Sounds Probable

She didn’t even hesitate from speaking as I stopped before her. “What have you done?” I had stopped, but now I stopped even more. I stared up at her. She may only be five foot two (or three) inches tall and I meanwhile, was only around four foot two, however, with her standing on the top front step that added at least two further feet to my visual reference. So she now appeared at least as tall as the police officer I had been stopped by, and possibly more imposing as well. Her face appeared to me definitely a lot more terrifying than the policeman’s. You may also recall that we (especially the children) very seldom used the front door (see blog April 23^rd 2012), and we were supposed to come and go from the back door and the high flight of concrete steps. So, for my mother to suddenly appear from the front door, effectively stopping my passage towards the back yard and the back door meant something significant.

Then, there was the other very scary aspect. You do recall my earlier mentions of my mother as ‘the witch’ (see blog 14^th May 2012).  That possession of her aforementioned ‘psychic’ abilities which were very popular with many of the local women, and a few ‘special’ guests. The (locally) renowned foresight my mother had, for challenging (and channelling, if you understand some of the concepts), the many possible futures, was just that little bit scary (Particularly to we young children). She could often be quite accurate (or perceptive) when relaying what she sensed. We were always sent from the room on the occasions when a guest would arrive to ‘consult’ my mother (certainly adding to the mystic and the ‘witch’ label we children considered her for. That was usually with neighbours and guests. Generally though, her ‘psychic’ feelings were never that good when family members were involved. That was not something we were really able to understand for some years. And many situations later. That sort of information cannot be gleaned in an instant, but took years of quantifying results to come to that realisation. We were never able to win a lottery by her being able to pick the numbers, or achieve any other milestones without our own hard work and dedication, but many others received apparent help, from the information she provided them with from their talks about what she experienced. At that instant of course, my mother standing on the front porch, and before she had even looked properly at me, had identified that I had done something wrong. Coupled with the fact that she stepped out the moment I was arriving, suggested one of her premonitions had occurred. You have to admit to an eight year old, such abilities were un-nerving and uncanny. Apart from thinking; ‘Would I ever inherit the skill? Would I ever be able to predict what was going to occur before it did?’ There was the other side of the coin. “Oh No! She knows everything!”

(Continued tomorrow)

Sounds like a Storm

Weren’t things a little different then? An eight year old, even a slightly upset, guilt ridden, eight year old, could generally ride four miles or so home, fairly safely. Being recognised by people on the street who would acknowledge and in the familiar ‘local’ way’ recognise each other. Thereby maintaining that community safety which seems to be so lacking today. However, this trip was a little harder. Not just because of the blurred vision from crying (which makes riding a bike difficult), but also because I was trying not to cry. And while I was trying not to cry, I was also tormenting myself with the ‘what ifs?’ of the situation. This is all a part of the ongoing psychological form of punishment, and an entire additional area of study. Psychological Self-punishment.  So while I am referring to three types, each of those types contain various minor forms. Self-punishment is definitely a psychological sub group. And it is very effective when applied with the ‘Ethical’ category mentioned in decision making (see blog 19^th October 2012). Having been raised a catholic originally (as mentioned in earlier blogs, several times), and, having been so recently terrified by the ‘showies’ and then, by chance, the sincere police officer, a result of my (unsuccessful) thieving actions.

I was now torturing myself as I rode home, in fits and starts, considering all the various circumstances that I may encounter at home. If my parents ever found out about what had occurred while I had been trusted to go with my sister to the street fair. I had considered, with genuine fear, when the suggestion of “advising my parents” was threatened by the policeman, of what would happen. No question in my mind. Definitely punishment and likely form two, physical. I believed I had alleviated the risk of this occurring, but it was, by no means guaranteed

As I rode home I was running through all the incidents. Stopping every so often to wipe my eyes on my shirt and then rub them with the heel of my hand, something I was to learn was not an effective way to hide the fact you have been crying. In fact, it only enhanced the redness of the eyes and the puffiness of the flesh around them. Just prior to my arrival at the home, I stopped at a short distance from the house. I practiced smiling. Trying not to make it seem too forced. I was trying to be confident so no questions would be asked. Then, once I felt I had it all under control, casual and confident (of sorts) I headed up the hill, the last stretch before the home we had lived in near the bus roundabout at the end of the valley. I pushed the bike past the last few houses and went through the low gate. I was barely inside the gate when I heard the front door open and my mother came out onto the front step. I don’t believe her expression was one of ‘Welcome home’. It showed already before she opened her mouth to speak.

(Continued tomorrow)

Sounds of Caution

I knew what would happen if he did. I was instantly mortified. Yes eight year olds can be mortified. I imagined the trouble that would follow if I was to be taken home in a police car, or worse to get home and have my parents advised of the crime. ‘No, sir.” I answered. “And did you give the thing you stole back” He looked at me hard again. “Yes, Sir. They have it.” I blubbed. “Right. Then I suggest you head yourself off home then. Quick smart”

He raised himself up, just as a curious member of the public leant forward kindly, “Everything alright, officer?” I was nodding, not wanting any further involvement with people. ‘He looked down at me. “Yes, thank you. He had a bit of a scare that’s all.” “Ah” The public member nodded wisely and apparently a little disappointed they couldn’t involve themselves in the matter any further, moved on. The officer stood up at his full height and with a tap to the back of my head, somewhat softer than the first. ‘On your way home then. And….” He paused somewhat threateningly. “I’ll be keeping an eye out for you.” I went. Quickly. I had had enough of the street fair, the showies, and especially the people. I had had enough of the psychological punishment which had been inflicted on what was supposed to have been a fun annual event. I had ruined it with my ridiculous theft. I had paid a serious price. Both with the psychological stress (punishment type one), and, a taste of the physical stress (punishment type two). In fact there was also a little of punishment type three involved (fiscal – more on that later). Fortunately my father was not going to be advised. So the physical (the second form) was kept to an absolute minimum. A good clout from a decent police officer, actually two, including a slightly less painful bang on the back of the head as he propelled me a little on my way towards home. Even in the right direction. I hadn’t stopped to think back then, but did he already know who I was? Did he already know where I lived? Did he know my parents and was it possible he would be advising them. Now, who needs others to psychologically terrify you, when you can do it yourself? I was immediately punishing myself as the guilt set in. I had not yet read Dostoevsky (Crime and Punishment). That would no doubt have helped a little in understanding what I was thinking.

Instead I made my way back to my bike. Looking out for my older sister with whom I had come to the street fair with. Spotting her. I said I wasn’t feeling well (yes, a thief and a liar in the same day) and was going home. She, naturally, not having been committing any offences, didn’t want to leave. I insisted I was all right to make my own way home and that she could stay (which she really wanted too. And while she could see I wasn’t my usual self (a couple of whacks and being terrorised will change you), reluctantly, very reluctantly, she agreed I could go.

(Continued tomorrow)

Soundly Clipped

I was soundly clipped across the ear. My head rang somewhat. Chimed the tolling of the biggest church bell in fact. It hurt. It was quick, somewhat harder than was probably necessary, but that was not a point I wanted to argue. He then crouched down with his face planted firmly in front of mine. Crouching. That was to sit on his haunches. And coming down from his six foot plus height (six foot tall used to be the ‘minimum’ height for police officers) and practically having to fold his immense frame, to my very short four foot two (I was never very tall, especially as a child), was in itself an exhibition of mass and movement. He still had one hand gripping my shoulder firmly. In fact it was the weight of that arm that practically pinned me to the ground. He moved his lips. I could see them moving through the tears that had immediately welled up. I must have looked blank. Actually I must have looked surprised first, then blank. “What? I asked. Then instantly remembering to add “Sir?”  as the ringing in my head subsided.

I was hearing the sound of the crowd again as the impact from the hand passed away. “Now, you listen to me young man.” He began in a soft tone that I could just hear. “Do you think your mother would like to think you were a thief?” I was crying again. I shook my head. He looked at me and raised a quizzical eyebrow. “No, Sir”. I answered realising he was awaiting a verbal confirmation. “And your father? Would you like him to know you were a thief?” I vehemently shook my head. “No!” he answered for me. “Then I suggest to you. If you want something, and, if you don’t have the money to pay for it. Then you don’t touch it.” He looked me hard in the eye. Even though that is just a phrase, it carries a lot of impact, when a large (six foot plus policeman) looks you, an upset (four foot two) eight year old, in the eye. You know you have been looked at ‘hard’. You feel the impact of that look. And strangely, despite the dulled ringing and the equally dulled tone (due to audio exclusion from the whack), that hard stare also does wonders for the hearing. You could almost say, it reaches a deeper more primal area of the brain. No doubt cave men hunting game and coming face to face with a serious predator, as their role of hunter changed to prey, experienced that same ‘hard stare’.

