My partly remembered conversation started this way.
“What are you doing?”
“I am clapping . Nick has won the property auction.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I am . You. Me ? I was asleep.”
“What do you mean I woke you up, you were clapping weren’t you?”
“Yes. I was. But I was asleep.”
“That’s stupid you were clapping.”
“I was dreaming and you have woken me.”
“I am sorry. I though you must have nave been awake. No one claps in their sleep.”
Did you dream?
It is a condition of mine I do not fight. In my own words, I am a slow sleeper. My blonde haired partner is not. Within moments of her head hitting the pillow she is deeply asleep. I listen for her deep breathing to start and then I toss and turn . In the wee small hours I realise I have been asleep and rise from my bed and wander about the house.
If it is raining I will look out the windows and marvel at the rain. On another evening in broad moonlight I will wonder outside and be mesmerised by the simplicity of the sphere that is forever changing through its quarters. Having checked my surroundings I will hop back into bed and drift in and out of consciousness until the sleeping hours are almost exhausted and then I will sleep deeply, slowly, and innocently.
I welcome the final hour to sleep like a baby, and I dream. My dreams are times, according to Carl Jung – are the time the anima an the animus work their magic in the human spirit. These are times when the male unconsciously accepts the benefits of the feminine side of his nature. The opposite condition, according to Jung, manifests itself in the female.
Lately my unremembered dreams cause me to often wake in a sweat of anxiety caused by my reaction to a partly remembered event from years before. Just last week on waking like this I had to get out of bed and deliberately remind myself the events I thought I was reliving never happened at all, and even if it did, it was so long ago as to be irrelevant today. (Oddly fo those of you interested in analysing my behaviour, they were moments of anxiety for children I once had in my care in my classroom care. The reality is it was nearly half a century ago.)
How you sleep is important to your development. We need to dream because it motivates our development. I wish you good dreams. In doing so I am not alone with Jung. Here is what a few others say about dreams.
This moment is the most symbolic one I have lived. You and I share this moment to think about how our lives are better because of the past. Reflection is the reverse of how we actually see things – so learn from it. (Your hair -for instance – is parted left or right. In reality whether it goes this way, or that, depends on which side of the mirror it is seen.) Any regrets we have are experiences of the past that have shaped us. Regret must not hold us forever in its grasp, for if it does, it is to die in loss. In my eighty years I have learned real happiness is found now, not when.
This thought was prompted from a list of possible regrets I just read. How you respond is something we might both learn from. Tell me what it has done for you. Thanks for stopping by.
I pinched this little example from a film. It is the job of an observant reader/film buff to tell me which one. The old man says to the youngster, look through these binoculars. See how things a long way off seem closer.
“Yes”, came the reply.
“It looks all clear and sharp, that is the future.”
“Now look through the binoculars from the other end,”
“Notice how everything looks far away and the details are harder to make out, that is like looking at the past.”
In the past, on Friday afternoon we played sport as one of our end of week activities. The big kids played their game on the school oval. The seconds played, in the school grounds. Other teams played on nearby grounds. But the kids like me had to walk all the way through town and we played on some open area near the railway station. The ground must be a mile from the school but that didn’t seem to matter. The walk to the ground, and back, used up a good deal of the available time. It suited the supervising teacher and it suited the ragbag team of leftover kids I joined.
On the particular day I most clearly remember I hit two sixes off consecutive balls. Mr Higgins the history teacher was our umpire and supervising teacher. He had an English background and he was horrified that anyone would so recklessly swing their bat – even at a bad ball – and swat at it as I had. So, he halted the game and took a moment to instruct me how I should hold the bat.
“Hold it straight up and down like this.”
He instructed the bowler to bowl a ball at him. From the crease he demonstrated how to properly stroke the ball to the boundary with a simple twist of the wrist keeping the blade of the bat upright and close to the legs at all times. His four was made effortlessly. It was flicked to the boundary as he moved his feet forward and the bat gracefully struck the ball to the off past the keeper.
“Now you have a go.”
I did. I was clumsily holding the bat upright as instructed but I could clearly see the ball could not be reached if I stayed put. I had the ball clearly in my sight so I did as I had in the previous two shots and I flicked out my bat and I missed the ball altogether. Mr Higgins was unimpressed.
