Gratitude Memetics (Part I)

For some time now, in the world of academia, some academics have taken to tracing their 'academic descent' — who their doctoral supervisor was, who their supervisor's supervisor was, and so on until you reach the earliest recorded node. The doctoral thesis is an interesting carrier of this memetic record because it is normally the defining moment of the typical academic life.

Strictly speaking, the doctoral dissertation is a meme. A really good one will propagate itself while evolving into a book, a roadshow, a seminar, a conference, and eventually perhaps an institution of its own. As it propagates itself through the citation/reference system, thorough the cells known as journals, in the wombs known as committees, they infect the human race for good or for ill.

Today however, I was just content to be looking at the master's thesis a former student of mine submitted, in the field of theatre. What really made my day was when this student told me how, when speaking to colleagues about goals and ambitions, memories of me would emerge. Those colleagues would then be treated to a short spiel on how my teaching was an eye-opener and something worthy of emulation.

I was speechless. And very, very grateful. We who are confident, positive personalities sometimes look as if we don't need kindness, or that nice words and memories are superfluous to our requirements. But we're human too, and I felt good, and I thanked this ex-student from the bottom of my miserable heart.

A Survival Guide to the Old Place (and Other Places)

Before we begin, realise that there is a fundamental difference between being a client and being a service provider. In the Old Place, or indeed in any other Place, it is quite likely that the service provider is more easily removed than the client.

This means that there is a delicate balance between service providers and clients. Ideally, the service provider should provide sufficient service such that the client doesn't feel stiffed. Similarly, the client should respect the service providers that provide sufficient service (or at least attempt to) and should be publicly annunciative (as opposed to denunciative) of both good and bad service providers.

There are a few problems, though.

It is clear that those who provide service providers have power over the service providers and do not necessarily provide useful services themselves, although they might delude themselves into thinking they do. Most times, they do, because they have made themselves useful. This is a good thing.

It is sometimes unclear as to who the real clients are. Are the clients the direct consumers of services, or the suppliers of direct consumers who hope that the direct consumers will be improved by consumption? If we were talking about a school, we'd be asking, "Are the students the clients, or their parents/guardians, or their states of origin, or the places which will benefit from their education?"

The worst problem really is that the definitions of what constitutes good service provision are not made as obvious in some institutions as they are in others. In some institutions, the clients are told things like, "If our [service provider designation] fails to carry out [service task designation], you should [perform client report function that notifies institution of service failure]." This is seldom true in educational circles, but catching on in healthcare circles and the civil service.

Currently, some service institutions are obliged to take in anyone who requests service (like hospitals) and some are allowed to pick and choose their clients (as in schools that are private or have occult recruiting practices or are allowed some discretion in student selection). This of course does not level the playing field. However, the intention was always to create an uneven playing field so as to concentrate resources appropriately according to market supply and demand. This in itself is not a problem until you stumble over the word 'appropriately' and wonder how this is determined.

The cure for enduring (if not solving) all such problems is to keep your head low and walk around vaguely smiling at everyone. This makes you look like a benign sort of tortoise, and like the tortoise, you are likely to have greater longevity. Remember to eat spicy noodles every morning, washed down with hot black coffee. This will boost your cognitive powers, sharpen your sense of danger, and make you realise that life is good even when the specifics fail.

At the same time, you should realise that you can't stay at the old place forever. We all move on, hopefully to better places. When you get to a new place, check out the noodles. If the food is bad, shake off the dust of your feet at their doorstep and keep moving. If the proprietor is shady, don't turn your back on him. But remember that life is often what you make of what you have been given; naked we came from our mothers' wombs, naked will we return to our peace, and so in all things give thanks to God.

Freedom's Call: The Year In Review

I think what sums up this year the most, in terms of life changes and processes, is that for the first time in a long while, I have been a free agent. In the past, like a good Party member, I had to toe the party line to some extent. Sanctions were available, as in the old Politburo, such as demotion, public denunciation, bonus reduction, having one's privileges withheld, and so on. I suffered all of these things, despite the fact that there was no objective reason for any of them.

Then in March, I was freed of all obligations to keep my mouth shut and my eyes closed.

The effect on me was almost intoxicating. For once, I could earn fair market value for my work and do untrammelled (well, less-trammelled) research on what made the education system really tick (or tock). From an approximate rate of a dollar per educational man-hour (a bit more than $30 to teach a class of almost 30 students for an hour), the valuation of my time rose to giddy heights. I was not aware I was worth so much on the open market!

Better than that, I was now free to eat wherever I wanted at any time I wanted. This is no small privilege; there are some companies that won't let their staff go out for lunch because they don't see why adults should be treated like adults. I used to have to sign out at the office if I wanted to take a walk across the road; I suddenly found myself able to walk like a free man.