“So, you won’t be stealing from anyone else?’ the policeman glared down at me. “Do we have an understanding?” The policeman asked, speaking sternly. I nodded my head in assertion. “Yes, Sir.” I answered somewhat meekly now. “Do I need to involve your parents in this then?” He asked unnecessarily, reaching for his notebook, as if to take down my name and details. My heart jumped again as panic suddenly took over.

 (Continued tomorrow)

Sounds Ominous

I know I jumped. I believe I screamed a little as well (all right, a lot). The hand had fallen on my shoulder and said ‘powerful adult’. Actually, the way it had landed on my shoulder it screamed “AUTHORITY!” (Yes. All the letters screamed in capitals. It was screaming, not just politely speaking). Looking round to the hand, my scream had trailed off, until I saw the hand then it started to rise again. The hand was also not just physically close to the side of my head, but it was also almost the actual size of my head (my neck and head still a little sore from the most recent of grabs by another almost as large hand of the showie). I saw this large hand, this very large rock of a hand. I saw to what it was attached. A dark blue jacket. A very nice blue. Strong colour, the fabric good and hard wearing. Hard wearing for those scuffles it may be required to partake in. My scream faded again as my gaze continued past the lump of muscle and knuckles holding my shoulder, past the cuff of solid weave and up the length of the arm to a serious face of, yes, of course a policeman.

So that was the game. The showies tormented you for your stupid behaviour. Terrified  you with dire threats of incarceration in a box, without informing anyone to your location. Until, terrified and broken, publicly embarrassed and wearing a slightly damp pants front, I must admit (Eight year olds can panic a little). They release you just long enough for you to tink that the worst has happened. Then, they alert the police, who catch you before you have even cleared the site. “I’m sorry!” I blurted out to the policeman. Trust me, no phone book would be necessary to have broken me at that point (I’m sure they didn’t really use a phone book. At least not as often as is suggested, but you know how urban myths build up and the movies continue the myth). “I know I shouldn’t have stolen the windmill. But I didn’t have any money, and it was only a dollar. And he’s got it back and …..”  I blubbered out the full confession to the policeman. He stood there listening. Then as I wound down my hysterical admissions, I realised his face had changed expression. It had actually appeared to harden a little. I mentally replayed the initial expression and realised he had been smiling kindly when first my crying face had turned to his. But now as I finished off my explanation, “…. I don’t want to be put in a box and forgotten about.” He actually looked quite angry. And sort of, taller. And somewhat, overall bigger.

“So you stole something and got caught by them did you?” He asked in a deep and booming voice. “And I thought maybe you were upset because you were lost”. I silently shook my head. Then unexpectedly he looked to the left and right, and, BANG!

 (Continued tomorrow)

Sounds Like A Brush Off

These blackmailing chore deals may even have included the polishing of the school shoes (A regular Sunday afternoon experience and one which few children seem to do nowadays), which was one chore, none of us enjoyed that much but, as we had to make our shoes last, it was an important one. And in those days, there was morning school assembly and inspection. Yes, if the shoes were not cleaned and shining, the nuns may decide that after morning parade, your name would appear on the list of children requiring that second form of punishment (physical). Do you think the nuns were preparing themselves for their afterlife? When they may be called upon to relieve for St Peter at the ‘Pearly gates’ (heaven*). Checking the names of the good off the roll? Regardless, the shoes had to be cleaned properly, and for us, they had to be really cleaned, as, with our long walk to school (no car remember), we didn’t want to scuff them on the way there. I was sure our mother generally knew we had been blackmailed when we set down to do the school shoes and then, ‘happily’ did our siblings as well. Sometimes, of course, this would lead to the ‘beans being spilt’ and the questions would be asked as to why I was so ‘happily’ cleaning my sister’s or brother’s school shoes? Then as the story would come out…. So followed the truer retribution from mother (if we were lucky), or, if the matter was more serious, then unfortunately father was brought in to the situation and made aware of what may have occurred.

This undoubtedly was what we had wished most to avoid, because, the following punishment issued / administered by our father, would usually include a penalty for trying to hide the incident, or for simply not informing the parent when the original incident had occurred. If it was really serious, sometimes the ‘blackmailer’ could also receive a punishment, for not coming forward anyway. It was sort of a lose/lose situation. So sometimes our mother kept ‘mum’ (thank you) and allowed us to ‘happily’ clean the other’s shoes.

So between we siblings we were able to effectively operate our own psychological warfare. Threats, promises and intimidation. All seem to have been a part of our family life. All for a good cause of course (survival). But having experienced many different levels of fear, and (as I was relating), having been released by the two showies, the windmill now back on the stall to be sold as it had been intended, I was left to move away from these two fearsome individuals and this antagonised gathering of citizens. To leave the scowls of disappointment of the members of the public, and the sneers of the two showies, and make my way back into the crowd and hide my tears as I traversed other happier people at the street fair. I felt truly admonished and still frightened of my possible fate, as I made my way along the road past the excited ‘honest’ members of the public until suddenly a hand fell on my shoulder.

(Continued tomorrow)
The pearly gates is another common name for the ‘gateway to Heaven’ Inspired by the description in the Book of Revelation 21:21. The twelve gates to ‘New Jerusalem’ were twelve pearls, each gate being made from a single pearl. (No wonder they think camels can fit through the eye of a needle, if people (the spirit of) are supposed to fit through a pearl. That’s some data compression). 

Sounds Like Blackmail

While these two showies and the few, now angry, members of the public, crowded around and tormented me with threats of terrifying imprisonment and abandonment to the vagaries of undetermined incarceration (‘Put him in a box”). Psychologically scarring me with such fears (these threats, which to an eight year old, were an all too real possibility). They played with me mentally. I was the worm, trapped on the end of the hook (pinned through by their barbs?) Funny really, when you put that description of a worm on a hook and align it with the idea that psychological punishment can make you squirm? They knew I was feeling remorseful but they continued playing with me, their game. Yes, like the cat toying with a mouse (not the first time I have used the analogy I know, but again appropriate). Then they reached a point where I could not be more scared and with a threatening warning, that they, “Will be watching”, they told me to clear off home.

As he released his grip on my neck, I paused unsure if the release was genuine, or if they were going to grab me back. It is this type of psychological pressure which allows the controller such dominance. The continual fear of further retribution, or punishment by the controller. This must be how blackmail works. I know as kids we threatened each other on various levels, blackmailing skills really started pretty early in our house, and ranged from, “I’ll tell mum”, right up to the terrifying “I’ll tell Dad!” That last, would of course, bring any number of rapidly offered deals and acceptances. The number of times, I must have ‘happily’ done their chores, to prevent word escaping to my father of my latest transgression. Drying the dishes, or washing. Doing this job or that, in fear they would tell my father of something else I had done, that I shouldn’t have. And not just once or twice but many times.

There was also the blown threats. The vocal…and often too loudly spoken, “I’ll tell Mum!” Which, when spoken a little too loudly, attracted a response from somewhere nearby by the very woman herself, mother, who would ask slightly piqued, “You’ll tell mum, what?” Inevitably the next words were, “Greg just… (did /did not / said /has / hasn’t /won’t /couldn’t / shouldn’t / can’t (which always drew a grammatical correction from the English heart of our mother, of, “Do not say can’t. Say Can not”), etc, etc, etc (The old King of Siam line. My mother always loved Yul Brunner in that role). You get my drift. I was often the one thrown up as not doing what he should have done, for one reason or another, and, being the oldest boy, was supposed to set a good example. I tried. But if mother was not in range then the blackmailing would begin. Depending on the level of the incident being attributed to me, the deals could often be quite involved.

