It's the little things...

As my eyes opened, I knew my "nap" was longer than I had intended; as all naps have been. I groggily staggered to my feet, shuffled my way to the washbasin, and brushed my teeth. It was bizarre that my nap had been in the dark. Had I turned off the lights? I was sure that when I dozed off it was to take a nap. One does not turn off the light for naps. Never mind, I continued to prepare for bed and fell asleep.

At 7am a rumbling awoke me, and I tried hard to chase it off. I wanted to go running later that evening, and if I woke up now I knew it just wasn't going to happen. But the rumbling grew and grew and finally I rolled out of bed to go out for breakfast. At 8am. If you told me a year ago that I would be doing this I'd write you off as being bats with a high dose of fruitcake. But there it was. I was going out to breakfast.

I reached out my hand to turn on the lights, but it was already switched on. But it wasn't.  The lights were dead. That explained things.


I knew where I was going to for breakfast. That much I really really knew. I even knew what I wanted to have. But look! A dish I haven't had in a long time. Before I knew it, my hand had reached for the bowl and was happily filling it up.

An order of drinks, and I happily ate away.

But I had a wish list. I came here to eat something else. Plus I was still hungry. Up fluttered my hand and asked the waiter for another plate of food. His face: you really want more food?

Do not judge me, human.

How far are we free?

 

 

I am a grown man.

Is it ok if I cry?

 

I am a little girl.

Is it ok if I tell mommy she made a mistake?

 

I am an old man.

Can I tell my son I miss him and I want him to come home?

 

I am a woman.

Can I refuse to have children?

 

I am a school teacher.

Can I tell a parent he is not displaying proper values?

 

I am from a different country.

Can I say the locals are deteriorating their own land?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

At any rate, excitement for today was in finding a café that serves fried Mars Bars with ice cream.

I’ll take what I can.

What I want

I want to make my wishes come true.
Who doesn't?
But what are those wishes?
What is it that my heart desires?
To be happy.
What will make me happy?
To be rich.
But how rich is rich?
To make great accomplishment.
"Great" by whose standards, and what will constitute as an accomplishment?
To be free.
From what?


Sometimes I find myself distracted by the little pleasures. That cupcake with extra creamy frosting, that over-my-daily-budget-for-food dish,...

But would I be better if I never indulged?




What do I want?

Crafted by angels – Chapter 14

 

Their destination drew nearer and nearer. He looked at his watch. She was looking out the window. She indulged that for once, time was not the number. She had no schedule to adhere to; no tick tock to make sure she was on time. It was a luxury, a luxury she hadn’t known how to enjoy. Life was too much of a rush back home. Not today, not now. She breathed deep and smiled. He caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window. He brushed his hand over hers.

 

“Look, the water fountain” he pointed.

 

She turned her gaze to where he was pointing.

 

“The last time I was here, they turned it off. I was so disappointed. I am glad they have it on today. We will go and see it later.” He mused.

 

She nodded. She had never heard girls muse over water fountains before. Perhaps it was because it never came into context? But he was not the first boy to be fascinated by water fountains. Was it a gender thing? She kept it in her thin box to figure out later. In her head, she was wondering if there would be any ducks around for her to play with. Or at least pigeons.

As he drove into the city, he told her what he knew of it. Most expensive city to live in, traffic was horrendous, they turned off water fountains right when he wanted to watch them, it was difficult to find parking,…she listened patiently and wondered where all the people were that he spoke of. It looked pretty deserted to her.

He finally pulled into a spot, but cautiously peered around. Where she was from, it would have been fine to double park and leave your phone number on the dashboard. Or you could park at the restricted areas. He was cautious not to.

“I do not care. I will park here.” He says.

“Ok”

They step of the car, he locks it and he walks three steps before turning to her.

“No, we cannot park here. We will move.”

“Um, ok.” She wonders what changed his mind in the three steps that he had taken. But it was his car after all, so she tumbled back in and they made their way out of the slot.

They passed building after building as he searched for a place more agreeable to him. Finally, turning into one he found more to his liking.

It was the most bizarre thing. The underground parking was spiraling downwards with bays left and right. How does one know how many levels he had gone down? It just went on and on spiraling downwards. Did it ever end? What if you reached the end and there wasn’t a spot? How do you turn your car so it can head its way back up? She pressed her nose against the windows looking out for a spot.

Finally, one was there. Once again, they got out of the car.

“Do you have your keys?” she asked before he locked the door.

He patted his pockets “Yes”

“And your wallet and phone?”

“Yes”

“We should remember the parking spot number so it’s easier to find it later”

His head snapped up briefly “Yes, we should.” He went back to look for the number.

“Ok, got it.”