I became a lot more productive in unexpected ways, and I learnt a lot more; I finally found the time to do things like write poetry and make things with my hands. I listened to more music, did more work, served as a writer and consultant, made information freely available to others, advised people who wanted advice. I read huge chunks of the Bible twice over, in two versions; I cleared a stack of long-abandoned reading. I started teaching Literature.

I began to make time for old friends and colleagues, to talk, to stay up late at night, to chat and have happy meals (no, not the mass-produced Golden Arches kind). I developed a finer sense for wine and cheese. I found a greater appreciation for my juniors and their lives; although I saw a lot less of my former students, I remembered a lot more. I realised that lurking in me was a deep spirit of gratitude for what I had learnt from each one of them.

The funny thing was that these people (bless their hearts!) made time for me too! I had lots of good moments, some of intense madness, some really sweet, and all memorable. I found that I missed people like Trivandrum and Wolfberry a lot more than I thought I would; I found myself missing the classes I taught for all of three months before I had to abandon them. I was consoled by the company of those who stayed around, and I watched in concern as they went through the trial of examinations.

Then I made contact with some of my students from the time I used to teach in a convent. Goodness! Some of these young ladies are now mothers (and in some cases, twice or three times over!) and yet they still seem not to have changed much. They are all as pleasant as ever, but with the edge that comes from time and the grind of working life.

In September, I got myself a driving license. Haha, a lot of you will laugh that this seemed to be such a major achievement to me. Well, let me just remind you that the counter clerk looked up from my application filing to say, "Sir, your last driving test was before I was born!" That's life, I guess.

I got a lot fitter. I started taking five-mile walks again. I remember dancing for 3 hours one night in Thailand. That was a really odd thing to do, since it was out in the open, on a warm tropical night. The sea-breeze helped a lot. I got a bit dehydrated, but the seaside massage the next day compensated a lot for it. Somehow, there are fewer things in life finer than desiccating by the beach with a mild sun and a cool breeze and air that doesn't smell of rotting fish.

This year has been one of renewal. Sometimes, when you come up for air, you realise that you have been running on the last bubbles of oxygen for too long in the sewer-pit of life. I have never had such a sense of rejuvenation. I thank God for it, and I can only hope that 2009 will be more of the same.

Still A Teacher

It's Teachers' Day today, in the city-state which became my home many years ago. I was a teacher for 15 years; I taught at my last school for more than 12 years and only left this March. I felt that I had left a large chunk of my life behind, but in a sense it had been falling apart, falling away, since December last year.

Looking back, I was already burning out; like many of my colleagues, we'd burned hot and fast for the first graduating high-school batch we'd ever had since 1977. Our students of the 2007 batch would be going on to universities, if not into compulsory national service or into a gap year for the growth of the soul.

So this Teachers' Day meant a few things to me. It meant that I was officially (or so I thought) no longer a teacher. It meant that old things had passed away, that things I used to value had to be locked up in old rooms. It meant that those who didn't want me to teach the way I had been teaching could be allowed their victory at long last.

But since Friday I've been receiving messages from former students who were mine as long ago as 1993. They all tell me a few things which make me re-examine myself. (Heh, it must be some sort of retribution for me examining them all those years ago.) They say, most of all, in all kinds of touching ways, that a) I'm still a teacher to them, and b) I was a teacher who changed things for them.

Of course, those who never felt that way would not say anything, so my sample is biased. But that's not the point. The point is that I have many things to thank my students for. There are still those who remember what was good, and are willing to overlook the mediocre. And I must thank them all for reminding me that I'm still a teacher, and nobody can take that away from me.

=====

Note: I must also thank my colleagues, ranging from the 20-somethings to the 60-somethings, for all the encouragement. Yes, the best is yet to be. Yes, I may someday teach in school again. Yes, I will work harder on my PhD and try and get it over with. Heh. And to the ivy that grows in colder clime, I thank you for the gift of flowers and cheer!

Kindness

Occasionally, I am overwhelmed with kindness from those who have known me briefly or not at all. Acquaintances over a few distant years, supervisors and subordinates of a few short months, peers of nodding acquaintance, students of long-forgotten classes – all these people have shown me kindness, and as I sit here counting my blessings, I realise that quite often, the amount of debt we can owe others is far more than we can pay.

There is only one way to balance the books: if each of us returns kindness for kindness, if each of us creates more kindness spontaneously, the 'kindness economy' will boom and the bread cast upon the waters will return manifold to each of us.

Thank you to all of you who have helped me, responded to me, shone light upon my path, and fended darkness away from me. Each of you, no matter how long our contact or acquaintance, occupies a place of value in my heart.