(Continued tomorrow)

Sounds Right

Understandably children keep adjusting and adapting to meet what they believe are the expectations of the parents. And in those regular moments when the children get it wrong (more often than you would have thought), and don’t fall into the expected patterns the parents expected. Then, in those circumstances, without any doubt, the second form of punishment (Physical) is either expected, or going to occur. But, are we back to examining the concept that most of the behaviour children learn, is based on a learned response to fear. That is, they fear the response of the parents to their behaviour (we did, and I know many others did as well). Regardless, the pressure placed on children, by psychological punishment was highlighted by my situation, as I stood before the stall, stopped after my crime,

a showie to the front of me,

a showie to the back of me,

loudly they thundered

Sworn at with threat and dread

Still held by fist, (my head)

I truly had blundered.*

Well, the showies had me, and the crowd that gathered, even more so. The crowd became fairly vocal, once they knew I was a young criminal. The showies were playing it out in the open now. No official representation offered to me. I was completely embarrassed and terrified. Surely I would not come to any real harm, these were adults after all. They were supposed to look after children. Or should I say, look after good children. I wasn’t. I was a thief.

There is a real ‘electricity’ in a small crowd. The ‘buzz of the masses’ that many people refer to, when explaining how things went ‘out of control’. I didn’t want things to get out of control. I think I was the only one who definitely did not want things to get out of control. I was looking for an official piece of authority in the form of a policeman or such. Even a steward of the fair, or a racecourse, would be a good start. You know who I am referring to if you ever go to the ‘annual shows’ ‘horse races’or ‘state fairs’ etc. The little volunteers or paid men in the white coats. The stewards, who have been given the power to stop people going through a certain gate, if they don’t have a certain pass. These ‘gatekeepers wield their authority without deference. Even one of them would be fine to see right now.

There were more threats of dire punishments, than I would have expected. I guess, thinking back on it now, they knew I was already scared, really scared. So they kept pushing my button. They were playing the top card of controller and I was the victim. In this case, the victim of their game (fast karma really, if you think about it. I stole from them, they were the victim of that, then they caught me and here I was now the victim).

(Continued tomorrow)

*apologies, to Alfred Lord Tennyson and his ‘Charge of the Light Brigade’

Soundly Thumped

However, despite Mr Ivan Pavlov’s successful observations and accurate conclusions, learned behaviour can obviously be a direct result of many simple forms of Punishment. The first, to which I am referring, is Psychological. Which I consider one of the three forms. This is best defined as mental or emotional punishment. We are well aware of it. We hear about it on the news every day. On a global scale, it may be by way of the actions of war, the suffering of soldiers, civilians and the dispossessed. This may be including survivors, victims of torture, refugees, and especially long term trauma suffered by many. In recent times of natural disasters such as the Japanese Tsunami, or the Christchurch earthquakes for example, the ongoing issues of stress are founded greatly on the psychological effects of such events. It is the ability to use such psychological effects to produce specific results that can create specific behaviours. (‘Enforced’ learned behaviour?). Whether it is the actions of one or the actions of various areas of society. For example, in today’s high focus on incidents of domestic violence constantly raised in media. The news suddenly reports on an incident. Often, as the story unfolds, it comes to light that it was years of verbal (and often physical) abuse, which drove (insert name) to (insert act). Years of. Not just a one off incident. There might be a single culminating event that creates attention to a situation, but, more often than not, it is the ongoing mental anguish suffered by the victim, which caused the adoption of specific behaviour (learned behaviour) to minimise the risk for the victim of further abuse. Until eventually, unable to prevent that abuse, the victim breaks psychologically. In reality the victim was broken psychologically before the incident. The incident is in fact a change in that psychological behaviour they had adopted.

When it comes to learned behaviours, through psychological punishments, even as kids, we were aware of certain expected behaviours. Often learnt through simple errors of personal judgment. Something as simple as; ‘No elbows on the table’ while eating dinner, could result in the chant,

“Elbows on the table, thump, thump, thump!”

And of course, the ‘thump, thump, thump’ was done to the actual action of banging of the offenders elbows onto the flat surface of the table. Yes, usually by the father… or if nearer, the mother. Actually if it was noticed by either of the siblings on each side of you, there was a rush to grab the arm and do the ‘thump, thump, thump! Trust me. You didn’t do it more than twice. So, you wouldn’t put your elbows on the table, at least not on the edge. Effectively you learnt behaviour, as you ‘mentally’ feared the physical punishment (The second form). The concept of a promise is a form of psychological training. You expect something. You build your hopes up based on that promise. You may even alter your behaviour when you consider what the result may be. When it is a threat, then the adoption of appropriate behaviour becomes necessity (for survival) and this is a part of the kind of psychological punishment I am referring to.

(Continued tomorrow)

Sounds Familiar

I am not sure, but it is possible, that my father had done his own studies of the "Pavlov" reactions. Just not using dogs. It may have been that he decided to do it all using children. His children. In fact, it is more than possible, given there were four boys and four girls, he had a balanced test set to work from. The idea that much of our behaviour was likely a learned response, is without argument. Every child is "trained" by their parents in particular  methodology and behaviour. From simple instruction, to direct conditioning. Our parents generally had their ways of working on the children to evoke the correct reaction. Is that any different to the Pavlov experiments? There was years of accumulated knowledge being applied. Unfortunately, most of it would have been passed down from mother to daughter or father to son and hence, may have been incorrectly applied. Our parents may have recalled some distant incident, they themselves had experienced and having been corrected by their parents for it, thought to themselves, 'I'll remember that if I ever have any children" (lets be honest, most of us thought like that before we had our own) And now, when their child did the same or similar thing, many years later, the actual response from the parent, may have been semi transmogrified (great word that!), and, what they now applied to the child, is only a version, of what their parents had done. Or, it may be they attempted to apply similar responses, but didn't want their child as deeply affected by it as they were, so they dilute the response and in this way it becomes confused, and ineffectual.

Our father appeared never too concerned about the affectedness upon we children. Whether it was emotional affectedness or that physical affectedness. What he appeared more concerned with, were the results. Did it work? I wonder, if he had been in charge of the Pavlov dogs experiments, how would he have got the dogs to pre-salivate? Would it have been the presentation of food, with the presentation of images of food? Or something even more conclusive. Would he (I wonder facetiously), have encouraged something more significant to get the dogs to react than a simple ringing bell. He certainly got we children reacting as if there was the promise of something really significant (like electric shock or submersion in water... Just kidding. No, I am.) just around the corner, if we didn't respond as he may have wished. So there were more than enough pre indicators for the children to pick up on. We watched for his reactions and gauged our next response. If one of the younger ones had not learnt the particular cue or skill, then they were quickly informed, or sometimes, even more quickly abandoned by the older ones, as they left the instruction to be carried out by father.. Or mother. The point was, it could be done without the ringing of a bell, and sometimes (only sometimes), a lot less saliva (from the children at least).

(Continued tomorrow)

Sounds Like A Mob

I could truly see the beginning of ‘the mob’ mentality as someone suggested, ‘Give him a flogging’. Another voice, equally enthused, said, ‘lock him up, that’ll teach him’. They (the showies), had already thought of dropping me down a hole, into some box and leaving me there, by themselves. I didn’t think it was necessary to have others in the crowd suggest the same. My hope, that the presence of the crowd would deter such alternatives, rapidly faded, as there was a growing sense of community insult by my stealing (regardless of the fact that the stolen item cost only one dollar) from these ‘showies. This behaviour appeared to be growing from the simple, “Let the police deal with it”, type of resolution, I was in fact starting to hope for, to what could next be, the calling for a length of rope and the “hang him in the square” behaviour. As I said, Mob mentality. I started crying even more. If remorse is necessary to begin rehabilitation I was certainly experiencing truckloads of remorse. Truckloads. Any reasonable judge, jury (or executioner) could see I was experiencing profound remorse for my illegal act. I was in fear of the discussed retribution. I wanted some form of punishment, and now, before the gathered crowd, I was feeling a huge emotional feeling. I was being exposed to a particular form of punishment. Psychological. This is one of the three types I mentioned (see blog 9^th October 2012).

Throughout history, the terrible impact of psychological punishment being thrust upon victims has been recorded. The, not only immediate effect, but of course the long term. The ongoing effect of, mental anguish, mental cruelty and stress, inflicted upon such victims is renowned, when a form of psychological punishment is applied. It can be a minor influence, which will over time, create a serious long term and associated behaviour response. No, we’re not strictly talking Pavlov’s dog, but I suppose, that in itself was a form of psychological punishment and stress. To the dog at least, and, probably the students assisting, who had to keep listening to the ringing bell and would have to do it without earplugs, as Ivan Pavlov (who was not even a psychologist, but a physiologist) would have to cue them when to ring the bell. Actually lets clear up that myth a little. Pavlov was studying the digestive systems of dogs and, the dogs were noticed to salivate when students entered the room (as the students usually brought the food). He discovered that even in the absence of food or even smell, the dogs could salivate. This was then identified as a learned response. That’s when the bell was introduced with the feeding. Then after a time by ringing the bell, without food being actually produced, the dogs salivated. The bell was a long way down the experiment, but it is what he is best remembered for and yes, he did win the Nobel Prize in 1904, not for the bell…but for the research in canine digestion…. (Must have been a quiet year for science that year?)