“When the ball is wide like that it is not going to hit your stumps so you don’t have to hit it. Just let it fly past to the wicket keeper. It is his job to stop it -not yours. If he misses and the ball runs away your team can pick up the byes. Now try again.
I did. I waited patiently while the bowler walked back to his mark. I kept the bat upright. I patted the toe of the bat on the ground a couple of times. The bowler turned and started to run at me. Out the corner of my eye I could see a big gap on the leg side. I waited. The bowler was about to deliver the ball. I wasn’t watching his hand as he released it and it was more than halfway down the pitch before I saw it. It was on my leg side. I took a big swing and I hit it as hard as the balls I had whacked for six.
Mr Higgins cried out. “Not like that.”
Some little Twerp at mid off ran in toward me. I had miss hit it. The ball flew high into the air a little forward of me. By the time I saw the ball again it was swallowed into the Twerp’s hands.
“Out” came the umpire’s decision.
My innings was over. As the last man in we packed up and on the way back to school gave me some home truths on the finer points of cricket.
That was not my only cricketing gift. When I was about thirteen I was given a full sized bat by two of my uncles who played district cricket in Melbourne. It was a beautifully well oiled, well used, piece of willow. Paul and Hughie said it was a good bat and I would enjoy using it. They could no longer use it though because a couple of the rubber springs in the handle were broken.
I had a man sized for the first time. At home I had no one interested in cricket. In my primary school cricket matches were played at sports time. We would all go outside. The teacher would choose, Spencer and Thommo to act as captains and choose from the classmates lined up against the wall. First one boy, and another would be chose by Spencer or Thommo until each boy was chose to play in team one or two. I was always one of the last to be chosen.
I have fairly recounted my most memorable day in cricket above and it will come as no surprise my bat was dormant most of its life with me until I saw I could repurpose it.
I took a saw to it and fashioned the willow into the hull of a yacht. I cut off the handle. It was never any good. It had broken springs. I cut both sides of the toe into a point. I drilled a hole in the centre and I attached a mast. I walked to Lake Bullen Merri and did as men do. I played around with boats.
Nearing the same age Sam has a bag of cricket paraphernalia. He has been selected to represent his district in a series of regional games. He is the Spencer, or the Thommo of my era that was once selected to pick out players for the team. I do hope he gets to hear part of his cricketing heritage comes from the grandfather that once played under the influence of Mr Higgins.
Thanks for reading. Where did I find the opening reference?
Al Pacino in ?.?
I have remembered. It was Al Pacino in the Netflix 2019 movie, The Irishman.
I am in unfamiliar water. If you are reading this then you are probably a blogger and you may understand. Perhaps you have had the same compulsion as me, and got up out of bed in the middle of the night and started to write. This is what I am doing now and I am unfamiliar with this urge.
My sleepless mind is urging me to begin. I liken what is happening to the desire my mother had at this time of the year. When she was making more than one Christmas cake. She cooked them slowly. That meant she would go to bed and would jump out in the middle of the night to pull a cake out of the oven when everyone was asleep. Perhaps it reminds me of being called from bed by a crying child who was weeping in fright. Perhaps the child was in pain but the little soul would not drop of to sleep again without a reassuring pat from a parent.
I do not know why this urge compels me to write tonight because the job of reassuring our children invariably was one I happily delegated to my wife. At any rate I am now well awake and tapping out something that seems quite compelling to me even at this unearthly hour. Hence it may not make sense.
My story is about my brushes with music, and music makers. Brushes is the word I choose but, bump – into, fits better the analogy i have in my mind. I envision telling this set of incidents as a game of billiards, or times in my life I have bumped into folk who have moulded me.. (I don’t play billiards and those childhood games I did play at the Coverdale’s table were brutal. I lost, because too often I left my ball exposed to an easy shot by my opponent. It happened when, where the billiards stopped allowed a good player to score freely.)
Bear with me – what I am proposing is to link the times in my life when I have been with musicians and close to music only to cannon off on some new pursuit, or I moved away and never took up with them again.
Let the game begin.
LAG. To begin. In turn the players hit the white, or the yellow ball, from the back cushion and cannon off the other end and finish nearest the starting point. The first to play is the closest.