Let It All Out

As we head towards another Sabbath, I find myself at peace. I think I have been at peace ever since I knew I had to go. Those who know me and have been with me since then will testify to that. So here is a shout-out to some particularly long-suffering people and others.

To the Huntress (my co-sufferer for almost 15 years), the Argonaut (my first wingman), the Historian (my wingman), my thanks for the neatest, tightest ship of all — and it moves so quickly! To my distant Admiralty, my thanks for fellowship in far places. To my fellow captains, a salute to those who deserve it (and to those with leaky ships, time to start plugging away!) To my ancestors and senior members of the Family, my thanks for provision of material needs.

To the Heifer (still with brown eyes) and others of the First, my thanks for the honour of working with you. To the Hierophant and the Tiger and others of the Second (like my TOKen class), my thanks for hours of amusement and pleasure at the wonder of it all. To those of the Third who I never really had time to work with, especially those three in that class and the Arsenal fan, my thanks for restoring hope that had been forgotten. To the Oldhamites, my thanks for many fruitful years which meant something precious to me.

To the Flower and the Eternal Hoodlums, my thanks for being such a cheerful bunch of co-conspirators. To bloggers with odd agenda, well, you know what you did and I suppose I have to be grateful. I'm not entirely sure I haven't mentioned you yet, unwittingly. To the Powers of the Back-Room, my thanks for your quiet support in the face of common sense and conventional wisdom (and the rumour mill).

To the Highest, who gave encouragement ex nihilo, I am amazed and thankful at the kind of support I have received. And to think I doubted. It was always above and beyond what I dreamt I would have needed.

And to Tears for Fears who gave me the title of this post: I may not fully agree with the lyrics, but it was a good song and I enjoyed it way back in 1984 (along with that other classic). Huh, how appropriate!

The Substitute Assassins

My clansman starred in a film called The Replacement Killers once. It was quite a hit. One day, I overheard an old man trying to recall the title, and the title of this post is what he came up with. And that leads me to my present state of mind.

Right now, where I work, are many substitute officers. They were our former trainees, now qualified, who are in between states of life and jobs and the beginnings of their careers. I amuse myself by trying to think how their own trainees must see them, and what they must seem like to those who do not know that they are only substitute officers.

Here is what I've thought. They look pretty solid (mostly) for ersatz workmates. You might be forgiven on first look for thinking that some of them are indeed entry-level officers. Then again, maybe not. And sometimes, unfortunately, you look at them and unflattering or peculiar nicknames spring to mind.

There's one I call the Loafer. Seemingly loafing around all the time, this substitute has a sheepish and yet somehow guileful look which shades to potential malevolence when in the wrong shadow. There's another I think of as Bond movie material, but who has a pervasive air of innocent charm. There's one more who looks positively elegant despite some altitudinal compromise, and another who persists in calling me 'sir' in tones of mingled outrage and despair. There's one who struggles to put on a no-nonsense look, even as our most junior trainees misbehave. There is one more who ghosts around the place looking like the beautiful but vengeful spirit of some artistic muse.

They walk around the place, as if still not quite sure whether they are officers or trainees.

It is all very amusing, and yet very touching. I am happy to see them around, but they also make me conscious of my dispensability, my mortality, and the fact that seasons change and times pass; and we are as the flower of the field that fades and blows away. In a way, these young people have brought my death that much closer to me. By that, I am sobered, and yet made happy and oddly thankful.

Numbering The Days

There are 114 days left in this year. The day after that 114th day, I become eligible for some enhanced benefits. Things come due. I will have served the state for long enough. That day will be 1 January 2008.

Many of those I have served have asked me this question (or variants thereof): "So, will you stay on in harness after that?"

To the older ones who should know better, I have said the obvious things: there are few who can serve as I have, and fewer who will; I have a greater stake in the fortunes of the apparatus than some of the apparatchiks; I have enough to not care how little I am paid (save that I have enough for giving); nobody is indispensable, but some are pensionable; and I really have no interest in playing silly games like 'treat me better or I will quit'. I live for the challenge of my gifts, and that is really it.

To the younger ones who cannot know better, because of the accident of their youth, because they have no access to relevant knowledge, I will say the less obvious things: simplicity is not a gift, but a cultivated state of mind; service is the natural state of the gifted – and all have some gift(s); senility is not a necessary consequence of time; intelligence is merely the ability to pay attention and craft understanding; spoonfeeding is for babies. I love my students; they are the future and I am not.

