Wisdom

“With age comes wisdom.”

It would be nice to think so, but a lot depends on an individual’s lifestyle and experiences. Some people never grow up, in the eyes of others. We are all how we are meant to be, with a few tweaks here and there as we seek knowledge or self-improvement.

Oscar Wilde, “With age comes wisdom, but sometimes age comes alone.”

“A word to the wise.”

Something my dad would say to me, starting a conversation offering advice, brief opinion or more often, a heads-up on a point of interest, usually negative.

Quote from Wikipedia regarding wise owls,

“The perception of owls as symbols of wisdom dates back to Ancient Greece, where the owl was sacred to Athena, the goddess of wisdom and strategic warfare. Owls were often depicted perched on her shoulders representing knowledge, vigilance and intellectual prowess. Greek soldiers even regarded the presence of an owl as a favourable omen before battle, and the bird appeared on coins called ‘glaukes’ reinforcing its symbolic link to wisdom and insight. The Romans later adopted this symbolism through Minerva, Athena’s counterpart, maintaining the owl as a representation of intelligence.”

Between the ages of eight and nine, I attended the village school in Padfield, near Glossop. The head teacher was a formidable looking woman, always wore her cap and gown at school and made me think of a wise, old owl. She was Mrs Swift and at the time, I thought Mrs Owl would be a more appropriate name. She was lovely and kind, not a bit like her appearance suggested. This was a very happy time in my childhood and I have fond memories of the short time my family spent there.

My photograph is of one of my late aunt’s religious pieces. I have it in the landing window, to keep me in check.

I found this poem by James Joyce, written during his time in Zurich,

Bahnhofstrasse

The eyes that mock me sign the way
Whereto I pass at eve of day.

Grey way whose violet signals are
The trysting and the twining star.

Ah star of evil! Star of pain!
High hearted youth comes not again.

Nor old heart’s wisdom yet to know
The signs that mock me as I go.

James Joyce (1882 – 1941)

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Things My Father Told Me

To be honest, my father never really told me very much at all.  When I was growing up my dad worked twelve hours a day, six days a week. The seventh day was spent recuperating and recharging his batteries for the next onslaught.  So, there really wasn't a lot of time for talking.

Anything I ever gleaned from my dad was more by a process of osmosis than any other means.  He is a stickler for keeping promises and never letting people down, something that held a lot of sway as I was growing up. If dad said he was going to do something, then come rain, hail or shine, he did it.  I don't remember him ever putting it into words but it must have rubbed off on me, as I pride myself on my reliability to this day.

Although my dad never offered much advice to me there was something he was supposed to tell my elder brother when he was about eleven: the facts of life. My mum had already discussed the female side of things with me, their only daughter, leaving me slightly stunned and horrified but strangely smug to be part of that elite club in the early sixties, 'Girls in the Know.'

For some reason, presumably to soften the blow, dad was dispatched to a newly built hotel in the Lakes (where he and mum had previously enjoyed a rare childless weekend - I'm not sure whether this was significant) with an unsuspecting and very excited eleven year old boy.  I, of course, had no idea of this cunning plan, and probably did a lot of whining about missing out on what sounded like a fun trip. It was years later that my brother confessed they had spent a wonderful weekend, eating posh food, going for long walks and rowing on the lake, and as they neared our house on their return, dad patted Geoff on the shoulder and muttered, much to my brother's bemusement, 'Anything you want to know, son, just ask.'

The whole episode was to be repeated a few years later with my younger brother, only this time our next door neighbour (who subsequently turned out to be quite a 'ladies man') inexplicably decided he would accompany them.  John had a whale of a time and the threesome returned home without the birds and the bees ever having been mentioned.  My father might not have told them but they didn't do so badly finding out for themselves.

One thing I do remember my dad telling me about was space, the planets and natural elements.  Even at a young age I realised how interested and knowledgeable he was. He had a big book, full of brightly coloured photos, that absolutely fascinated me.  I don’t know whether it was the colours or the drama of the images but I do know I would sit, long before I could read, flicking over the pages and marvelling at the vastness of a desert or the vibrant orange hues of a dramatic sunset.

In fact, my dad was knowledgeable about a lot of things (a source of many an argument when I was in my teens).  He was an expert in mathematics and spent hours reading books and pondering on mathematical problems.  All of which should have been a great asset when I needed to catch up on two years of Advanced Maths before the ‘O’ level exam.  What I had omitted to tell him was that I had absolutely no understanding of any of it and had spent most lessons in a state of terrified petrification, desperately trying to copy the answers from the boy next to me.  The planned extra lessons with dad lasted a total of approximately forty five minutes, most of which was taken up with dad nearly exploding with frustration and me in tears.  When the exam came I wrote my name at the top of the paper, then sat for two hours, staring at the rows of bent backs in front of me.

