships and investments, openness and transparency, and pride in history and tradition.And, digging a little further, to their mission (again, my emphasis):
Second, OLG's net profit goes directly to the Government which uses it to support such services as the operation of hospitals; education, research, prevention and treatment of problem gambling; amateur sport through the Quest for Gold program; and local and provincial charities.Am I the only one who would like to see the Ontario Government simply fund that stuff directly through tax dollars? I know, it's terribly simplistic, and the lottery has been around for a very long time, but, again, I just feel dirty. Hayek would probably say that the complexities of these problems, and the best means of supporting their solutions, are beyond the comprehension of any one of us; that we need to focus on the abstract indicator of profit to light our way, as it were. (I'm still trying to bottom his economic theories out, including the context surrounding their genesis, and whether the dawn of globalization in the 80s had him qualifying any of it.) But it just seems wrong: funding, and fuelling -- through all sorts of media -- these pipe dreams for the betterment of society.
Ultimately, and, likely, naively, I wish these energies could be applied to efficiently allocating our tax dollars, increasing or decreasing taxation as required.
Friday, May 08, 2015
Unfriended, and won't someone think of the children!
I had a very odd experience this evening. As is the way of these things, two distinct events, by their coincidence, have both increased in importance in my head.
I was walking home from the cinema, discussing the movie Unfriended with my partner, when I heard a "Hey you!" from across the street. I ignored it, and continued to press some silly point. The shout was repeated. I looked across the road and saw four kids aged between, maybe, 9 and 12. (I'm absolutely terrible at this sort of thing, mind.)
What followed was very confused, because: 1) we were attempting to communicate across two lanes of traffic, 2) I'm pretty sure they were using a British expression for some sort of tit-for-tat game with the soccer ball one of them held, and 3) I wasn't really listening very well, because, hello, there are some kids over there, yelling at me and gesturing like they're going to throw that ball into busy traffic!
And then they did!
And... I was going to say, over the honking, screeching traffic of my imaginings, but that isn't what happened. Over the cars that silently stopped and then moved on once the ball was out of their way, they shouted, "Throw it back!"
I guess one of their number must've run across the street to fetch it at some point, because, even as I launched into my "Boys..."
I'm not kidding, I really think I said, "Boys."
"You can't play in traffic! Someone will get hurt! Honest, this isn't a game!"
That last bit's a direct quote; I remember because part of me was thinking, "Really? Really? That's the best you've got?" I was just so upset and wrong-footed.
Even as I threw myself to these young wolves, I saw they had the ball again.
Until they threw it once more. With similar results. (Thank goodness!)
I was beside myself at this point. I think they could tell. I don't remember what I said, in response to their entreaty to follow their lead, but I suspect it was more of that terribly-compelling stuff about getting hurt.
When I look back on it now -- and after the post-mortem (not literally, thank goodness!) with my partner -- I'm sure their ringleader -- who didn't appear to be the oldest, interestingly -- was genuinely confused by me. Whether it was my accent, or that the guy in a hoodie actually turned out to be his dad, I couldn't say.
They then left us alone, amazingly (with hindsight). Even after a cyclist, who'd passed us as I was twisting my ankle on a curb -- I hadn't even watched where I was going, such was my concern for these budding misanthropes -- came back our way and, kicking their ball with him, said, "This is where you steal their ball." His expression screamed, "Wow, you don't get this much, do you? Might want to keep your head there, mate." I don't know whether they ever came back for it.
But it might not have gone that way, under other circumstances. I assumed I was the guy who would just ignore that sort of lot; that I certainly wouldn't provoke, nor even invite banter. But apparently I was wrong. Apparently, my outrage at such blatant public endangerment can reach dizzying heights. Either that, or my threshold for speaking out has dropped considerably since last I checked.
Which, honestly, is a probably the case, and a big surprise.
It's that most pedestrian of things, though, isn't it? I'm getting older. I cannot possibly relate to these kids. I couldn't conceive of acting with such blatant disrespect for others at that, or any, age. If I did, and it ever got back to my parents, a hiding would've been the least of my worries. I mean, obviously the air's thick with a failure to parent here, but, as hinted at earlier, again my coincidence presses with likely-false significance.
