Oh God O'clock

Imagine- the sky is a nondescript grey, mysterious, as if a veil of fog has been pasted to the atmosphere to further delude the prophets crying out global warming. Even the birds haven't yet woken up to sing, the trees are silent, as if, deep in their core, they too slumber. The sun is hiding somewhere down Australia way, and the frost still permeates the air like a choking icy ghost.

"Time to get up!!"

A grunt, which with my limited dictionary I can translate as,

"What time is it?"

There's a pause. A tug of an ear lobe. Rub of the neck. And then, an uneasy, half closed mouth mumble...

"six...AM."

Silence. You know, like when there's silence right before a typhoon. Or a bushfire. Or a tidal wave. Or the ever more hyped up apocalypse. Apparently, when she's 6000 miles from home, severely jet lagged, almost as cold as Captain Oats when he popped out for a walk and utterly exhausted, it's not acceptable to wake your mother up at Oh God O'Clock. On her birthday.

Note to self. Remember that.

Still, at least this time I wasn't the root of the problem. Actually, it was my brother's zealous obsession with rugby, and the fact that actually, his teams quite good. Add a dash of parental pride, a lack of semi normal regular familial activities and hope for a birthday try, and we find ourselves in the above situation. They won, but the try eluded him, though there was a close shave in which my mother became near hysteric. Honestly, even the slightly disproportionate team chihuahua's eyes weren't quite so wide, or voice quite so high, as she suddenly realised something really good might actually happen on her birthday.

That's sad isn't it? I mean, it's supposed to be a wonderful day- the celebration of one of life's mysteries in which we actively participate, the marking of a loved one's coming into the world- a philosophical sign post indicating logically this is when we may conclude this person came to exist. (though since it's philosophy, please free to include obligatory 'maybe/perhaps/probably/none of the above'.)

And yet, here she was, freezing her toes off on a muddy field in the North, wrapped up in at least three coats to protect her from our glorious weather having woken up at six o'clock, travelled four hours and not even had breakfast in bed- fanatically egging him on in the hope of something more to celebrate.

It's sadder still that my family actually have various codes for these particularly torturous obstacles in our lives in which we are required to wake up at such damned witching hours and travel, groggily, for hours with nothing but directions from a printout and a flask of coffee to fuel us. These include the afore-mentioned 'Oh God O'Clock', and just 'get some sleep', said in certain tones to indicate the meaning, much like numerous eastern dialects. Forget Captain Cook- we are the intrepid explorers of HavenBaulk lane, the code breakers of the school provided directions, the heroes who soldier on with barely a welcome break pork pie to go on- those messy haired, halfway dressed nomads who stumble onto the pitch and wait for the wind to give them an adrenaline rush where caffeine couldn't.

You know the best thing? It's late afternoon, and neither I, nor they, care any longer. The past is the past, to state the long gone obvious. It no longer exists and there's no point lamenting it. A goal was set, it was achieved, we came back together- for an hour or two we seemed like a normal family (ignoring the fact we were discussing the varying difficulty of bartering with chinese stall owners depending on geographic location, and where to best find full cream goat's milk for your father/in-law.) And that's all that counts. We pick which memories we remember, often without even consciously considering the action. We block out the pain of waking up at such forsaken hours much like we decide- in general outside of our sentient knowledge- to breathe or use a hyphen (woops).

So if I look back on my school trip to Rome, I'll remember acrobatic dogs, disturbing cryptic postcards (and by that I mean gems dealing with photos of crypts because the british postal service doesn't have enough to deal with.) I'll remember west country lads picking up irish accents and how to say 'nun' in cantonese. I'll generally be ignorant on reflection of the blister to defeat all blisters, and my english teacher's cheerful chirp of a 'short walk', where his piece of string stretches several miles and ours some desperate metres.

And Mum, I hope, when she looks back on today, will remember being at home, and knowing that we love her. And yes, that's unbelievably soppy, and no, I'm not sure any of us has the guts to put it into words and show that, shock horror, we have emotions, but the sentiments exists. And if it's possible for someone to perceive a negative sentiment where there is none, then there must also on occasion be a positive sentiment which lies unseen, but exists nonetheless. Maybe some deity or greater force exists, maybe it/he/she doesn't- but there is something in which we can have faith, especially as we get closer to christmas.

If nothing else, if only for a moment, trust in the goodwill of humanity. Because from someone, somewhere, even at Oh God O'clock, it's there.