I am going for a long journey someday. This I know to be true. But before I go, I must do a few more things. Here is a link to a poem that might help. It is one of the greatest human works of all the years. To save time, I will quote part of it that I seldom quote:

How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use!
As tho’ to breathe were life. Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge, like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

My ancestors never really retired; God took them in their elder prime and I trust that I will follow too that way. I was brought up in the spirit of the last few lines of this poem (you might see them scrolling by below, if your browser works that way). Go and read, if you will.

Who am I? Is that a valid question for a time like this? I am fortunate; I am blessed at least that I can answer the question, "Who am I not?" The answer is here, in yet another great poem of the age:

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

At the end of the play, when the great are ended too, what is left but to applaud the playwright? And perhaps, give thanks that you had a part at all.

Midnight

I've had a hard year, and so have many of you. I would like to think I've made the world a better place for each of you who have stopped by here. Yet, I'm fully aware that I have not; in fact, that I have made the world more confusing, more exasperating, more enraging and less pleasant for some of you. I wish that it were otherwise, and I wish I were wiser.

Nevertheless, anonymity notwithstanding, I still have to thank many of you, in groups and as individuals, for doing things which made me a better person (or at least, feel better). I suppose I shall have to do this personally, but here, I am going to do it by pseudonym and cryptonym, by synonym and by euonym.

Three rings for leaders of the first elect
Seven for the others in that room of stone
Nine years might not a better crew select
One now has the privilege of choice alone
One ring to serve them all and set the tone

Three stars for thinkers of the atrament
Intellect and silliness in equal part
Some added spiciness a sacrament
Passion and emotion burning from the heart
Still unresolved is science over art

Three cheers for a genesis of wonder
Seven points for chronicles of dire sense
This whole year like judgement day of thunder
Drowning the ceremony of innocence
In cold-forged steel of shining excellence

=====

I am glad that I have had the privilege of serving you all. And here, as my anonymous friend also does, I can think of no better message to leave you than one of time, and the prospects thereof.

=====

Ecclesiastes 3

A Time for Everything

For everything there is a season,
a time for every purpose under heaven.

A time to be born and a time to die.
A time to sow and a time to harvest.
A time to kill and a time to heal.
A time to tear down and a time to build up.
A time to cry and a time to laugh.
A time to grieve and a time to dance.
A time to scatter stones and a time to gather stones.
A time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing.
A time to gain and a time to lose.
A time to keep and a time to throw away.
A time to tear and a time to mend.
A time to be quiet and a time to speak.
A time to love and a time to hate.
A time for war and a time for peace.

What profit is there for the one who labours? I have seen the travail that God has given to us all.
He has made everything beautiful in its own time. Yet He has planted eternity in the hearts of men, that they might not see the work of God from beginning to end.
So I concluded there is no good but for a man to rejoice, and to do good in his life. And also that every man should eat and drink, and enjoy the good of all his labour, for it is the gift of God.

And I know that whatever God does is final; nothing can be added to it or taken from it - this is done that people should fear Him. That which has been is now; and that which is to be has already been; and God requires an accounting for all things.

=====

I wish all of you a most enlightening new year. May God help your burden, your shadows, the darkness of your times, the gravity of the days, and the heaviness of your hearts all seem lighter. For all our troubles are light and momentary ones, leading in the end to the light of His presence. Amen.

Coffee - A Meditational Triptych

I've been up all night, with the red-eye flowing through my veins. So here is my tribute to it.

=====

Begin


I: Father, Creator

here is a bean - the earth was fed
a plant was grown, a pod was cracked
the sun was warm, the soil was sweet
we raised our hands to heaven's face

so God gave us the blessing bean
benediction for our striving
true, some might drink somewhat deeply
enjoy the bean a bit too much...

here is the bean - it stirs the head
reminding us of simple fact
that we can dance with hands and feet
that hearts and minds need joy and space

so God gave us to drink caffeine
benediction for our striving
while some might drink somewhat steeply
the bulk of us are nowhere such...


II: Son, Mediator

here then is a drink
look in its brown depths
we see our faces in
sweetly black reflex
we sip the bitter
scent the dying pain
learn that the fitter
lives to fight again

here then is mystery
shallower than Christ
a smaller history
nothing sacrificed
and yet daily ritual
perhaps we should think
why sacrificial
servanthood needs drink


III: Ghost, Inspirer

wine was the drink chosen
not coffee
in the earliest legends
wine was free
fire, burning, knowledge
Spirit, wind
wine was like purity
reminding
we who sinned

Spirit came at pentecost
flame tongues rose
build tower, count the cost
wise man knows
Spirit's burning, needs God
turns through pain
agony of evil
comes to God
once again


Coda

and coffee?
a minor grace
sent to remind
God still shows
His gracious face
to men still blind...
though coffee
is not wine

End