During Unfriended, I couldn't help but think that many of the compromising positions the central character had been caught in were, in the grand scheme of things, not so bad. Survivable, certainly. And here too is my complete failure to relate. That to unplug from a persona that's been completely razed is just as impossible as picking up and leaving a 'real' life when you're under your parents' roof.
Which all points to an underlying worry: how do you raise a child in this environment? How do you instill in them, sensibilities about the consequences of posting a video of their peer paralytic drunk in their own mess, or of throwing a ball into traffic? I'm being a bit facetious here, of course: I think I have a handle on the latter, but the former isn't so simple; it's tied up with all sorts of things, like when do you buy them their first phone? Are the instincts that I've developed, from my own childhood on -- "Shut that off and go out 'n' play" -- going to impede my own child's ability to make and nurture relationships, or worse, ostracise them?
I keep thinking that a neighbourhood of like-minded parents with children around the same age as mine would be most helpful. (That, or at least another generation of one or both of our families in very regular contact.) But then I remember that I don't really know any of my neighbours now, and many of those who I do have to interact with minimally, I don't like very much. But the point stands: this just doesn't seem like something one can do on one's own.
I was walking home from the cinema, discussing the movie Unfriended with my partner, when I heard a "Hey you!" from across the street. I ignored it, and continued to press some silly point. The shout was repeated. I looked across the road and saw four kids aged between, maybe, 9 and 12. (I'm absolutely terrible at this sort of thing, mind.)
What followed was very confused, because: 1) we were attempting to communicate across two lanes of traffic, 2) I'm pretty sure they were using a British expression for some sort of tit-for-tat game with the soccer ball one of them held, and 3) I wasn't really listening very well, because, hello, there are some kids over there, yelling at me and gesturing like they're going to throw that ball into busy traffic!
And then they did!
And... I was going to say, over the honking, screeching traffic of my imaginings, but that isn't what happened. Over the cars that silently stopped and then moved on once the ball was out of their way, they shouted, "Throw it back!"
I guess one of their number must've run across the street to fetch it at some point, because, even as I launched into my "Boys..."
I'm not kidding, I really think I said, "Boys."
"You can't play in traffic! Someone will get hurt! Honest, this isn't a game!"
That last bit's a direct quote; I remember because part of me was thinking, "Really? Really? That's the best you've got?" I was just so upset and wrong-footed.
Even as I threw myself to these young wolves, I saw they had the ball again.
Until they threw it once more. With similar results. (Thank goodness!)
I was beside myself at this point. I think they could tell. I don't remember what I said, in response to their entreaty to follow their lead, but I suspect it was more of that terribly-compelling stuff about getting hurt.
When I look back on it now -- and after the post-mortem (not literally, thank goodness!) with my partner -- I'm sure their ringleader -- who didn't appear to be the oldest, interestingly -- was genuinely confused by me. Whether it was my accent, or that the guy in a hoodie actually turned out to be his dad, I couldn't say.
They then left us alone, amazingly (with hindsight). Even after a cyclist, who'd passed us as I was twisting my ankle on a curb -- I hadn't even watched where I was going, such was my concern for these budding misanthropes -- came back our way and, kicking their ball with him, said, "This is where you steal their ball." His expression screamed, "Wow, you don't get this much, do you? Might want to keep your head there, mate." I don't know whether they ever came back for it.
But it might not have gone that way, under other circumstances. I assumed I was the guy who would just ignore that sort of lot; that I certainly wouldn't provoke, nor even invite banter. But apparently I was wrong. Apparently, my outrage at such blatant public endangerment can reach dizzying heights. Either that, or my threshold for speaking out has dropped considerably since last I checked.
Which, honestly, is a probably the case, and a big surprise.
It's that most pedestrian of things, though, isn't it? I'm getting older. I cannot possibly relate to these kids. I couldn't conceive of acting with such blatant disrespect for others at that, or any, age. If I did, and it ever got back to my parents, a hiding would've been the least of my worries. I mean, obviously the air's thick with a failure to parent here, but, as hinted at earlier, again my coincidence presses with likely-false significance.