Driving lessons followed a similar path.  In dad’s defence, I have to admit I was a worrying combination of nervous and temperamental.  In my defence, dad never did have a lot of patience.  With hindsight, a recipe for disaster.  It started off quite amiably, with my mum taking each of us to one side before we left, and offering helpful advice.  We had a mission this day.  We were taking my brother to the tube station.  I wasn’t too happy about having a second passenger but settled myself into the driving seat.  Dad said, with a false calmness, “All right, when you’re ready.”  Apprehensively I switched on the engine, put my foot on the gas and took off the handbrake.  The car lurched forward, Geoff nearly shot out of his seat, dad’s head missed the windscreen by about half an inch, and I burst into tears.  I threw the door open and marched back to the house, passengers’ laughter ringing in my ears.  Dad drove Geoff to the tube and I never had another lesson.

My dad’s ninety now, still doing the Telegraph crossword every day, still pondering maths and philosophical problems and, above all, probably mightily relieved that he doesn’t have to deliver the facts of life to eleven year old boys or teach a stroppy teenager to drive.

My dad, who made me half of what I am

I wrote this a while ago for a Fathers' Day competition in the Guardian.  It was composed following an emotional afternoon going through old photos, with the last line added for my dad's ninetieth birthday celebrations, earlier this year.

Dear Dad,

 You are the slim young man with the thick wavy hair, caught forever in the 1940s, strolling with mum along the prom at Margate 

You are the proud father of one, two and – whoops – three babies, reluctantly posing against the1950s décor 

You are the stressed looking thirty-something, sprung to life in a fading Polaroid, with three grinning teens in ‘60s shades

 You are the pale, gaunt figure, with empty eyes, in the grip of a nervous breakdown - knife poised purposefully above the Silver Wedding cake

You are the handsome dad, smiling self-consciously at your sons’ weddings, then beaming at the congregation as you walk me proudly down the aisle  

You are the relaxed and happy grey-haired man in 70s sweater, gazing fondly at the first of eight grandchildren 

You are the proud husband at the end of the century, fifty years married, squinting as the sun makes a sudden break through the clouds, and your family laughs around you 

You are the octogenarian magician, mesmerising great-grandchildren. 

You are the slightly stooping, white haired man, serenading mum on your Diamond Wedding Anniversary, as I wipe away tears

You are my 90 year old dad and I love you. 

Thanks for reading        Jill

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Clearly an expert would have posted on time.

This time last year...

We considered ourselves expert bloggers. Fresh from winning the Radio Wave award (and congratulations here must go to Viva Blackpool for 'pipping' us to it this year), we knocked out blogs with a certain surety about them. Now, twelve months on, perhaps we're not quite so steadfast.

If there is one thing I do know about blogging it is that you have to keep at it. Sometimes, when the topic you're aiming at says nothing to you, you have to persevere. I currently find myself on the bed, some fifteen hours late in posting, wondering what exactly I can tell you about being an 'expert blogger'. Perhaps it has always just been a hit and miss thing, hoping that I fall upon something catchy or strike up a debate once a week. I like to think I always give it a good go at getting you thinking now and then, stopping short of starting a riot- for me, that seems about the right line to walk.

Always remember you've got an audience. Venting always seems a great idea and there is little more satisfying than giving both barrels to some poor soul. Know before you start writing though, these are the blogs you will look back on and regret above all others- the ones that allow the glint of darkness you usually mask away to peep out because before you know it, you've let the whole world know you're actually a lot of a bastard. Careful consideration of words is key here, or you really do just lose touch.

Always do try to have an opinion. If you're anything like I am, you can't be doing with reading wiki-style pages about something. You want to know how the writer feels about something right in their gut, not what someone has told them to put out. Have your opinion, especially a controversial one, and argue  it to the end- it will make vastly more interesting reading but do make sure your piece can close on some kind of end- you don't want a long runner on the comments box that actually overshadows anything you've written, do you?

Finally, as my last piece of wisdom for the week, throw out any misconceptions you may have of being an expert blogger. You aren't. Even if Hemingway was here, I doubt even he would be an expert blogger all of the time. I'm sure he would have delivered snappy pieces- prize winning pieces no doubt- but coupled with a poor theme and a hang-over, he'd just as easily struggle over loose ends as the rest of us do. For me, blogging is about a connection we have with the world. It is a desire to write, reach out and to connect with other people in an age of information 'freedom'. You're not struck off by censors, you're not held down by an editor and you are as free as you like to record your point in the annals of time. In conclusion, the act of creating that record is probably one of the most important things we can do- it shows how we can learn from other people and discover perspectives on the world, and though I'm no expert, I'd say that can't ever be a bad thing.

Thanks for reading,
Shaun.

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Discover New Writers

 By Ashley Lister

 Late last month I was writing a paper about poetry. It was a general paper and I’ll be delivering it at a conference in a month’s time. But, whilst I was writing the paper I inadvertently ended up discovering Edna St Vincent Millay.

Not that she’d been missing and I found her.

And not that I didn’t know some of her poetry before. I’d encountered First Fig a few years ago and thought it was an entertaining piece of writing.

