What disturbed me was the fact that frequently, the educated are viewed with such skepticism and cynicism by the educators that little more needs to be said about the methods by which education now takes place; I guess you wouldn't be too far off if you imagined a case where people were guilty until proven innocent.
Such mistrust, such jaded reactions... Past experiences? Past lessons? Guily conscience?
Let me just ask this then: is the educator not entitled to be educated as well? Do those past mistakes imply that he/she was wrong to trust? Or does it simply mean that he/she had trusted too easily? I guess this should lead to the conclusion that it's better to be safe than sorry...
Unfortunately, this is the way many people have chosen to react -- convenient, clinical and clear.
I think that is possibly the saddest thing you can do for yourself. Better to have trusted and be misguided than not to have trusted at all; be careful, not vengeful.
I must apologise for making this matter somewhat public, but it hits a little closer to home than many people realise. I stand for a number of things rather stubbornly -- one of them is justice.
---------------------------
Here's a little something from Anna and Mister God that blessed my eyes on my bus ride home. Amidst a mischievous child and his siblings sounding the air-raid sirens to phantom infantry battalions, an obliging mother that disciplines through humour and a hypnotic murmurr of the tube, these words found me like headlights down a dark alley. They enveloped me in their musical warmth and whispered to me of lyrical abandon.
Just close your eyes and imagine with me on this one. You'll like it, trust me.
If you do, imagine cradling an entire book -- all 377 pages worth -- of its magic. These words are simple but their magic are a lyrical gypsy tale: spun in light, chaperoned in clouds, lost to the winds, eternal to the minds that behold them.
Enjoy.
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[From Page 149]
It was a chilly April night when we first met Old Woody. Old Woody commanded great respect from the 'night people', obviously well-educated, well-mannered and utterly content with his life. Old Woody was tall adn as straight as a pole. Hawk-nosed, bearded, adn with eyes that focused somewhere near infinity. His voice was like roasted chestnuts, warm and brown. When Old Woody smiled, it just touched the corners of his mouth. But it wasn't there that you looked for his smile, it was in his his eyes. those eyes just sort of wrapped you up, those eyes were full up on with good things, and when he smiled, whe, they just poured out all over you.
......
His eyes passed from my face to Anna's and there they stuck. With a smile, he held out his hand to Anna and she went across to him and held it. For a long, long moment, they stared at each other, showering each other with good things, and smiling fit to burst. They were two of a kind, and didn't need to use language. The exchange was immediate and complete. Standing Anna in front of him, he looked her over once more.
'You're a bit young for this, aren't you, little one?'
Anna held her silence, testing and probing Old Woody. He didn't demand an answer, he wan't anxious, he was prepared to wait.
He passed the test, so he got his answer, 'I'm old enough to live, mister,' said Anna quietly.
........
'Do you like poetry?' he asked.
Anna nodded. Old Woody settled the glowing tobacco in his pipe with his thumb.
'Do you,' he said, sucking away, 'so you know what poetry is?'
'Yes,' replied Anna. 'It's sort of like sewing.'
'I see,' Old Woody nodded, 'and what do you mean by sewing?'
Anna juggled the words around in her mind. 'Well, it's making something from different bits that is different from all the bits.'
'Um,' said Old Woody, 'I think that is rather a good definition of poetry.'
........
(asked to rephrase her initial question of 'why don't you like in a house')
Anna thought for a moment, then said, 'Mister, why do you like living in the dark?'
'Living in the dark?' smiled Old Woody. 'I can answer that very easily, but can you understand my answer, I wonder?'
'If it's answer, I can,' responded Anna.
'Yes, of course. If it is an answer, you can. That's true, only if it's an answer.' He paused, and then 'Do you like the darkness?'
Anna nodded. 'It stretches you out big. It makes the box big.'
He gave a little chickle.'Indeed, indeed,' he said. 'My reason for preferring th darkness is tha tin the dark, you have to describe yourself. In the daylight other people describe you. Do you understand that?'
Anna smiled, and Old Woody reached out a gnarled hand and gently closed Anna's eyes, held both her hands and settled some inner aspect of himself. This particular little spot in London Town looked by daylight a shambles; at this moment, in the light of the fire, it was pure magic.
Old Woody's firm and strong voice spoke to his God, to Anna, and to all mankind:
'In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note;
But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise.'
............
'Thus doth she, when from individual states
She doth abstract the universal kinds,
Which then reclothed in divers names and fates,
Steal across thro' our senses to our minds.'
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I could go on all night about this book... But I simply can't.
Life beckons. But poetry beholds. As do you.
JKLM
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