During Unfriended, I couldn't help but think that many of the compromising positions the central character had been caught in were, in the grand scheme of things, not so bad. Survivable, certainly. And here too is my complete failure to relate. That to unplug from a persona that's been completely razed is just as impossible as picking up and leaving a 'real' life when you're under your parents' roof.
Which all points to an underlying worry: how do you raise a child in this environment? How do you instill in them, sensibilities about the consequences of posting a video of their peer paralytic drunk in their own mess, or of throwing a ball into traffic? I'm being a bit facetious here, of course: I think I have a handle on the latter, but the former isn't so simple; it's tied up with all sorts of things, like when do you buy them their first phone? Are the instincts that I've developed, from my own childhood on -- "Shut that off and go out 'n' play" -- going to impede my own child's ability to make and nurture relationships, or worse, ostracise them?
I keep thinking that a neighbourhood of like-minded parents with children around the same age as mine would be most helpful. (That, or at least another generation of one or both of our families in very regular contact.) But then I remember that I don't really know any of my neighbours now, and many of those who I do have to interact with minimally, I don't like very much. But the point stands: this just doesn't seem like something one can do on one's own.
Sunday, March 22, 2015
Work, and being "born to it"
I was helping out at our local Mencap social club the other evening when one of the other helpers came up to me and said, out of the blue, "You know, it's like you were born to this," or words to that effect. I'd just been playing a spirited game of what a few of the members call Wizer -- a sort of Beggar-My-Neighbour for many, I guess, although I'm notoriously rubbish at card games.
It was a wonderful moment, particularly as I looked to a time when I wouldn't be able to volunteer with them. (Or anyone else. The tl;dr is that the visa I hope to get won't allow it.) It's the sort of thing I never imagined anyone saying about me; just the opposite, in fact: up until last year, I'd worked in IT for a few decades, visibly struggling in many of those jobs. Some of that was down to trying lots of different roles -- some tangential to even the most generous definitions of computer science -- but I also think a good chunk was down to aptitude.
That may come across as a bad attitude, but hear me out: I believe that this last year or so has been one of the best of my life, and that a lot of that is down to me; my attitude, my perspective. When I say that I think I was working at pursuits that didn't really suit me, it isn't through a prism of regret, lamenting time wasted. I suspect that I needed that time, and those experiences, to properly assess what's now before me. And while I'm not certain, that hardly matters; time flows in one direction. One thing I will say, though, is that I think anyone, at any time in their lives, can benefit from dabbling.
Aptitude is tough to pin down. Contemplation can help, but only up to a point. Then, it's a matter of diving in. And that may seem like the most obvious statement in the world, but, trust me, it's been a profound lesson for me (and could be for others with a similar personality, I suspect). You want to be able to hash it out in your head, and you just can't; not completely. And, for me, the best bit has been when, with that yet to learn, you put yourself out there, and, out of the blue, someone tells you that you just might've found it.
Final thought: aptitude isn't everything. And applying it doesn't preclude rough days. But what I can say, from recent experience, is that having someone else point it out regarding a pursuit that you find very rewarding is an amazing feeling.
It was a wonderful moment, particularly as I looked to a time when I wouldn't be able to volunteer with them. (Or anyone else. The tl;dr is that the visa I hope to get won't allow it.) It's the sort of thing I never imagined anyone saying about me; just the opposite, in fact: up until last year, I'd worked in IT for a few decades, visibly struggling in many of those jobs. Some of that was down to trying lots of different roles -- some tangential to even the most generous definitions of computer science -- but I also think a good chunk was down to aptitude.
That may come across as a bad attitude, but hear me out: I believe that this last year or so has been one of the best of my life, and that a lot of that is down to me; my attitude, my perspective. When I say that I think I was working at pursuits that didn't really suit me, it isn't through a prism of regret, lamenting time wasted. I suspect that I needed that time, and those experiences, to properly assess what's now before me. And while I'm not certain, that hardly matters; time flows in one direction. One thing I will say, though, is that I think anyone, at any time in their lives, can benefit from dabbling.