(Continued tomorrow)

Sounds Foolish

I know standing before these two ‘showies’, faced with the prospect of being dropped down a hole, and left in a box (as they were currently threatening me with) I was wishing I had made a much more ethical decision.  But, before we continue I just want to finish with the tangent in regard to the use of the symbolic naive character I was discussing with Little Red Riding Hood. In many tales and mythologies the version of the naive, is represented as a child, others as a child-like. In many versions they are seen as ‘The Fool’. The Tarot being the classic use of the representative symbol. The fool is generally regarded as ‘the innocent’, the un-informed. Yet, the one who often observes the true depths of a problem, or finds a solution through possessing that lack of the Historical information.

Even in recent times a classic example of the fool captured many in the western world. The film “Forest Gump©’ is one example, where as events unfold around the fool, their innocence and naivety protects them from the true impact. Regardless of what happens to others, they travel safely through all the situations. Little Red Riding Hood can be seen in such a way. Encountering the dreadful character of the wolf in the forest, she converses with it, rather than runs in fear. Then, when confronted later at her grandmothers house, she is oblivious to the character because it is dressed up as the grandmother (which says a lot about what the grandmother truly looked like, I mean a lot of older women have facial hair). It is only when she draws on her Historical ability, she realises the eyes, ears and teeth are not those of the grandmother. Then she makes the connection to the wolf character she had encountered earlier, and the warning from her mother about the dangers in the forest (despite the fact the mother left the child to wander through the dangerous forest by herself), she becomes frightened. As her Historical information improves, the naivety of the child is destroyed. Awareness affects the innocence.

Trust me, I was very aware of my innocence no longer being valid. I was very aware of what was being suggested. I was young, and, now, having done something I knew was ethically wrong, was immoral and, with regard to the likely future events of my parents wrath, plain wrong. These two ‘showies’ now lauded over me. Planning an appropriate punishment. Incarceration, in an undetermined and definitely given their suggestions of others being left in it, unsupervised box. By now, a few people had stopped to see what was going on, adding further to my humiliation, but also decreasing the likelihood of the ‘dropped down a box’ punishment. I mean, since no-one would notice’ option was gone as more people became aware of the child and the showies. I was in tears, they were justified. I was guilty and as soon as they said to the by-standers “he stole something’ They, the bystanders, immediately sided with the ‘showies’.

(Continued tomorrow)

Soundly Based On Fact?

Before I go off on a little tangent (yes, another one) to examine the use of the naive ‘character’ as portrayed by ‘Little Red Riding Hood’, and it’s deeper meaning, I am wondering why it is that the food provided to grandmother, is not substantial, but sweet treats? High in sugar, rather than any goodness. Old people need a better diet than just sweets. They need their vitamins and greens. Or is ‘Red’ actually being sacrificed, by the mother who perhaps has knowledge of the true nature of the grandmother, as part of this concept? Its obvious, once you start to question the real underlying concepts of such a simple story, you start to realise there are darker, more fearful and wider serious implications. Not just to the fairy tales, but to all decisions. How do we make those decisions?Hood’

It is not that I am suggesting every story is based on this intense level of consideration when it was created. Or is it? Put simply, every decision made in life, (even me standing before these two showies after having stolen the toy windmill – in case you had forgotten where we were in the story) is influenced by one, or more, of three specific ways. They are, Historical, Practical and/or Ethical. Logically, every time you do something, state something, or write something (the fairy tales for example), you involve these rapid considerations of these three aspects. For example, even something as simple as crossing the road. There you would use both Practical and Historical aspects. Practical, in that you possess the knowledge and understand the concepts necessary to cross the road safely. You then exercise specific caution based on Historical experience. You carry out the action recalling the necessary awareness from previous incidents. Every argument you make contains Historical interpretation. You possess a Practical methodology on how to argue, but shape that argument with the Historical knowledge.

Of course the issue of Ethical affects everything. There are many people who, while knowingly considering the Ethical, ignore it for their own benefit. Knowingly choosing un-ethical options. The matter has still presented its argument, as one of the three specific ways, but many people make a personal choice to ignore it. So, while the three subjects affect every outcome, not all control the actual decision. The greatest effect upon our decisions is Historical. Even with powerful computers and the quest for artificial intelligence, without possessing a high amount of actual learning and existing knowledge, the decisions made are incredibly poor. The Historical, provides the necessary information. The ability to process is next, by way of the Practical. Possessing the skills to analyse, even historical, information and ability to apply to specific situations is necessary. But any argument for such leaps in abilities for computers must retain an Ethical consideration. Can you imagine a computer system that chose to ignore the ethical effect by it’s decisions? Would a computer make decisions in its favour even if it caused hardships (or worse, death) to other species, land or humans for example? Would we want those Artificial Intelligence computers to make any final decisions without the over-riding influence of Ethical decision-making. I know I wouldn’t.

(Continued tomorrow)

Sounds like Abandonment

Staying with Little Red Riding Hood a little longer, notice something else? There is no mention of the father in the story. So, is the mother possibly a solo mum, who herself was abandoned to raise the child (for one reason or another). The ‘hood’ for which she is known, was made (allegedly) by the grandmother, not the mother. At least as the mother dresses Little Red Riding Hood in the hood, she claims it ‘came’ from grandmother. The child is provided with clothing by someone else? Could this represent the concept of a form of welfare assistance? The mother then sends Little Red Riding Hood off to visit her grandmother, ‘through the forest’. She knows the forest is dangerous, she even warns Little Red Riding Hood, ‘not to stray from the path.’ Does she walk ‘Red’ through the dangerous forest? No, she leaves her to make her way there alone. It would be hard to deny that this also looks like a form of abandonment? Is the mother so disinterested in her child she ‘packs’ the child off to the grandmother through a dangerous forest? Is she avoiding her responsibilities for caring for the child, or, is she possibly just a career mum? Relying on others to raise the child she wanted, but was too busy to care for?

Admittedly we couldn’t wait to get off out of the house by ourselves and take off on some adventure or game in the local park of forest. Mind you most of the games involved trying to lose the other members of the family who wanted to go as well. Some of us got exceptionally good at getting to the top of the ‘umbrella tree’ as we called it. It was a wonderful high dome of branches that, if you were at the top you could sit down and look out on all the paths and hill of the local park. But, apart from the odd falling stilt (See blog April 1st/2^nd, 2012), broken glass in the creek (more in a later blog), and the odd thrown rock (also more in a later blog), the woods and forest we played in were not so dangerous.

And why does the grandmother live in the forest? What does that specifically represent? Why is she in a place where any assistance (particularly medical) to her, is not easily forthcoming? Does the separation from daily life, suggest the grandmother is ‘hidden’ away from society, for one reason or another? Is she kept away from people to prevent contact being possible? Could she have issues (possibly mental health?) and given that, the transformation of the grandmother, is represented by the wolf becoming the grandmother, is there really another reason for the isolation. Let’s not go all ‘werewolf’ fantasy mythology on me. I am referring to real symbolic meaning and interpretation. The grandmother is not visited by the mother, but by the naive daughter, who is sent to her with supplies of food.

(Continued tomorrow)

Sounds Plausible

There is definitely a deeper darker message in the fairy tales. And we loved them. Maybe not initially as much as the original ‘Winnie the Pooh’ or ‘Wind in the Willows’ (both of which possess their own deep symbolism and meanings, for all they claim to be ‘children’s’ stories). The idea behind the familiar story of Red Riding hood is a fearsome example. Except when you look at it in the actual context of circumstances. Many people claim it a warning to be wary of strangers, but let us look seriously at the darker message. When does ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ actually be in the most danger? At her own house? No. Walking to her grandmother’s house? No. While she does meet a stranger in the woods, despite the fact she remained on the path as instructed (in the modern versions, in the older versions she wandered off the path). Yet, the wolf never eats her, there, in the forest.  Why not?