Mrs GwenTucker and Mrs Elsie McAlpine were trained opera singers. Soprano voices of great depth and clarity allowed them to sing the ancient hymnal with ease. They were able to sight read the music as easily as the organist and they formed the basis of our choir. The ancient Fincher pipe organ was donated to the Church fifty years before and yet it played as new. I was a junior choirboy. My voice worked best when I sang with John for he found the notes as easily as his mother. I got to enjoy choral music from this simple start although I was marked as a failed pianist by the time I left primary school.
The hymns we sang followed the seasons of the church. The congregation sang along led by the choir everyone reading the chosen words from the hymnal. The music and the hymns were traditional. Nothing we sang was new music. Yet I loved the sound as it vibrated around and through me.
I hadn’t been in the choir long when my future brother-in-law appeared as the new organist. With his keen ear he heard occasional discordant notes so he auditioned every choir member. Without John beside me I was tentative and weak of voice and before I was allowed to sing with them again he gave me some individual lessons. With my piano lessons finishing in naught I was even more hesitant of these. I need not have worried because he could not dismiss any of the volunteers who sang with him.
My love of music for the pipe organ began with him. He took any opportunity he had to demonstrate his mastery of the implement to play Bach, or any of his favourites, when he was at the console.
DIAMONDS. The inlaid geometrical markings on the table the player uses to plan a shot. Billiards depends on skill and an appreciation of geometry. Here is one.
The best part of ignorance is it gives you such a vast ranges of things to learn. Whatever you select to discover – it will help to educate you. The difficulty is it is hard to decide what to do.
In my first weeks at Teachers College I had to decide on an elective subject. I could have chosen anything but I chose the music elective. It was a chance to study music appreciation. A very young Peter Larsen was the lecturer in charge. He loosely based his sessions on a book by Aaron Copeland. Perhaps it was “What to listen for in music.” I no longer remember. What I do remember is the passion he gave to the few of us in his charge.
We could have just wasted our time but he challenged us to grow. Not only did we listen to music he got us to compose pieces as well. At one point he asked us to write a canon. (Think Pachelbels Canon”) He made it a competition. The winner would play their composition at a college assembly (You wish) Each week he would look at what we produced and early on he announced I had produced the best piece to date.
In the end the award went to someone deserving. Fortunately Elaine the girl that won had studied music for seven years. What I got from it was an understanding of the relationship of numbers and patterns we find in music. It licensed me to tell kids. Maths is beautiful.
A teacher never immediately knows the impact they have on a child’s life. How your past catches up can humble you. In the last couple of years out of nowhere I received this uninvited email.
Hi Mr Wxxxxxx
I think you taught me at Carstairs Primary school in the 70’s.
My name then was Ruth O’Brien and your mantra was ‘Maths is beautiful’
NATURAL. (Carom games) A shot with only natural angle and stroke required for successful execution; a simple or easily visualized, and accomplished, scoring opportunity.
The first natural in my world is niece Karen. She has a bell like clarity in her voice. In her first weeks at school Noreen discovered she had such a beautiful sound she used her at every opportunity she could.
Whenever I hear her sing I am moved to tears.
The next voice of equivalent clarity belonged to Peter the Troubled. His voice was as clear that as the young Welch singer Aled Jones. Peter caused me much grief but it was all forgotten when he sang. Our school produced a concert version of Joseph’s Amazing Technicolor Coat and he was our amazing lead. (Using Facebook I have discovered he is leading a very productive life and this is pleasant news.)
Natural ability at music is the talent of Peter, Alan, and Terry Norman. Both have perfect pitch. Terry was the next brilliant organist into which it was my fortune to bump. Meredith of course helped build discipline into the young piano player who later learned to play the flute so well in our home.
Some people have no trouble with their natural talent yet it is my keenly held prejudice that too many of the smartest people I know (those named excluded) have wasted theirs. That may become a story for another day. The billiards game is over. I had but three points to make and like billiards play finishes with the first person to win the agreed number of points.
1. Thank you for reading my prose. I appreciate your feed back so today, please comment.
2. Would you spend 5 seconds reading adds (while I make money) before you viewed a page link I reference.
3. If you like a billiards story here is a link I found. Someone will be paid.