Aptitude is tough to pin down. Contemplation can help, but only up to a point. Then, it's a matter of diving in. And that may seem like the most obvious statement in the world, but, trust me, it's been a profound lesson for me (and could be for others with a similar personality, I suspect). You want to be able to hash it out in your head, and you just can't; not completely. And, for me, the best bit has been when, with that yet to learn, you put yourself out there, and, out of the blue, someone tells you that you just might've found it.
Final thought: aptitude isn't everything. And applying it doesn't preclude rough days. But what I can say, from recent experience, is that having someone else point it out regarding a pursuit that you find very rewarding is an amazing feeling.
Thursday, January 08, 2015
Getting people the help they need
Today I've had a lesson in how difficult it can be to get people the help they need.
Back in July of last year, I contacted Insight Gloucestershire about the befriending role they'd advertised for. By August, I was trained up, approved and ready. Initially, I got a few messages about a lady who might be interested in having visits, only she's very busy at the moment. That was great: if they're physically able, I think, ideally, you hope to build their confidence till you're out of a job, really, and it sounded like she was well on the way.
But that was it.
Later, through driving for Outlook -- Insight's young adults' social club -- I met some younger users. Last month, one of them said that, if I had some time on my hands, Guide Dogs was "desperate for people in Cheltenham." Their website didn't list anything closer than Gloucester, but, through the contact passed to me, I quickly learned that it was true.
I've just now returned from their My Guide - Level 1 training -- which, incidentally, is identical to the training I received from Insight last summer -- to learn that there's a woman who has been waiting to be matched up in the My Guide program since June 2014.
And she lives five minutes from me.
It's so upsetting. To think that this woman isn't suffering in silence, like so many sight-impaired people in this country; no, she's made the effort, asked for help, but because I offered my time and services -- call it befriending, or My Guide, or whatever; it's all the same thing, really -- to a different organisation, we both spent more than six months waiting.
Thanks to the people I've met through Insight, I now have some idea of how isolating these sorts of disabilities are; how low you can get. Six months could be an eternity. Guide Dogs was just telling me that the typical wait-time for a dog is a year. Waiting six months, a year, for some independence, for that little bit of help to build your confidence from, is something I really can't imagine.
I don't know what the answer is, but surely there needs to be some sort of front door that everyone -- users and service providers -- talks to, as a first step. Even if it simply routes them to the appropriate spot, a situation like this wouldn't have happened.
Back in July of last year, I contacted Insight Gloucestershire about the befriending role they'd advertised for. By August, I was trained up, approved and ready. Initially, I got a few messages about a lady who might be interested in having visits, only she's very busy at the moment. That was great: if they're physically able, I think, ideally, you hope to build their confidence till you're out of a job, really, and it sounded like she was well on the way.
But that was it.
Later, through driving for Outlook -- Insight's young adults' social club -- I met some younger users. Last month, one of them said that, if I had some time on my hands, Guide Dogs was "desperate for people in Cheltenham." Their website didn't list anything closer than Gloucester, but, through the contact passed to me, I quickly learned that it was true.
I've just now returned from their My Guide - Level 1 training -- which, incidentally, is identical to the training I received from Insight last summer -- to learn that there's a woman who has been waiting to be matched up in the My Guide program since June 2014.
And she lives five minutes from me.
It's so upsetting. To think that this woman isn't suffering in silence, like so many sight-impaired people in this country; no, she's made the effort, asked for help, but because I offered my time and services -- call it befriending, or My Guide, or whatever; it's all the same thing, really -- to a different organisation, we both spent more than six months waiting.
Thanks to the people I've met through Insight, I now have some idea of how isolating these sorts of disabilities are; how low you can get. Six months could be an eternity. Guide Dogs was just telling me that the typical wait-time for a dog is a year. Waiting six months, a year, for some independence, for that little bit of help to build your confidence from, is something I really can't imagine.
I don't know what the answer is, but surely there needs to be some sort of front door that everyone -- users and service providers -- talks to, as a first step. Even if it simply routes them to the appropriate spot, a situation like this wouldn't have happened.