So what happened? Why isn’t she in danger until she is actually inside her grandmother’s house. What is inferred in that? If we apply the simple message many people believe are contained in the various tales, to the story, does the message imply rather, that we should be fearful of who is at our grandparent’s house, or who are our grandparents really? The concept of the stranger (some say is symbolised by the wolf) changes. The wolf, in the story apparently eats the grandmother. Or does it? Isn’t it more, that on arriving at grandmothers house, little red riding hood finds not the sweet, loving grandmother, but a serious, dangerous animal she had not expected. ‘At’ the grandmother’s house. Not in the wood, where the wolf could have eaten her any time previously, and still have eaten the grandmother. So what truly is the deeper message? Starting to be scared yet?

This is just one example of what the many fairy stories are about. Of course, the fact that despite it all, the woodsman (who just happened to be nearby, not suspicious - really?), hears Little Red Riding Hood’s cries for help and runs in and kills the wolf (the grandmother figure). Run with it a step further. The stranger (woodsman) is the one who actually saves Little Red Riding Hood from the wolf (grandmother)? How curious. What the suggestion seems to imply, if you examine it closely, is that there is more to fear in the home, than in the woods? Doesn’t this reverse the message most people have suggested is contained in the story. Isn’t it then possible, that Little Red Riding Hood is not the innocent creature she is portrayed? If we start to really look at even as simple a story as this, the many dark parts begin to show themselves. And, as kids, while we started to look at these simple stories, contained in such fairy tales, undoubtedly, subconsciously, we were made aware of the dark sides to these stories. They become far scarier than was expected. Is this the real story?

(Continued tomorrow)

Sounds of Myths

 But we were talking about my thoughts when faced with these two ‘showies’. These ‘carnival type’ characters. The inhabitants of that special sidebar of a social group, involved, but separate to our society. Who possessed not only a certain mystery, but also a certain fearful ‘characterisation’ and reputation. These were the sort, who, if they suggested they could make you disappear, then they probably could. And then, they would move on. The aura of the ‘gypsy’ emanated from these people. Even then my instincts were fairly good (So was my imagination).  I was very scared as I stood, quaking before them, as they decided what to do with me. And in my head ran, at a thousand miles an hour, stories. Stories which we had heard and read at home. In the safety of our home. Which instilled fear in the listeners. I’m not referring to intentional horror or ghost stories. They are meant to frighten (and often don’t). Sometimes, the teller tries to hard. A bit like many of the horror films of today. There is no terror, as they show you every detail. When it was left to the imagination, you tended to imagine the worst. I was then. I was certainly imagining the worst that these two ‘showies’ could do to me.

We had, in our house, grown up with the wonderful fairy stories, legends, myths and tales. Influenced heavily by the European concepts. I myself, as I grew older, also certainly came to appreciate the many local legends of the Maori people of New Zealand (my country of birth and… one of the most beautiful countries on the face of the earth). But, it was the traditionally introduced themes of the European cultures, which formed the foundations and basis for many of the fear-instilling stories we faced as children. Trust me. The fairy tales are not the happy charming ‘Golden Books’ (I’m sure most will remember these little hardboard books which were an introduction to reading for many of us). These charming books you may have started with as a child, hid the true depth of mythology and concepts contained in what may seemingly be a delightful tale, but were usually introducing a much darker message.

Snow White was never a happy singing princess cleaning house in the forest while birds twittered and flittered to her fingers. Think about it. A woman, originally holding a prominent position in society, having run away from a fearful domestic situation, finds a strange refuge under the protection of a secluded group of men, who produce material for trade, with that same society from which they are excluded. The woman is sought out and eventually murdered (yes, I know she falls asleep because of the apple idea) but the one seeking her out is set on murder. These are pretty heavy themes to thrust upon the minds of children. Fear, Segregation. Isolation. Domestic Violence. Murder. And all dressed up in a simple ‘fairy tale’? What were they really trying to tell we children?

(definitely continued tomorrow)

Sounds Like a Story Coming On

“It’s what we do to thieves”, He said calmly, nonchalantly in fact. “We just drop them down the hole, into the box.” He stared down at me. I don’t think I had wet myself, but I think I was getting very close. In fact, probably closer than I had thought. From the time I had been grabbed by the massive hands, which had certainly been frightening enough, I was then trooped through the crowd, succumbing to their stares, and raising my guilt and remorse significantly. However, now, standing at the stall from which I had stolen the one dollar toy windmill, facing the owner of that item, the idea of getting the police involved was rapidly appealing to me. I knew too well even at this early age, that regardless of the dealings of the police, law and courts, I would of course ultimately be thrown to my father’s actions and decisions.

I wanted to suggest this to my captors. Not so much as to appeal to their better nature, which I seriously doubted either possessed, but to appeal to their obvious preference for cruel and inhuman punishment which I’m sure my father appeared to understand. So long as my father, and they, never met. I had a distinct feeling, he didn’t need any further suggestions of what form a punishment should take. They appeared to have dealt with offenders such as myself before. They appeared to have gotten rid of such offenders, as myself before. They appeared very calm about the entire procedure. But really? If they had, why had we not heard about it? Even as children we heard of dangerous places to go, places our mother said “never to walk (alone or not). And the time that such events seem to happen.

Have you ever noticed as you were growing up how our parents tended to establish time frames of events. It was as if certain things could only happen at certain times. “Make sure you are home by 9pm.” I recall hearing my older sister instructed. Why? What happened after 9pm? What difference would it make if she wasn’t home by 9:15pm? Many years later, I recall my mother making a comment about her own youth and her come-back comment was, ‘What could you possibly do after 9pm, that you couldn’t do before?” (let’s not go down that particular track shall we?) Sure, we had heard stories (Not just from our mother, - ‘cover your ears children’ as she also used to say). I also heard plans, from my sister. Some were wished and hoped for, as any young person does. Some, I am sure, happened. But, those that didn’t, well, those that didn’t happen before 9pm, may have, for one of my sisters at least, sometimes happened after 9pm. That’s what having a bedroom at the front of the house could achieve. Or at least, that’s what access to a bedroom window at the front of the house could allow after all. When daughters went to bed (cough, cough) And then, when boyfriends drove by?

(Continued tomorrow)

Soundly Stopped

As mentioned, I was crying as I was walked through the holiday crowd. I had tried to steal a toy and now, captured, and paraded as a thief, I was walked back to the stall to face the owner of the item. I felt deeply ashamed. I had little doubt that the police would be waiting to talk with me. I would be put in handcuffs, placed into a police vehicle, in front of the disapproving stares of the general public. I imagined they would shake their heads sadly at me. Any of the gathered crowd observing this and  knowing who I was, would not hesitate to find the nearest telephone box and call  my parents (thank goodness mobile phones had not been invented yet). They would no doubt thrillingly tell them their son had been arrested. Arrested and taken to the nearest police station to await , not only my father, but a judge and jury (Even though I was young, I was informed). I was dreading the outcome. Do they send people my age to prison? Would I be thrown into a cell and left to await meagre meals and exercise yards (Okay, even if I was informed, ill-informed by a few very bad B movies from America).

I was walked back to the stall and there was the seller, looking at the approaching captor of this crying child, holding aloft the recovered toy. I was terrified. I was thrust before the seller and he looked at my captor. He nodded seriously. “Another one?” he stared at me. I shrunk where I stood. I felt incredibly vulnerable. “Yeah.” Boomed my rapid silent catcher. He passed the windmill to the seller. “Do you want me to call the police?” He boomed again. Several people passing turned to look at me pityingly. “Why?” asked the seller. “We can just put him in the box with the others.”

Suddenly I stopped crying. I blanched. I thought perhaps I had misheard him. ‘Put him in the box’? What was he talking about? I looked up at the seller nervously. He was leering at me. “He won’t last long in there”. He continued staring at me.  The giant behind me laughed deeply. I whipped my head around. And looked at his stomach. I craned my restricted head up and looked at his chest. He was laughing deeply. He was still holding my neck and as he laughed it felt as though parts of my neck were being crushed. ‘Yeah”, he said slowly. “Let’s put him in the box and see how long he lasts’. He said unpleasantly. Now I was really terrified. What was it the men intended? What was the box I was going to be thrown into? Why wouldn’t I last very long? What was in this ‘box’? I started to wish there was a police officer close by. Now I was really, truly wanting to throw myself on the mercy of the law. Even if it did mean later, dealing with my father.