“See, if you didn’t have me with you, you would have walked off without knowing you parked your car. And then you would’ve been angry that you couldn’t find your car.” She tossed her head triumphantly.

He smiled at her “Yes, I am lucky to have you here with me”

“Now, how do we know what level we’re at?”

 

 

 

Somehow, they managed to get themselves back to ground level. He peered at the ticket machine.

“I must see what the rates are like” *looks down at the machine and curses under his breath*

“…the most expensive city…” as he walked off out into the crisp, cold air. She trotted behind him.

 

How does he know where he is headed? As she followed his lead. She pointed her nose upwards, trying to whiff the air. It didn’t tell her anything, not much to her surprise. Shops were closed, and there weren’t that many people about. He had told her that the city was pretty much closed for the event. She, on the other hand, still wondered where they were going and how it was that he knew where he was going. There was a sureness in his step, a confidence she rarely saw. She looked at his shoulders, and noticed the strength in them.

Finally they reached their destination. A small crowd of people were already there, all for the same purpose as he. He was visibly annoyed; that he had to drive all this way and go through all this hassle for this event. Never again, he says. Never with them again, and not if they do it in this city. She irons out the wrinkles that forms the frowns on his forehead.

“You are angry again” she coos at him.

“I’m sorry. It is a habit of mine.” For a moment, their eyes lock.

“When I get there, I will tell them I am unhappy. I will do so in the local language.” He tells her.

Her head cocks to one side. Where she was from, many languages are spoken, and no one apologized for speaking in a different language, one where another person in the group might not understand. She realized that when that had happened, back at home, it had always made her feel excluded. Yet, it was not something anyone apologized for. Not where she was from.

As they joined the line, she realized she was in a park. There was a large floating balloon in the nearby fountain.

“I will go there” she tells him.

He looked slightly alarmed. “Do not go too far” he tells her.

She was already five feet away.

It was drizzling, and she takes out her rain poncho and adorns herself with it. He hated the rain poncho. “Rubbish” he called it. He was disgusted at her insistence at keeping it. When she had taken it out, he cringed as she crawled her way into the rustly plastic. He stayed in line as she wandered towards the fountain. She sat on the wet stone surrounding the fountain, knowing the poncho would keep her dry. Happily, she sat people-watching and the gentle murmur of the waters behind her.

It had stopped raining, so she took off her poncho and set it aside. A man came asking her for it. She was surprised. Who would want such a thing? Then she realized he was a garbage collector. She politely told him it was hers, and that she intended to keep it. Just as the garbage man walked away, her twinkling eyes met with his. He was done with the events registration, and had spotted her with the garbage man.

“What did he want?” he asks her, gesturing towards the garbage man.

“I put my poncho down and he came to take it. I had to tell him it was mine.”

“Ahah! I told you it was rubbish. Even a professional agrees with me.” He looks at her triumphantly.

“What professional?” she crinkles her nose at him.

“He collects garbage for a living. He knows what rubbish looks like. That is why he asked you to surrender that….that thing” he retorts.

She glares at him, defeated. But still, she firmly grasps the drizzly wet poncho in her hands.

 

 

They walked out of the park, across the street, further down nearer to the lake. He stops abruptly.

“They turned it off!” he says, staring into the distance.

She tries to follow his gaze, but sees nothing.

“Unbelievable. They turned it off. It was on just now, and then they turned it off. I hate this city.”

It suddenly dawns on her he was talking about the water fountain. He was truly upset that they had turned the fountain off. Frowns once again decorated his beautiful forehead. She reached up again to smooth out those wrinkles.

“At least we saw them just now” she tries to soothe him.

He looks down at her, meeting her gaze. He breathes in, and they quietly walk away. Back to the building, down the elevator, into the spiral carpark, and drive out into the small lanes of the city.

He taps something into his phone.

“Here, read this out for me”

She looked down at what it was. A GPS on their way back. Well, that was what she supposed it was. But it was in their local language. She read it to him. She had learnt some of it a few years ago.

“Not bad” he says.

“Yes, but here they pronounce it weird; different from how I learnt it”

“No, it is the same”

 

She now understands the annoyance that was widely spoken of.

 

Regardless, she happily read to him the directions and they were soon on the highway back home. On came the songs, as they sped through. It was only a day, but it seemed like there had been a lifetime together in the previous years. Two strangers were in the car, but not one of them felt like it. They had had a lifetime together, and yet at the same time they had not.

 

He turned down little lanes, and then they found their way up a mountain.

 

“I want to show you where I used to work” he says.

 

Up the mountains. Her spine was filled with little chills. These were mountains whose beauty she had only read about. And now she was on her way up one of them. With him. She stole a look at him. Then she looked down at the trees below, as they gained altitude, the lake reflected the sun and cast shadows of the trees they passed.