Friday, November 21, 2014
Volunteering with Yellow Submarine: six months on
As I read my earlier post about volunteering with Yellow Submarine again, the first thing that struck me -- well, the second thing, 'cause I had a huge grin on my face again after reading those holiday highlights -- was how little things have changed in the last six months.
People who know me will be scratching their heads -- in many ways, the last six months have seen more change in my life than in any other, or certainly since childhood -- but what I mean to say is in how I feel about the work I do with Yellow Submarine. In fact, it's inspired me to commit to finding full-time work in social care. And I say that with my feet firmly on the ground.
Certainly the rose-coloured glasses can be seen in that earlier post. I've since spoken to many people in social care, of course, and at least a few have tried to (gently!) point out that all the foibles of the world are represented in those we care for. (Of course!) Still, I maintain that were the proportion of kindness and generosity I've seen amongst those I've supported also true of the wider world, we would hardly recognise it.
And that's where I want to end this post (again): highlighting a few of the amazing people I've had the good fortune to meet through working with Yellow Submarine -- on ten holidays now, and many day activities -- and my local Mencap group:
People who know me will be scratching their heads -- in many ways, the last six months have seen more change in my life than in any other, or certainly since childhood -- but what I mean to say is in how I feel about the work I do with Yellow Submarine. In fact, it's inspired me to commit to finding full-time work in social care. And I say that with my feet firmly on the ground.
Certainly the rose-coloured glasses can be seen in that earlier post. I've since spoken to many people in social care, of course, and at least a few have tried to (gently!) point out that all the foibles of the world are represented in those we care for. (Of course!) Still, I maintain that were the proportion of kindness and generosity I've seen amongst those I've supported also true of the wider world, we would hardly recognise it.
And that's where I want to end this post (again): highlighting a few of the amazing people I've had the good fortune to meet through working with Yellow Submarine -- on ten holidays now, and many day activities -- and my local Mencap group:
 |
| A gift from Spa Club K. |
- K. might've been born at a music festival, he was so at home during WOMAD. I'll never forget our walk to the main site one morning: suddenly K. has left the path, only to return with a wonderfully-costumed young lady in matching hoop skirt and parasol on his arm, looking pleased as punch.
- Just last week, I was lucky enough to meet D. as part of Yellow Submarine's Compass Project. We must've been chatting off 'n' on for close to an hour before he let drop that he was in a documentary; such an amazing person, and so modest! (It's called Ups of Downs, embedded below.)
- And last, but certainly not least, is K., from my local Mencap group (known as the Spa Club). He's a bit of a Renaissance man: he draws, paints, acts, runs half-marathons, keeps bees, will soon be coaching football... Rarely a week goes by that I'm not flabbergasted, learning of his latest project or yet another of his past pursuits. And then, the other week, he presented me with a drawing he'd made, for me.
Friday, August 22, 2014
Movie Review - Lucy (2014)
I first heard about Lucy on Zawinski's site; I stopped reading fairly quickly, but unfortunately he was really positive early on. Then he, or possibly someone else, brought up Her; I'd forgotten the context, but the point is that I'd really enjoyed that movie -- although I can see some of the criticisms that CGP Grey has raised -- and so, it's fair to say that when it came to Lucy, I had significant expectations.
(Besson himself isn't the best indicator for me: I remember really embracing Léon -- which I saw as The Professional -- but that was a long time ago, and it's difficult to know how much of the enjoyment I got from The Transporter and Taken is down to his writing.)
***** SPOILERS BEGIN *****
Opening with CGI was a mistake, I felt. My first thought was, "Oh no, I'm in another Marvel movie." But it got interesting quickly; very interesting. I think the first half hour of the movie is its strongest. There's real tension and threat, and a good pace with little exposition. And I really liked the cuts and interplay: a shot over the bow that things could get surreal, which this material lends itself to, I think few would argue.