(Continued tomorrow)

Soundly embarrassed

Of course I hadn’t even heard my captor come up behind me and gather my head and neck into his large hand. For such a large person he moved very quietly. He was definitely cat-like. Big Cat like. Lion, taking a dik-dik cat-like. (the dik-dik is the smallest type of Gazelle, and if I recall, strangely, the nickname we used for my oldest sister) However, there I was, engulfed in the fist of this behemoth, who was about to take me back to face the owner of the toy windmill I had stolen. I was intensely terrified. I knew I was in the wrong. I knew I should never have even contemplated the idea of stealing something. I knew there would be serious consequences. The idiocy I had shown by trying to steal something, simply because I didn’t have any money. Particularly something that cost a whole dollar. $1:00. One dollar.

Back then, that was one hundred real cents. When one hundred cents could actually be divided into one hundred actual cents. How do kids do adding up today in this country? You have five cents, but it can’t be made into five actual cents, or even five pieces of anything. Our five cent piece today, is the smallest physical unit of currency. But it isn’t one unit. It isn’t listed as one unit. It’s still five. Five what? It isn’t five of anything. Yet twenty of them will make one dollar (100 divided by 5 is still 20, so far) It cannot be one hundred of them. But nowadays, you can only divided one hundred by nothing larger than twenty. Yes, twenty cents is four fives, but again, you cannot divide it by ones. Surely this is confusing. If it wasn’t for electronic banking, the individual cents could not be used at all.

However, we are not talking about the now, but the then. I had stolen something that cost a dollar, and I could not afford to pay for it. I was now about to go through a series of trials (each with their own set of consequences) and ultimately, I would of course expect to receive a massive punishment. I had publicly committed an illegal act. One, which was sure to come to the attention of not only my parents, but most likely the local police as well. I was being escorted (physically propelled) through the crowd that was walking in front of the stalls and stands. My massive captor didn’t walk me back to the stall through the back way I had run after stealing the toy. No, he obviously understood the potential action he was undertaking. He recognised the true purpose of public humiliation when used accordingly. He knew the effect of such embarrassment. And now, as I was moved through the crowd, though I could barely see through the tears of fear that were obviously streaming down my face, I could tell by their faces they knew I was in trouble and had done something I shouldn’t have done.

(Continued tomorrow)

Sounds of pursuit

I made the move with precision. As a client approached and indicated towards an item on the far side of the booth from the flickering handheld windmill, and the young unenthusiastic male turned towards the client to effect the sale, I quickly struck. Walking past the booth front and turning down the opposing side, my left hand reaching up and seamlessly, lifting the small item out of the netting which held it to the side of the booth with the other paraphernalia. Then I was off! Moving rapidly throughout the stalls. Expertly weaving my way through both the rear lane area and then out into the slow moving traffic of ambling pedestrians. Purchasers and observers. Left. Right. I moved cat-like and easy. Then just as I reached the end of the lane of stalls, and incorrectly surmising I had successfully achieved the theft, my neck and head were engulfed in a single enormous hand. I recall being lifted off the ground, unexpectedly and held, dangling, as a carcass may on the end of the butchers meathook in the shop. Suspended, as a rag doll could be, when gripped in a faithful child's grasp. An equally enormous left hand reached around in front of my elevated face and extricated the plunder, neatly and swiftly. I vibrated as the voice of this large male stated. "Just where do you think you are going with that?"  

I wanted to speak. I had been completely taken by surprise by this most unexpected turn of events. I had expected to get away with the theft. It had been simple and elegant. Wait. Move. Gather toy and escape. All had gone excellently. Right up until the escape part had come to a screaming halt. Well 'booming' halt really. As the proportionately structured male figure declared in a mild, yet completely intimidating tone (which accompanied with the subtle object lifting; namely me), that, not only was I trying to steal something that didn't belong to me, but that obviously, and evidently, I had been caught. There was no avenue for bluff, there was no culpable excuse for the incident. I had been sprung by a male person who could easily have stood in for a male lowland gorilla of Mount Kilimanjaro. 

And there was I, held aloft, windmill less. No answer or excuse. Barely enough jaw movement to form a single word. Barely able to breath. What partial inhalations and exhalations I almost experienced, I maintained for the sake of personal survival, rather, than any attempt to argue with the monstrous owner, of the monstrous appendages. Massive claws. One which fully engaged my head and neck, the other, which I observed had recently passed in front of my controlled view, as it collected the stolen item, from my newly trembling hand. This action presented me with a rare opportunity be quiet. Presenting me with the necessary option of silence. But, even given that opportunity, do you think I was able to?
(Continued tomorrow)

Sounds Like A Scam

So we attend and watch, the young, who too, know there is a mild con involved. Whether it is the angle of the hoop you are throwing the ball to, the stiffness of the hinge which holds the small metal duck from falling over, when hit by the lower than normal velocity of air rifle pellet. There are of course, guaranteed 'Win!' games and the cleverly staged games. Where your first throw wins level one only (the cheap plastic toys), then subsequent investment and winning throws result in achieving the next level, the small soft toy. Major investment and success is required to achieve the main advertised prize, which drew the player in in that first instance. We all know it's partly a fix, and, it is part of the charm of the event. We know that what we are trying to achieve will possibly not be remembered tomorrow, let alone in three or ten years time (unless she/he really cares for the other).  Then there are the junk stalls. 

These stalls often contained or displayed the small 'Show bag ' items. I am of course referring to show bags when they were truely that. A full bag you took home, which held samples (free samples) from things at the show you had attended. And some were pretty serious free samples. Actual toys, or properly made working items. As opposed to the massive money-making marketing engaged in by today's entrepreneurs of the 'show bag'. Where the majority of items contained in the bags are rubbish, and literally in a few short weeks will usually end up as just that. There were a few clever people who back then held onto those free samples, which today, depending on availability can be serious collectors items. Unfortunately, due to the massive production levels of today's items, the scarcity and potential collectors values of todays expensively purchased items, will be greatly reduced.  (I do still have a real train masters whistle, which came in the 'Age of steam' train show bag given away by the New Zealand Railway some time in the 1970's).

However, this is not so much about the 'showies' (although it does involve one, who appeared as a monster of a man, looming suddenly out of thin air, when the event I am about to relate took place), nor is it about the show bags themselves. It is mainly about a small boy (and even then I was very short). A very long day full of visual excitement, a cheap plastic windmill fixed to the side of a small display stall, an empty pocket with no finance available and a hand the size of my chest (or so it appeared). You've put it together right? I must have walked past that stall ten, or twelve times, with my eyes drawn to the 'bright shiney thing'. The small plastic framed windmill that perched precariously on the very edge of the stand, in which sat a thin, weedy and very disinterested young male. I planned and assessed the situation. Planning when to make my move. Which way would be the best exit, and like a master criminal I put the plan into action.
(Continued tomorrow) 

Sounds like Trouble

The first of the three incidents of my 'crime history'. All occurred while I was fairly young. Even with the first instance I knew I was morally in the wrong from the word go. I wanted something, I didn't have the finance for. We children never seemed to, until we found any part-time work. However, I believe the first significant incident where I knowingly and in a premeditated act committed an error of moral behaviour for truly personal gain (and I am not talking about snuffling an extra potato at dinner), was when I was about 7 years of age. Our town put on a annual 'street fair' on the street just off the main thoroughfare. Where stall holders and many of the wonderful crafts people of New Zealand would set up to sell their work. Of course with these crafts people came the various 'showies' who would visit the town to draw on some of the good will and especially the cash reserves of the community.

Lets admit it. We like having those slightly reprehensible, shady, even grubby, characters of the 'show circuit' visit the community. They bring a certain bravado to anyone wanting to compete against them in their 'games of chance'. Trust me, having worked with many of them over the years, at various levels both internationally and locally. There's a lot more scientific and mathematical application than there is 'chance' to the various events, games of skill (supposedly) and pure fun, they promote, and the competitions they challenge the participants to. Remember, they have spent years aquiring the understanding of the public. It's many foibles, idiosynchrisies and specifically it's weaknesses. They know their market. They know how to gain credit (or prey on) for the personally held convictions of their clients (nee suckers). And we encourage them. 