Elephant Trees

Elephant Trees are the most fantastic sort of thing. They're a bit like a baobab tree, huge, with full, bulging trunks and branches that curl around their crown in thick, fantastical wooden tendrils. Their leaves are thick and lush, a sort of wide oval, and dark green on one side, lime on the back. The seeds are pods, as large as the leaves, and the same sort of shape- although these bulge out, and if you tap them they sound hollow. They're hard and light brown. These seeds, on a healthy elephant tree, grow in abundance, rows of them dotting the uppermost branches, some 35 metres up. On a day in summer, perhaps set, perhaps not, all of these seed pods open, like a flower blooming, and from them tumble thousands of light balls of white fluff- like the heads of dandelion clocks the size of your fist, and they're caught in the wind and tumble away in a delicate, fantastical cloud.
Elephant trees are amazing things, they really are.
The only problem with them is that they don't actually exsist- I think.
Which is why me having a memory of watching one's seedpods open and tumble down a street in India whilst my Dad was getting cash from a bank is somewhat..disturbing. It's always been a particularly precious memory of mine- the glaring sun, shining like liquid silver on the backs of the half-broken cars limping down the street, the awe inspiring breadth and height of the tree, learning it's name from an indian man with clever eyes and a nice smile, and watching with baited breath as the seedpods cracked open simultaneously, and those dandelion clocks tumbled in a light wave through the wind, transforming that grotty, back end part of the city into something remarkable. It was such a special memory that around last Christmas, when my family and I were talking about various countries we've visited (both varied and numerous) that I felt the need to recount it in detail- finally unburdening myself of this beautiful memory that had been nagging at the back of my mind. As I finished I looked at their faces, smiling at the past, waiting for them to add their own view on the experience. Their perplexed expressions were not exactly what I was expecting.
I mean sure, if I'd told them pigs could fly, or the sky was green, or I really WAS sane, then maybe...well, probably, but a harmless, pretty little memory? I mean yeesh, I thought, I CAN remember some things guys... So when they explained that it had never happened- at least not when they were there, I suppose my own portrayal of perplexity mirrored theirs.
I suppose that's the thing about memories- they're slippery, glimmering, ephemeral things- like those gauze ribbons you get wrapped around fancy presents (yes, I'm thinking of a certain wonderful Australian aunt)- I mean really, think about your memories, really THINK about them- it's a collection of echoes into the now and the future, shadows, half-remembered songs, words, faces...You sort of know times, but even they are uncertain. The biggest resource for humanity to know where they've come from and what they've been- a collection of multicoloured scraps swimming in the etha of your thoughts, 'electrical impulses and chemicals', and apparently nothing more than something which can be easily explained. Yeah, right.
And of course they shouldn't be- because, in so many ways, memories are the building blocks of the soul, scaffolding, mortar, cement- of emotion and experience and lessons learnt, that make us react logically or irrationally, favour and ignore, develop and grow. They're as much a part of our 'heart' as everything in the now.
And of course- the most precious thing of all is the memories we're given: stories and scraps and words and sounds that grow in precious corners of our mind, for us to pass on to those we love and for them to do so too in turn- it's all very well being politically correct, and 'behaving in public', trying not to exclude other 'ethnic groups' (we're not allowed to call them races are we now?) But the treasures of our culture, the ballads and rhymes and poems and songs, surely they at least are worth preserving? It's one of the many things that make us human- the way we are nourished by a collective set of stories, wild and bright, as old as anyone can remember.
So maybe my Elephant Tree was a memory of a dream, or a daydream, or just a figment of my imagination grown in my subconscious to epic proportions, but that's not going to stop me from passing it on- from reminding everyone around me, those I love and those crazy enough to listen to me, that the world, our lives, each one of us is not only unique- we are a work of art 200 000 years in the making and still growing, still living, making magic and lives and memories, memories, memories- together a tapestry of life and triumph and loss and love, beautiful and surreal and as alive as we are.
At whatever stage of our lives- birth, childhood, adulthood, death and whatever comes after, we're part of something more already- we just need to remember from time to time.