Things start to fall apart shortly after the hospital scene. For me, that should've been a farewell to Lucy as we've known her. It's beautiful and poignant, that conversation with her mother. From then on out, it's going to be difficult to convince us that Lucy is in any danger. (That said, I did like the 'reminder' kiss later on -- that was a reminder for us too, and served to reinforce the transformation.) Besson ignores this at his peril, I feel, as the movie sags in the middle. The car chase should've been heavily cut; it was pointless in the face of Lucy's flawless performance. Similarly, while the first, aborted shootout really worked -- Lucy stopping it before it even began -- the second was just ridiculous; a chance to squeeze in some action where it had no place being.
Other than that shootout, however, things definitely picked up for the conclusion. Again, I liked the surreal bits. But what I keep coming back to, now, is Besson's ambition; he really reached with this, and almost got it, at times -- particularly in the opening, as I've said. What really lets him down in the conclusion is the music: it simply can't live up to the concepts he's presenting. He needs something like Sunshine's Adagio in D Minor or 2001: A Space Odyssey's Also sprach Zarathustra, and doesn't come close, in my opinion. He might've been better off using silence, at times.
Speaking of Kubrick -- and it was hard not to think of him, with the early appearance of the primitive Lucy -- I would've loved to have seen his take on this script. I also think Chan-wook Park could've done more with it. Again, it's on the surreal, trippy stuff that this movie lives or dies for me, and both of them would've grabbed that with both hands, I feel. I think it was with the overhead shot of Mr. Jang's body in the chair near the end that I realized I'd been thinking about Park for some time, but, with hindsight, it was obviously the casting of Min-sik Choi as well; I just didn't recognize him -- consciously anyway -- until the end of the movie.
***** SPOILERS END *****
With all that, you could be forgiven for thinking I didn't like the movie. Not so. I'm glad I saw it. There were some great... no, fantastic shots, and, as I've said, the opening was really strong. I'd just suggest you temper your expectations, going in.
(Besson himself isn't the best indicator for me: I remember really embracing Léon -- which I saw as The Professional -- but that was a long time ago, and it's difficult to know how much of the enjoyment I got from The Transporter and Taken is down to his writing.)
***** SPOILERS BEGIN *****
Opening with CGI was a mistake, I felt. My first thought was, "Oh no, I'm in another Marvel movie." But it got interesting quickly; very interesting. I think the first half hour of the movie is its strongest. There's real tension and threat, and a good pace with little exposition. And I really liked the cuts and interplay: a shot over the bow that things could get surreal, which this material lends itself to, I think few would argue.
Things start to fall apart shortly after the hospital scene. For me, that should've been a farewell to Lucy as we've known her. It's beautiful and poignant, that conversation with her mother. From then on out, it's going to be difficult to convince us that Lucy is in any danger. (That said, I did like the 'reminder' kiss later on -- that was a reminder for us too, and served to reinforce the transformation.) Besson ignores this at his peril, I feel, as the movie sags in the middle. The car chase should've been heavily cut; it was pointless in the face of Lucy's flawless performance. Similarly, while the first, aborted shootout really worked -- Lucy stopping it before it even began -- the second was just ridiculous; a chance to squeeze in some action where it had no place being.
Other than that shootout, however, things definitely picked up for the conclusion. Again, I liked the surreal bits. But what I keep coming back to, now, is Besson's ambition; he really reached with this, and almost got it, at times -- particularly in the opening, as I've said. What really lets him down in the conclusion is the music: it simply can't live up to the concepts he's presenting. He needs something like Sunshine's Adagio in D Minor or 2001: A Space Odyssey's Also sprach Zarathustra, and doesn't come close, in my opinion. He might've been better off using silence, at times.
Speaking of Kubrick -- and it was hard not to think of him, with the early appearance of the primitive Lucy -- I would've loved to have seen his take on this script. I also think Chan-wook Park could've done more with it. Again, it's on the surreal, trippy stuff that this movie lives or dies for me, and both of them would've grabbed that with both hands, I feel. I think it was with the overhead shot of Mr. Jang's body in the chair near the end that I realized I'd been thinking about Park for some time, but, with hindsight, it was obviously the casting of Min-sik Choi as well; I just didn't recognize him -- consciously anyway -- until the end of the movie.