She recalled a Marian Keyes novel she read. The girl in denial of her addictions, and was sent to a clinic up the Swiss mountains. Could this match what she was seeing before her? The hustle and bustle she claimed to love back home; how could she be enjoying this? Perhaps it was that he was right there beside her. Perhaps it was that her usual allergies didn’t seem to come attacking. Perhaps because of the crisp cool air that flavored the scene. It didn’t matter. She loved it. Loved the moment. Loved loving it.

As they reached the clinic and he was telling her tales of working on a mountain, she imagined the Marian Keyes novel again. She dug through her mind for the story and put the clinic into the story. There was a real place like that. It was real. Not just a story.

He told her about being stuck in snow, of the cars he had had. He told her about the outdoors, and shoes he had to borrow. He told her of his work.

 

Then, at a little turning, he stopped the car. She looked out the window. The view was breathtaking. The sun was setting, and the orange tint across the lake and up the earth that curled into the magnificent mountain she was on made for a much more incredible view. She was speechless. Long has it been since she had appreciated raw beauty. Raw, natural, untouched.

She wondered what it would be like to spend a night in these great outdoors. Away from the technology, away from all the other humans. Just her, a tent, and the stars above.

 

But she would be too scared to do that alone, she knew. What if there were bears? She suddenly looked to her right. There was a steep wall of trees. What if there were bears? She couldn’t shake off the feeling. Or Jason. It wasn’t Friday, was it?

She scanned her surroundings. No cars passed by. Why would there be? There was nothing on the mountain save for the clinic; and it was the weekend. People were curled up in their homes resting, away from this quiet mountain. The road was small, and only a barn nearby. It was abandoned. There were shovels and a wheelbarrow nearby. Sparse trees that would make for great barriers in trying to run away. The walls of the mountain were steep, and near impossible to climb up. The drop down was sure to at least sprain an ankle. It was eerily quiet.

 

“You’re not planning to murder me here, are you?”

 

He looked around, not looking her in the eye. He smiled as he looked into the distance.

 

“Yes, this would make a good murder spot.” Was his short reply.

The mosquito was so fat, it could hardly fly away to safety. As my palm closed down on it, a gush of bright red blood decorated my floor. Brilliant.

...no longer the same affect.

"...*long speech about doing the right thing because it is the right thing to do, rather than waiting for a threat of punishment*.................................. Do you understand, or would you like me to repeat that?"




Them: Nooooooo!!!



Me: Do you not want me to repeat that, or do you not understand?




One boy: ...but could you not do it in a British accent?




Me: &(%&*^*R&*&%^

Little miracles.

Teaching is not a glamorous job. It's not one of those that commands respect. People don't go "Wow! You're a teacher! I've always wanted to be one" You'll be lucky if you get "That is awesome" or "That's amazing!".

I can't blame them. Too often we hear of those who have failed to uphold the responsibility of educating the future generation. Those who are in the profession merely to feed their own bellies and so they have something to do to earn themselves a living. People who have ignored the need for consideration of why they are the right people to be in charge of a classroom full of potentially great minds.

This week was unexpected. In an adolescent group, your greatest fear is the amount of anger they have. There are weeks I could just walk out of the room, drive myself in reverse back home, curl up in bed and cry myself to sleep.
This week was different. They came in ready, forks and knives held up with empty plates ready for whatever meal I was to serve. That was when I decided to give them raw ingredients.

"But it's your job to tell us everything!" they complained.

No children, that is not my job. My responsibility is to awaken your young minds and get you out of the room asking more questions, and roam the next few days finding the answers until I next see you. It matters not whether you really do find the answers, for if you found something else along the way, then that is for you to keep; or for you to come back to class with more questions to ask or stories to tell.

In the midst of the controlled chaos I had created of them trying to figure out the puzzle I had put on the board, I heard an odd out-of-place sound. It was a little voice going "la la la". And it came from the girl's end.

Mind you, my class is the pre-adolescent age where they would sit next to a boy for fear of...I don't know..but they're in the 'eww boys, eww girls stage'. Four weeks ago they refused to say each other's names, what more to speak to each other. I am happy that they are now willing to shout across the room for the other person to repeat what he/she said so they could share ideas.

So this sudden "la la la" came from a particularly mousy girl who has only so far responded in quick covering of her face and shy giggles. Yet there she was, la-la-la-ing to her friends.

Why? They were trying to figure out what a phrasal verb I had written on the board had meant, and in her attempt to explain it to her friend, it somehow required her to go la la la..bless your soul, child.








Ah yes, one to fill our pocket, one to feed your soul, one to jog your mind, and one to keep you healthy...