Catharsis

One definition of that funny sounding (and looking word) is: 'A release of emotional tension, as after an overwhelming experience, that restores or refreshes the spirit.'
Now today, I've been hurtling along on what some people would call, 'an emotional rollercoaster', (which really makes no sense whatsoever, I paid no fee, didn't sit next to an obsese American, and was not once concerned that the metal railings seemed a little too unstable) Still, I suppose it's as good a description as any.
Today I woke up at 6.05 am, I listened to my ipod, with some great new music, and wondered if I preferred Vampire Weekend or Death Cab for Cutie. It took about 45 minutes for me to realise I'd set my alarm early so I'd get time to pack. It took another 15 minutes for me to realise I was supposed to be up early for breakfast anyway, for 7.30am, which lead to me whirling round my room, knocking over several precarious stacks of books, and sprinting down the stairs. It really was quite a whimsical awakening.
When I got downstairs, I realised another thing I'd missed in my half sleeping state. Everyone else was wearing white shirts. Which meant they were in our school's 'best dress'. And as I sat down with my 'healthy' breakfast, and saw a certain picture hanging on the wall, I remembered why they were. Why I should be.
Today was Tony Ho's memorial mass.
It's funny. White's not even a colour:it can be transparent or opaque, good, clinical or detached. And sometimes it just hits you in the face. Bright, blank, clean. Thus began the rollercoaster.
I didn't know Tony particularly well. It took me a moment when I first heard of his murder to even conjure up a fuzzy mental image of his face. I could only remember, in a flashback sort of way that Hollywood would be proud of, a moment in his last term, and my last before starting boarding. It was summer, and he held the door open for me. Generally, people didn't hold the door open for me. I'm normally the one holding the door.On an impulse I told him how my family and I were going to move to Hong Kong, and I'd start boarding. The delighted surprise on his face, followed immediately by an offer to teach my brother and I Chinese, help us settle in with boarding and maybe take us round Hong Kong brightened my day. Just a moment. Just a few words, a smile, and sunlight. But it was special to me.
It also reminded me that in my life I've had an inordinate amount of luck. I feel almost guilty about it, and filled with growing trepidation. In my whole life, I've only known 3 people who have died after I've met them. I have lived 9 and a half thousand miles away, I currently live in two countries 6000 miles apart. I've had at least 4 houses and have family spread across the 93000 square miles of this country. I've known so many people. Yet I've never had to confront death like that. The last time was when I was 10, with my babysitter. I still feel hollow when I think about it.
But that's not what I'm writing about.
The roller-coaster involved frustration with certain inept scottish house mistresses, anger at a lot of things, sadness, empathy, pity, recognition, nostalgia (in great soggy buckets), and then my Catharsis.
But just before I mention that, I'll pinpoint the moment in the mass when I started to cry. I'm in the choir, and we wanted to sing to remember Tony. Before anyone sang however, before anyone even spoke, someone played some music on the piano and we all stood up.
And we watched as two of Tony's close friends, old pupils, came up and put a school rugby jacket at the foot of the altar, next to his picture. That was when my tears started. I really had to fight to suppress the sobs a few minutes later when our DT teacher did the first reading, and started crying as she read it. It was one of the most agonizing, touching, beautifully painful moments of my life. And I loved the fact that we could sing for him. In that mass, everything became very real to me, and at the same time, for a moment, we could all mourn in our own private space. Just for a time, we could give in, and be sorry, and sad. And that, I think, was very right indeed.
Perhaps most remarkable of all was that all of over 400 children from 11 to 19 kept completely silent, sang with all their hearts, and for once made no fuss. Just goes to show, even the 'youth of today' can appreciate some things.
After followed yet more stress, frustration, confusion and me living life as I usually do, in a hectically chaotic state of disarray. (also, my comforting fish and chips were cruelly stolen and replaced with salad and a banana. I was not impressed). Yet now my roller-coaster was somewhat more subdued, there was a fuzzy sheet of glass between me and the me that was on the outside, grinning and yelping in mock outrage and rushing back and forth. And then, finally, at around 4.40pm came my Catharsis.
Sometimes, I love Shakespeare. Considering without us and the scene he wanted to rehearse, there would be no rehearsal, my director came to the chapel and all but dragged me and the 3 other 'lovers' to the theatre.
Thus followed enthusiastic, passionate, hilarious and exhilarating rehearsals,in which I laughed throughout. It was brilliant, and my little bubble of private sorrow melted away. I don't think it was too quick, considering I've felt it for about 2 weeks, but it was nice to feel free again, less inhibited. Plus, seriously, those rehearsals were hilarious.
Really though, when we're gone, what do people remember us by? I don't mean how many Michael Jackson-esque concerts will you receive, or if they'll plant a forest in your memory. Really, what will your friends and family remember you by? Your grades? Your achievements? The latest color you dyed your hair? Or a little fragment of memory. Sunshine. A drawing. A rugby jacket, and a shared loss. Songs and tears. Sometimes, it's the ordinary things that make the most exceptional memories. And to be absolutely honest, it's the best way really.