Educating Creativity

I absolutely love this video. Sir Ken Robinson giving an inspiring talk calling for an education system that truly nurtures creativity, instead of killing it.

The Wink

An old man sits down next to my mother. There are a lot of old people here, along with me, my mother, and a few other kids I don’t know, with their parents. There are several schools on this route.
“Sit still, dear,” my mother tells me.
I wriggle in my seat.
“I said, sit still!”
I hadn’t moved until she said anything. It always seems to happen that way. I only end up doing something wrong after she has already told me not to do it. I don’t mean to, it’s just the way things work out. Don’t ask me to try and explain it, I’m only six.
My bag is lumpy. We are on the bus after the one we normally get. I couldn’t find my shorts, and I have P.E. today.
“You do know I’m going to be late for work now, don’t you?” she says to me, looking at the people on the other side of the bus. We are near the back, where the seats change from being set out two behind two, two either side of the aisle, like normal, to being lined up along the sides of the bus, facing each other. I can’t see any reason why.
“Sorry,” I say.
“Sorry isn’t good enough.”

The bus stops, and a large lady stands up further towards the back. As she waddles forward the sun stabs in through the window from behind where she was sitting, right into my eyes. I screw them up tight, but I can still see bright orange pulsating behind my eyelids.
“Don’t you think they should have curtains on buses, mummy?” I ask her, my hand up in front of my face.
“They do on coaches,” she explains to me.
“Why not buses?”
My mother looks down the bus, towards the front.

We stop, and further down the bus a man stands up from his seat and gets off. As we pull away I look at him out the window, then to his empty seat, and then into the sun. I hold my bag up in front of my face, until my mother tells me to stop ‘messing about’ and so I put it down again.
“That seat is empty,” I say. “Can I…?”
“Certainly not,” she says, stretching upwards to peer at whoever is sitting next to the empty space. “I don’t want you disturbing that young lady over there.”

A few more stops and a man in a suit gets on and sits down in Fat Lady’s seat. Although he is not as large as she was he is tall, and his head blocks the sun perfectly.
He rests his briefcase on his lap, which looks uncomfortable. I shift under the weight of my own bag.
“Will you please… sit still?”
I do as she tells me, or at least try. It’s very difficult to sit still when you are so uncomfortable. My mother twists around and looks out of the window as the bus passes a row of houses. One of those houses must be very interesting; she looks at them every day. She makes like she has just remembered something, and says to me, “Jackie will be picking you up tonight.”
“I don’t like Jackie,” I tell her.
“Well, tough…” She looks at the back window of the bus, back towards those houses. “I’ll be busy come home time.”
“Doing what?” I ask.

Looking over at the man again I notice how unlike my father he looks. And not because he’s wearing a suit. My father wears a suit. He’s about the same age as this man. Similar build. I think, now, that they may have the exact same briefcase. But my father doesn’t look anything like this man.

I sit as quiet as I can. We stop again, and people get off and some more people get on. The bus is pretty full now. All the children have got off the bus now. I think I am the only one in my school who gets this bus. Maybe all their parents have cars.
Everybody left on the bus is staring forward, at the backs of the chairs in front of them. Except my mother, her eyes darting about this way and that, looking for what I don’t know. And, I notice, except for the man in the suit who looks nothing like my father.
He is looking at me.
I smile at him, and he smiles back.
Then the man winks at me.
I feel my smile getting broader, until it turns into a grin. I laugh, but no one looks at me.

“What’s your name?” the man says.
“Elliot.”
“Hello, Elliot. I have a son about your age.”
This strikes me as an odd thing to say, although I can’t work out why. No one ever says anything like that to me.
“Does he go to Ridley First School?” I ask him.
“No, he goes to Kingswood.”
“Oh.”
“It’s a shame, I think he would be your friend.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I think he would. You seem like a nice young man.”
I don’t know what to say to this, so I don’t say anything. My mother tells me that it is rude to ignore people. As I think this I look at her, and she is on the phone. I didn’t even notice. I look back at the man, and he is still looking over at me, holding his briefcase and smiling.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to ignore you there.” I say.
“Just because you didn’t reply doesn’t mean that you ignored me…”
I smile.
“I’m glad you sat down there.” I tell the man, gratefully. “You blocked the sun from shining in my eyes.”
He turns round, squinting into the sun.
“Don’t you think they should have curtains on buses?” I suggest, when he turns back.
He laughs. “Why not? They do on coaches…”
“Exactly,” I say.
I turn to my mother. She isn’t looking at me.

Dear Everyone...

May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you're wonderful, and don't forget to make some art -- write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself.

- Neil Gaiman; 2001, 2004, 2007.

The start of a beautiful friendship...

For Christmas I recieved a Holga camera, and I love it.

Swan; Wallington Hall.

The Holga, for those of you who don't know, is a camera first made in 1982 as a cheap-o, mass-market camera, with a plastic lens and medium format (120) film, and is today part of Lomography. A celebration of the experimental, the personal, the crazy, the spontaneous, the lo-fi, the accidental, the dreamy, the square, and the 10 Golden Rules.

Wallington Hall.