***** SPOILERS END *****
With all that, you could be forgiven for thinking I didn't like the movie. Not so. I'm glad I saw it. There were some great... no, fantastic shots, and, as I've said, the opening was really strong. I'd just suggest you temper your expectations, going in.
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
Volunteering with Yellow Submarine: what it's meant to me
I'd talked about volunteering for years. I even gave up a few days here 'n' there. But that was part of the problem: my framing, however subtle or unconscious, was about losing.
And then everything changed.
I wanted to stay abroad, to stay in the UK, and volunteering -- being sponsored to volunteer -- was my best option. Filtering the list of licensed sponsors based on a reasonable commute left me with a few dozen options, from which Yellow Submarine quickly stood out. It just sounded fun. I wanted to know more.
I didn't know what to expect -- I had no experience with social care, or people with learning disabilities. From the first moment I contacted them, the staff and other volunteers have been so warm and welcoming.
It's hard to exaggerate the effect this experience has had on me. I really do look at the world differently now. These people I've met... the relationships they have with each other are so kind; so tender. Not all, of course, but most (by far), are courteous at the very least. And that's true of all the dealings I've had with the holidayers, without exception.
It's hard to credit -- or it was for me; and it isn't like I'm a cynical person by any stretch -- but I guess the simplest way to put it is that all the folks I've met -- and that's three groups now, not to mention the others I've met on days out -- approach others with a respect you don't often see these days. And I don't mean awe, or with a sense of inferiority; just with an appreciation of others' time. There's a gratitude in their exchanges that, frankly, I find so uplifting. You're just happy to know them. When the bus dropped me off after the Blackpool holiday, M. said, "Oh, John, I really going to miss you." It's a moment that still leaves me with a lump in my throat, in the best possible sense.
And then there's the pride that comes with volunteering for an organization like Yellow Submarine. The staff and volunteers I've met bring so much to the job. In my career, I've been lucky enough to work with some incredibly talented people, but there's something special about seeing those sorts of people apply their talents and energies in a pursuit that so obviously helps individuals and their families, day in, day out. It's truly inspiring, in a way that I can't say I ever really understood before now.
Incidentally, Yellow Submarine has just published a report based on a recent survey of affected parents, in the light of Oxfordshire County Council's warning that significant cuts to children's disability services are planned for late 2014/2015. To read some of the feedback in the appendices is to understand how much the holidays I help out on (as an example) mean to these people and their families.
I think I'll end this post with a few holiday highlights (thus far, and in no particular order):
And then everything changed.
I wanted to stay abroad, to stay in the UK, and volunteering -- being sponsored to volunteer -- was my best option. Filtering the list of licensed sponsors based on a reasonable commute left me with a few dozen options, from which Yellow Submarine quickly stood out. It just sounded fun. I wanted to know more.
I didn't know what to expect -- I had no experience with social care, or people with learning disabilities. From the first moment I contacted them, the staff and other volunteers have been so warm and welcoming.
It's hard to exaggerate the effect this experience has had on me. I really do look at the world differently now. These people I've met... the relationships they have with each other are so kind; so tender. Not all, of course, but most (by far), are courteous at the very least. And that's true of all the dealings I've had with the holidayers, without exception.
It's hard to credit -- or it was for me; and it isn't like I'm a cynical person by any stretch -- but I guess the simplest way to put it is that all the folks I've met -- and that's three groups now, not to mention the others I've met on days out -- approach others with a respect you don't often see these days. And I don't mean awe, or with a sense of inferiority; just with an appreciation of others' time. There's a gratitude in their exchanges that, frankly, I find so uplifting. You're just happy to know them. When the bus dropped me off after the Blackpool holiday, M. said, "Oh, John, I really going to miss you." It's a moment that still leaves me with a lump in my throat, in the best possible sense.
And then there's the pride that comes with volunteering for an organization like Yellow Submarine. The staff and volunteers I've met bring so much to the job. In my career, I've been lucky enough to work with some incredibly talented people, but there's something special about seeing those sorts of people apply their talents and energies in a pursuit that so obviously helps individuals and their families, day in, day out. It's truly inspiring, in a way that I can't say I ever really understood before now.