They understand the young man, who, on taking up the personal and difficult challenge to invite a girl he admires, to join him, at a public event, such as the local show, fair, or that most splendid of titles, a 'Carnival'. Will make innumerable attempts to compete successfully (sometimes recklessly regardless of his true financial ability), to win a cheap straw-filled (today read polystyrene or capoc) toy, which privately, he could have had commissioned to be handmade with his 'fair ladies' name embroidered on, for half of what he had paid to compete. But then she would not have seen his demonstration of the deep psychologically based genetic memory driven ability as a 'hunter-gatherer'. These showies know this. They rely on it. Consequently, while they may appear to be down-trodden, hard luck life driven and generally from the lower end of the spectrum of the social ladder. Have you ever noticed it's the same ones coming back each year, with just a few fresh faces. They know why they come back, and they know why you do as well. The bright lights are not just to attract, they also serve to distract. The old magicians trick of drawing you one way, while something else is happening the other. And we love it. Even, if all we older ones do now, is just stand at the edges and watch. Vicariously enjoying the experience of the young as they now attempt to outwit the well-experienced masters of the con.
(Continued tomorrow) 

Sound of the Lead-in

For legal reasons there are some things I cannot discuss on this blog. Mainly to protect the innocent (bit late to protect the names of?). Those of you who were waiting to hear me relate a more horrific thrashing than that which I recently recounted, may have been disappointed by the recent conclusion to the drawn out (some would say excessively) tale of my brother's head injury (for which he told me years later, was to blame for all of his problems. I believe there is a difference between something being responsible for causing a problem, and being told by someone else that it was to blame for any problems). In relating the tale I was trying to explain the fear experienced by my siblings and myself of receiving punishment, and specifically for something that was accidental. And to mention, the type or methods of punishment our father could, might and did use. 

As I mentioned, we children were not always the angels our mother would have wished for, but I don't believe we were ever malicious towards another person ( at least not intentionally. Does that even make sense?). Any malicious act was most often in defence of one or other of the family. We tried to stand up for each other, particularly in the schools where we attended together at various times. As we often were following each other through various schools, the odd year or two two apart, mainly, once my father had plateaued in his job progression, and we found ourselves in the one town and pretty much the one area for a number of years. It was the reputation of the older siblings which was forever being linked to the family members following and the pressure of expected achievement by not just the family, but also by the various teachers we encountered.

I introduce this now, as a way to highlight the difference that being told something and being taught something are two vastly different things. Funnily enough, this still relates to the concept of punishment. To explain it appropriately we are going to have to divert through another episode of my 'crime and punishment' history. I know Dostoyevsky was correct in interpreting the conscience as a driving force in moral behaviour and guilt. Not to forget I was being raised as a Catholic which comes with its own inherent 'guilt-driven' behaviour of the practitioners (at least in our house). I was and still am an honest person. If I have done something wrong I put my hand up (If it was my fault). If it was someone else's fault, well, sometimes I put my hand up for that too. To say it was their fault, not to take the blame for someone else's deeds (though that certainly happened often enough as well). I do however have three particular incidents of dishonesty. The fact that I was caught out for all three is also perhaps why I choose to live a moral existence....nowadays.  I shy away from the dark side (I know who my father was*)
(continued tomorrow)

*that is of course a reference to the great father-son mythology which even 'Star Wars' was based on.

Sounds like Good Sense

So, having been left with all the 'monkeys' (problems - see blog 8th October 2012) everyone (thinking only of their monkey of course), starts to question your caretaker abilities. Even if you were able to keep them, fed, clean, and safe. If the monkeys were not also achieving wonderful new levels of skill sets or abilities, personal grooming, to appear less troublesome, or more controllable, than they were when you first took them on (or when they were first dumped on you), the original monkey wranglers become unhappy with your Monkey wrangling skills. Very quickly they begin to turn on you. You knew you were only minding the monkey. They appear to have thought you were going to raise it. They probably thought it would come back to them as a wonderful, competent, proud and majestic mountain gorilla (or in another words, a fully resolved problem).

They may feel let down and they may even criticise you. Despite the fact that everyone simply abandoned their monkeys with you the moment you raised your slight interest in what appeared to be an interesting monkey. Yet you have persevered. You have done the best you can with the troop of monkeys on your back. There must come a time when you have to return them to their rightful owner/master. You will of course attempt to return them in a caring and thoughtful manner. In an appropriate time and place. There will no doubt be tears (mainly from the ones getting their monkeys back I am sure), but for your own sanity, peace of mind and work skills, it is imperative that you do not permanently keep the monkeys. You must make it clear that you had not offered to take a monkey, but simply had commented that you thought it was a nice, or interesting monkey. 

Certainly, in handing back the monkey, you may want to make a recommendation as to it's future diet, or exercise (potential solutions). This is your right. You have cared for, exercised and fed (hopefully without any major unwanted growth occurring, within reason), the monkey. Hopefully, in the time it has been with you, it has improved it's appearance, and the demeanour even more so. But no matter how you may feel about, it is not your monkey to keep. You must allow the person who let you 'hold the monkey' to assume the responsibility again. In most cases they will not want to. They have already demonstrated their lack of 'animal management skills' (as it were). The idea of giving the monkey back to someone who did not wish to have it in the first place, suggests that there may be concern by you  for the monkeys welfare. Once again this is not your problem. Anyone can learn to look after a monkey. What they learn about themselves while caring for it, may be a far more important lesson. And they will not learn anything, if they do not actually get to care for the monkey themselves. Let them be the first to give the monkey a banana. The entire  solution may be in that first feeding.
(Continued tomorrow)

Sound of a Problem

Just to digress for a day ('again', I hear you say!). A friend approached me the other morning in a slightly vexed state of mind. "I have a dilemma", she began. " I immediately jumped in with what I saw as an immediate situation requiring a stern warning and a cautionary example? "You, don't want to keep a dilemma", I began, "They have a voracious appetite...and if they get their way, they get completely out of control"! I continued enthusiastically. "Did this start as a minor problem? Or did you simply adopt a worry and let it grow out of proportion through over feeding with concern". I continued the thread logically. "I hope you didn't feed it?", I enquired fearfully. She looked at me pityingly (She has known me for some twenty years, so I have received many such looks from her during this time). Then she burst out laughing and said, "You know, you've helped me already" (Now I knew she was lying to my face).

So ask yourself, why is it we are so often prepared to work so hard to help other people, when sometimes we have enough on our plate. I have heard it well explained as, what I can only call, "the monkey principle". This involved the idea of using monkey's as a metaphor for issues. Someone comes to you with a monkey. Just to show you. They tell you they are having a few problems with their monkey. You (foolishly perhaps), make the comment along the lines of, "but it such a nice monkey?" They immediately jump on this and suggest that you look after it for a while. You, of course (inspired by challenges), accept the offer and start looking after the other persons monkey. 

Now, here's the tricky part, and the part where it usually goes wrong. Other people see you taking care of someone else's monkey. Not only do they see how we'll you are doing taking care of the other persons monkey, but they believe you have a real skill for it. Before long they bring you their monkey to look after. This often happens within an organisation. When a senior officer finds a lesser member of his staff (for lesser member read lesser mortal, such is the opinion of many managers). That manager may decide you are the best monkey wrangler in the group and will start to leave all the monkeys in your care. Regardless of how well you were doing with the first monkey, before long you are the wrangler of a menagerie, a troop of monkey's. Before long, bigger problems start to occur because everyone has left their monkeys in your care, without providing any support or assistance (or possibly even any form of sustenance for their monkey). The boss starts to question your abilities if you can't keep them all fed and cared for. The other people who have left their monkeys are of course, only thinking of their monkeys, and not all of the monkeys left in your care. You have simply become the monkey dumping ground. Responsible for the monkeys' well-being, but gaining no qualifications. And no benefits.

Sound of Caution

With exaggerated care I slowly, cautiously and quietly stepped back towards the cold floor of the bathroom, before he woke up. One step at a time. Moving slowly so his eyes would hopefully not register my movement. I imagined the animal on seeing its predator, where the predator was not yet aware of the prey presence would attempt to negotiate its way back to safety. My aim was to reach that same spot on the bathroom floor I been told to be at. Slow step, by slow, slow step. Delicately shifting my balance….. When suddenly. He moved. He shifted his head and his mouth smacked as his head lolled back against the chair. His eyes had closed again and I retreated more quickly now. Concerned that my opportunity was past. I must regain the necessary position before he revived and looked to check on me. I was now back to the bathroom and moving into the position. I could see my fathers head against the back of his armchair. Then, a snort, as he coughed a little, and woke himself. I stopped exactly where I was. I was not quite where I should be. Almost, but not quite there. He turned his head to look into the bathroom and on seeing me standing in my pyjamas, almost appeared surprised. As if he had forgotten I was there.