So, these are from my first film. It was really exciting to have to wait to see how these came out, recieving a small green packet over the counter, filled with negatives, prints, and a CD, instead of the instant "Oh yeah, that's good" or "Shit, delete that..." digital photography that we've all become used to.

The reason they are a little dark is that the days I were shooting were pretty dull, and I unfortunately was restricted to using the only film I had at the time, Fuji Superior 100, which is really only good for sunny days. For overcast days you really need a 400 speed film, or more.

Tree through a gap; Wallington Hall.

Having said that, I'm really quite pleased with how they came out, and I'm geekily excited about finding out just what I can do with this camera. Expect more!

Melanie; Valley Park.

To Make You Feel Like a Woman

A short story
Written for Prose Workshop 1

The mirror is dirty and there is a crack in it. I wet my fingers and rub away some of the grime. Resting both hands on the sink I move my face close to the mirror, running my tongue over my teeth. I can taste the plaque.
Coughing comes from the bedroom. I inspect the hair on my face; tilting my head up and to one side, then the other. I run my fingers across the hairs, up and down along my jaw. As I squirt shaving cream into my hand, a voice calls from the bedroom.
“John…?”
I rub the cream between my hands, spread it over my chin, and pick up my razor. The blades are dull; I keep meaning to replace them. Every day it is harder to shave without cutting myself. Filling the bowl with warm water I dip the razor in, shake it, and begin shaving on the right side of my face.
I can see in the mirror that she is standing behind me now, wearing nothing but my t-shirt. She grabs her hair with both hands and runs them through it, pulling hard so that the black bunches up on top of her head. She looks to the ceiling, then back at me. The light in the hallway is not on, but the bathroom light is enough to show the bruise under her right eye. As she steps forward towards me I can see that it has turned yellow; the same colour as my tongue. She lifts her arms ever so slightly, as if going to put them around my waist, but she doesn’t.
“Go downstairs, and make yourself some coffee.” I say, shaving the spot under my nose. She does what I say and while she is gone I finish off. I am just padding my face dry when she comes back upstairs.
“Get in the bath.” I say.
She shakes her head. I step towards her.
“Sweetheart… get in the bath.”
“After my coffee, please. It’ll go…”
“Now.”
She just stands there. Reaching up I take the mug from her hand, and take a large mouthful. Putting it down on the sink I take her by both hands and pull her into the bathroom. I look at her face, everywhere but her eyes, and brush a stray lock of hair out of her face, behind her ear. It falls back down, so I tuck it back again.
“That’s better.” I whisper.

She sits down in the bath, flinching as her backside touches the cold acrylic, and then tucks my t-shirt under her. Taking the shower head I turn it on and let the water run warm, as I step into the bath. I look down at my girlfriend. She is hugging her knees, and watching the water run down the plughole.
“You ready?” I ask her.
“Go on…”
I squat down on my haunches, and move the shower head over her legs. She tenses, and lets out a gasp.
“Too hot?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
I am kneeling, between her legs, and my jeans slowly become wet as I keep moving the shower slowly up one leg then down the other, then back again. As I do I reach down and feel her legs.
“You do need a shave, don’t you?”
“Mmm hmm.”
When her legs are wet enough I cover them in shaving cream. I examine the can. On it are words like satin feel and sensuous and to make you feel like a woman. I sniff her legs, smelling the cream.
“It smells nice…” I say.
She looks up at me. “You always say that.”
I shrug, and put the can down. “Just stay there.”
Getting out of the bath I go to the toilet and relieve myself. Leaving the toilet seat up, I take my razor from the sink and get back in the bath.
She looks at the razor. “Mine’s in the…”
“I know.” I say.
I begin. The hairs on her legs are not too long, but the bluntness of my razor makes this more difficult than it should be. I watch the white cream disappear with every long, slow stroke. I am smiling, very deliberately. I rinse the cream from my razor, and return to shaving her leg. I am almost finished her left. She says something, but I don’t hear what it is.
“What was that?” I ask, without stopping. I press slightly harder with my razor.
“Nothing,” she replies. I have finished shaving her left leg now. I run my hand slowly up her leg, up the inside, starting at her ankles and stopping in between her thighs.
“You have beautiful legs…” I tell her.
Taking one leg gently I place it to the side, spreading her legs apart. As I begin to shave her right leg I look between them, staring.
“You need a shave there, too.” I tell her.
She shifts her left leg back, slowly. I stop shaving, and look at her for a moment, before placing it back out to the side.
It is then that she begins to cry. She stares downwards, her hair over her face. I continue, trying to ignore her tears.
“I wish you wouldn’t cry,” I say. “You know I hate it…”
“Then why…?” Her sobs get deeper and heavier, choking her words.
“Sweetheart… if you keep crying, and shaking like that…” I am still shaving her, going as slowly as I can.
“Please…” she cries. “Pl…”
Suddenly there is blood.
“Now look what you fucking made me do?”
The cut is deep. I drop the shower head, and it clatters into the bath, still running. The water shoots up into the air and down onto my girlfriend, soaking my t-shirt which clings to her breasts. Her right leg, half unshaven, is covered in a mixture of white and red; the colours slowly diluting and washing away.