First Fig

By Edna St Vincent Millay

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends--
It gives a lovely light.[1]

But I didn’t know that Edna St Vincent Millay was awarded the Pulitzer Prize. I didn’t know that she was a poet and a playwright, a feminist and an activist, and openly bisexual in an era when being open about any type of sexuality was frowned upon.

Some commentators suggest that it’s easier to understand First Fig when the reader is aware of ESVM’s bisexuality. I don’t know whether I subscribe to this belief. I do know that discovering Edna St Vincent Millay’s writing made that research immensely more pleasurable than it had been.

Which is why, my advice for this week’s topic, would always be to take the time to discover new writers. Whether they’re alive or dead, new or old, proven or untested it’s worth taking the time to explore how someone unfamiliar puts pen to paper. Sometimes it might be a disaster. But, more often than not, the discovery can be incredible.

I Too Beneath Your Moon, Almighty Sex

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

I too beneath your moon, almighty Sex,

Go forth at nightfall crying like a cat,

Leaving the lofty tower I laboured at

For birds to foul and boys and girls to vex

With tittering chalk; and you, and the long necks

Of neighbours sitting where their mothers sat

Are well aware of shadowy this and that

In me, that’s neither noble nor complex.

Such as I am, however, I have brought

To what it is, this tower; it is my own;

Though it was reared To Beauty, it was wrought

From what I had to build with: honest bone

Is there, and anguish; pride; and burning thought;

And lust is there, and nights not spent alone.[2]

---

[1]Edna St Vincent Millay, (1923) ‘First Fig’ from Ballad of the Harp Weaver, and other short poems.  

[2] I Too Beneath Your Moon, Almighty Sex, http://risdyeswecan.blogspot.co.uk/2010/02/i-too-beneath-your-moon.html Accessed 27th December 2012 

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Sprouts.

Sprouts.

Don't eat sprouts at your girlfriends house, her parents won't like the wind
Don't eat sprouts at your bosses house, the bathroom rarely forgives
But other than that, get them in, chow them down
Those spheres of goodness are worth every pound
They shouldn't be mushy and squishy, not grey
They shouldn't be eyeball shaped, falling away
Keep them green people, blanch them and plunge them in ice
Fry them up in some butter, they're really quite nice
Cut into them, they should still hold a nice crunch
Look like miniature cabbages, have some for lunch
Order sprouts at work parties, order sprouts out at dinner
With the vitamins in you, you're onto a winner
But heed this here warning- Savour them, chew, don't rush
Or you'll end up with renegade sprouts that won't flush!


Shaun Brookes.



The theme this week is Child's Play. I obviously wanted to write something profound about health and safety, over zealous parenting or the incredible feat that is a man jumping from the edge of space. What I managed was a childish poem essentially about farts and unflushables. I'm sure we've all had those days as a writer.

Thanks for reading,
S.

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Advice to the Millennium Generation

 by Ashley Lister 

 In 1927 the American writer Max Ehrmann wrote Desiderata – a tone poem that offered words of wisdom intended to lead to happiness. A similar piece, written as a column for the Chicago Tribune, was produced in 1998 by a journalist called Mary Schmich. A version of Schmich’s column, which was originally entitled, Advice, like youth, probably just wasted on the young, was recorded by Baz Lurmann under the title Feel Free to Wear Sun Screen.

And, whilst those works have influenced the style of this piece, I should also add that it’s been more heavily influenced by advice from teaching colleagues.

Advice to the Millennium Generation

1 – Boys. Pull your trousers up. I don’t want to look at your underpants. Or your backsides. It’s a symptom of a sad society when young men have forgotten how to properly operate a pair of trousers.

2 – Girls. Stop being orange. Only oompah loompas, the tango man and David Dickinson are supposed to be orange. If God had wanted you to be that colour you would have been born in Chernobyl.

3 – All students. Bring a pen to the classroom. This is not rocket surgery. You’re in a classroom. There is paper and there might be learning. There’s a strong chance you might need to write something down and – unlike you – a pen might prove useful.

4 – Boys. Don’t mumble. If you’re asking a question I need to hear it before I can answer. That’s the way these vocal exchanges work away from the role playing games on your XBox.

5 – Girls. Don’t mumble. If you’re answering a question the chances are you’re wrong. But at least let me hear what you’re saying so I can laugh about it later and share your inanities with colleagues in the staffroom.

6 – All students. Bathe. Wash. Shower. And don’t just do this once a term. Do it regularly. And do something more than spraying two cans of Lynx Africa at the most pungent parts of your anatomy.

7 – All Students. For the love of God: please don’t breed. Ever since the Baby Boomers, each subsequent generation has been part of humanity’s downward spiral. If the urge to breed does come upon you, either sniff your partner, look at its orange colour, listen to it mumbling, or notice that it’s walking with its pants round its ankles. Surely these observations will be enough to deter you all from breeding.

8 – All Students. Follow the example of your elders and always show respect and tolerance.

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