Then I saw his memory return. Sharply. He pushed himself up from his chair and moved heavily towards where I stood. About two feet off from the ‘assigned position’. Would he notice I wondered. I would not wonder for long. It was either going to matter or it wasn’t. It didn’t. He came into the doorway and blearily looked at me. He sniffed. A large nasal sniff. “Well?” he asked as if he had already questioned me. I looked blankly at him. “Do you understand?” I couldn’t agree to the question as I didn’t know what I was agreeing to. Was he meaning, did I understand I was going to be further punished for moving? I slowly nodded. Tentative, and unsure. “Right, then get to bed.” He stated as he pointed me towards my room (Technically, it was around the corner, but I took the opportunity and moved forward). “And don’t do anything so stupid again.” He said, clipping the back of my head for good measure as I went to pass him.

I quickly made my way, relieved, to my room where my other brothers slept and climbed gratefully into the now well-cooled sheets. The extra warmth of the heavy blanket was wonderful. My feet, I tried to squeeze into one, to get the warmth back into them. I was sore from the cramps I had experienced. I was tired from the unexpected night time activities, and I knew tomorrow I would have some bruises and marks. But just then, with the pressure off my feet, with the thick blanket and the main punishment finally done. I could sleep. The ‘sleep of the innocent’. And I was. Sort of.

(Continued tomorrow)

Sound of the Pause

I froze in that brief ‘track of relief’ which I had been traversing along the bumpy carpet, to find myself abruptly under the staring eyes of my father. Having snuck out from the cold bathroom floor to the coarse pressure of the hallway surface, to ease the cramp in my legs while he was snoring. I had failed to maintain listening. My leg and feet muscle cramps had disappeared completely, virtually a ‘miracle cure’. But my heart was suddenly clenched. Totally. That moment when people say their heart was in their mouth. That was now. Can young people have heart attacks of fear? I stood, heart in mouth (but pain felt completely in the chest) on the rough carpet, looking straight into the open eyes of my father, who was no longer snoring, but whose eyes were staring. Staring straight at me. Staring directly at me where I was standing very prominently in the middle of the hallway, and not in the bathroom, where I had been told to remain. Told to remain under a very real threat of further punishment. I now stood very still. Practically petrified. The light from the bathroom must clearly be illuminating my incorrectly placed self. I was standing in the wrong place (definitely at the wrong time). I stared in a manner that could only have been described, as ‘rabbit like’ or possibly ‘rabbit about to be hit by a rapidly moving car’-like”.

There was a moment of panic, when I thought of the two primeval options of humankind. ‘Fight’ or ‘flight’. I was seriously considering flight. I could imagine myself racing out into the dark night, still barefoot, in my pyjamas. Running down the back concrete steps and out across the yard. Probably all the way out to the back street and running to the park to hide. Returning to the scene of the crime as it were. The scene of my brother’s (accidental) injury, for which, I was currently being punished for. I considered it, but realised my father would be after me, like a…a… ? Honestly I’d have said angry bear, and apart from the growling that would be as close as it got, as I knew bears can usually outrun anyone while growling. I could probably have outrun my father, even with the leg cramps.

Then in the light of the lounge lamp, which my father had turned on when he had first gone into the lounge after commanding me to remain on the spot of the bathroom linoleum, I realised something about his eyes. They weren’t actually looking. They were open, but he was actually still asleep. The lids were not fully up. He was looking ahead, but not seeing. I tested my momentary theory by rocking my body slowly to the left, then to the right and back. Actually encouraging him to move his eyes and focus. He didn’t. he wasn’t looking. He wasn’t snoring, but he was still asleep. I was still alive.

(Continued tomorrow)

Sound of Silence

The old phrase, “The grass is always greener on the other side of the hill” means people always hope that things will be better elsewhere, but as they also say, ‘Only a pessimist can be pleasantly surprised”. Think about it, because optimists always hope things would turn out better and pessimists know they won’t. So when they do, only the pessimist is surprised. I guess I was thinking here I was being the total pessimist. Knowing that this would turn out badly as I moved a slow step forward from where I had been standing. The noise of my father’s sonorous tones did not change pitch, tone or speed. I braved another terrified step, knowing that he was sure to awaken. Still nothing. The pain in my leg was fairly excruciating, but now that I was able to transfer the weight around the foot in the simple motion of walking, it was already feeling better. I took another two slow paces. Still the rumble from the lounge continued. The heavens did not fall in upon me. The ground did not open and swallow me. The ground was shaking a little from the heavy snoring of my father. I admit I could actually feel it tremble underfoot as I slowly and dangerously moved to the rough carpet.

Then before I fully realised the implications, I was standing on the coarse hallway carpet. The small tight knots of its rough surface and stiff wiry strands were like a hundred miniature masseurs working immediately along the length of my pained foot-soles. Oh, the excellent relief. It was a wonderful change in feeling. And I relished it. I dropped my head as I took a few firmer steps on the beaded surface. Pushing the cramp out of my feet by massaging the soles into the brash carpet.

This carpet which, as I mentioned earlier, left small indentations in your knees when you were on it for any length of time. Playing with cars or sometimes, using the hall to set up our father’s electric train set. That was a special privilege, which I recall happening a few times. The strictly supervised building of the small oval track, with the small copper connecting wires of the black speed control knob on the brown metal casing. A real electric train set (that belonged to our father, not the children). Kneeling on the carpet and setting it up always left very deep indentations.

And at the time as I relieved the painful cramp by walking on the rough carpet I was grateful to every one of those indentations. I felt significantly better. Then, turning around to move back to the bathroom to resume the position I was supposed to have maintained, I looked over to where my father sat in his chair. In my relief, I had not been aware that the snoring had suddenly stopped. There staring at me, with what could only be described as a ‘death’ stare, my fathers face was turned in my direction, with his eyes looking directly at me.

(Continued tomorrow)

Sound of Drifting Off

So what was I prepared to risk? Could I move from this spot and ease the cramp in my feet before my father woke and realised he had drifted off to sleep in the chair. Or at least take a few steps and be back in the spot before he stirred. We were fairly familiar with the sudden waking process of my father. When waking from his Sunday afternoon naps, while sitting in his chair, after a deep fried ‘mock whitebait’ fitter lunch (see blog 19^th June 2012) and a beer or two. As he sat in his chair in front of all of us, nearest to the television, so he wouldn’t be bother by our shifting around and leg jiggling, which we sometimes used to do when sitting watching something, much to his annoyance (hence the position of his chair). If he had drifted off to sleep, while we were all there watching, we would gesture with a head flick or a nod to the others and try not to giggle. If he started snoring, we tried not to laugh. And if the volume of the snoring increased, we tried harder. On occasions if we were in the room and our mother was in the kitchen talking to others, the small hatch window would quickly slide open and a terse single word “Laurie!” would be barked at him. This of course caused him to wake, to do the sudden shake of the head, eye wide reaction, which was usually followed by the exaggerated smacking of lips, as the mouth in mid-snore probably had saliva either dripping down the side of the mouth or at least sitting in the mouth. He would then look around to us crossly as if we had disturbed him. Only to realise as the hatch slid closed, that it wasn’t our noise which had woken him. We wouldn’t dare.

There was a possibility that I could at least take some of the pressure off my cramping feet as my father snored in the chair. If I could very quietly sneak forward to walk briefly on the carpet, just for a few paces. I was sure I could loosen the pained muscles in my legs and particularly my toes. But then, that would mean risking moving forward. Towards, not only the carpet, but also towards the snoring figure of my father in his chair. Just how brave was I really, or how much pain was I actually in? Could the risk of additional punishment and the pain that would likely come with it, out weigh the current pain in my legs and feet. The answer was a resounding yes! Of course it would. That is one of the great concepts (and pitfalls) which thinking humans engage in. Whatever is now, particularly when bad, painful or terrifying, can’t get any worse? Surely? Wrong! The first issue is to take the next step. To move through whatever is happening and move on. Regardless, of whether it is a bad situation. To take a risk.

(Continued tomorrow)