Incidentally, Yellow Submarine has just published a report based on a recent survey of affected parents, in the light of Oxfordshire County Council's warning that significant cuts to children's disability services are planned for late 2014/2015. To read some of the feedback in the appendices is to understand how much the holidays I help out on (as an example) mean to these people and their families.
I think I'll end this post with a few holiday highlights (thus far, and in no particular order):
- Seeing M. and M.'s faces as we walked out beside the pitch at Anfield, during our tour. This was quickly followed by excited, simultaneous jumping up and down and hugging, repeating "I can't believe we're here!" over and over. To play even the smallest role in bringing that sort of unbridled joy into someone's life is such a pleasure and privilege. A grin splits my face every time I think about it -- or write about it, apparently. :-)
- Hearing J. say that he didn't want to go home (at the end of the Dorset holiday), after having had a bit of a rough start, with many calls home. That excitement and those smiles were so rewarding.
- At Sea Life in Weymouth, having a lady stop me and, smiling widely, ask, "Is he always like that?" as G. shouted boisterous and heartfelt wishes from the sidelines to fellow Yellow Submarine holidayers and staff boarding a ride. He's amazing; so happy and selfless -- and I was grinning ear-to-ear as I relayed as much to her.
Friday, January 10, 2014
I don't get it, and other dangerous ideas
I spent most of Christmas offline, and so missed the controversy surrounding Justine Sacco in late December. For anyone who isn't aware -- there must be a few dozen or so ;-) -- she was a public relations executive at the media company, IAC, prior to being sacked over a tweet that many -- including, importantly, IAC -- deemed "offensive" and "hateful". She has since apologized (through the South African newspaper, The Star, having deleted many of her accounts, including the infamous Twitter one):
... For being insensitive to this [HIV/AIDS] crisis — which does not discriminate by race, gender or sexual orientation, but which terrifies us all uniformly — and to the millions of people living with the virus, I am ashamed...I find many aspects of this story, and the fallout, of interest:
- The Data effect or humour is tricky, and how the Internet exacerbates this, sending it well beyond our tribes and context;
- The intersection of the high of the Internet troll/vandal, mobbing and being seen to act; and, finally,
- Maintaining a pervious worldview: has the Internet changed anything?
... [W]e each are responsible for [the cultural enforcement of ethical values;] thinking hard about right and wrong and joining in the shared societal duty of enforcing those standards that will ensure the best, happiest and most productive lives for as many people as possible. That process, however... requires the responsible application of the ethical virtue of proportion. We do not make society better by turning it into a fearful place where a single misstep brings abuse and shame down upon our heads from the entire community...I do hope that we get to a point where we can forgive people their foibles, be they based in the immaturity of youth, a dark sense of humour or a momentary slip in the filter over an inner Allie Brosh.
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
Tasting notes - Cotswold Lion Brewery's Winter Woolly
The nose was great: very bright, with hints of cinnamon, and possibly something of cloves. The head was fantastic throughout, no doubt due to the inclusion of wheat in the recipe. I felt there was some nutmeg in those first few mouthfuls, with a slight bitterness in the aftertaste. The mouthfeel was fantastic. As the bottle warns, there was quite a bit of sediment in the bottom -- just a bit of extra flavour in my books! All in all, a lovely pint for shaking off the last of a very blustery day!
Monday, December 16, 2013
Tasting notes - Prescott Ales' Winter and New Bristol Brewery's Super Deluxe Stout
However, about halfway through the pint, the sweetness mellowed, taking on more cherry overtones. There was also some mocha in that long, lingering aftertaste, I think. Tasty stuff!
That first taste was an explosion; honestly. I couldn't keep track of everything I was tasting: there was certainly a milder chocolate, and a fruitiness again, but, as with the Winter, I couldn't be more specific. What was clear in my mind was a word: delicious!
After a few minutes, I again settled on cherry notes, but tending to the very edge of medicinal in this case. There was marzipan in the aftertaste as well. About halfway through I picked up hints of nutmeg, which made sense, because I'd already been thinking it was perfect for the season. All in all, beautifully balanced, with great mouthfeel.
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