ViaScribe

Actual speech:'For Death and Glory'.

The first movie I ever saw with subtitles was Toy Story in 1995. My Christmas present that year was a captioner- a black box about the size of a long Dostoevsky novel. It was relatively simple to operate- you inserted the VHS tape as usual and pressed a button on the front of the captioner and imbedded captions would come up on the screen. It was a double edged sword, however. It had two scart sockets, one for the tv and one for the VHS, plus a plug for the mains. While this sounds easy enough to install, it could take quite some time to get all the plugs in the right places. That wasn't all- the subtitles could be quite erratic, sometimes disappearing for long periods of time, sometimes being warped beyond recognition, sometimes with missing chunks. It was with relief, then, that I welcomed the DVD player early in this millennium. The range of movies I could watch suddenly expanded from a narrow selection of large-budget movies with 'Q' on the back denoting captions to nearly every DVD produced. Not only this, but the subtitles were near perfect and appeared as white on the movie background, rather than the white with black boxes behind it. This made it easier to watch the film without having to pay undue attention to the captions, plus they didn't fill up most of the screen.

Having waved a happy adieu to the captioner, it is with interest that I look forward to the future of captioning- real time captioning of live events. As things stand now, I use notetakers- usually classmates paid by the university- to make sure I don't miss things in class. I want to use technology to make my life easier in this area, though. I think introducing a captioner which can be used in real time will be of great benefit both to the deaf population and for meetings, conferences, lectures, bloggers, etc. In this wired generation that we live in, I could see bloggers or editors attending lectures or interviews and being able to edit the text directly on the screen, with no need for transcription.


The Charles Darwin University has released something that promises this solution: ViaScribe, currently only for university use, but possibly useful eventually for personal use. Here's an excerpt from their press release:

Charles Darwin University has joined an international consortium developing technology that will enable the instant delivery of voice-activated lecture material.

The new voice-activated computer technology allows students to follow their lecturer's material on a screen as it is delivered - an innovation with enormous potential not only for deaf students and students with physical and intellectual disabilities but for the entire student population.

CDU recently signed on with Liberated Learning, a consortium based at St Mary's University in Nova Scotia, Canada that now has links with 16 institutions in eight countries.

A research group based at St Mary's has been developing the voice-activated computer software for the past seven years in partnership with computer giant IBM, which has developed a software program called ViaScribe.

The lecture-captioning system has been adopted in universities across the world, including the University of the Sunshine Coast in Queensland and The Australian National University in Canberra.

Liberated Learning's international manager Keith Bain visited the Casuarina campus of Charles Darwin University to demonstrate the captioning system and hold talks with Support and Equity Services as to the way forward for the new partnership.

Mr Bain says the consortium is committed to working with universities and other partners to further develop the Liberated Learning system and meet the challenges of providing new learning systems for the disabled or disadvantaged.

He adds, however, that Liberated Learning's research and development has proven beneficial to all students.

'We've found that the automatic captioning system also leads to the improvement in lecture delivery by teachers,' said Mr Bain.

He says the aim of the St Mary's University consortium is to create a living laboratory, working from scratch with its partners to build new technology.

'In our partnership with CDU, we want to learn more about how the university wants to use the technology,' he says.

'There are a number of equity factors at CDU to be addressed, such as the high number of students with disabilities or disadvantage, non-English speaking background students, rural and remote students and the under-representation of women in non-traditional fields of study.'

Elizabeth Macdonald, the director of CDU's Support and Equity Services, said: 'We're excited to be part of the consortium, which is about sharing information and being involved in a global project working on the evolution of speech-recognition software.

'We see the potential for wide application of this technology for students at CDU studying both on and off campus.'

I'll be watching this space closely. Exciting!

Friday Belly Flops

Like belly flops, they're fun: every Friday from now on I'm going to post a selection of fun random things I find scattered around the internet. Today's goshdarnawesome picks:

Blu
BLU is an Italian graffiti artist who uses the buildings around him as a blank canvas. Not only this, but look what he does! He actually makes animations out of them! Each frame is painted over before the next one is painted. This makes for a really surreal, Peter Max style of art which interacts with the surrounding city bits and pieces (watch for the bit where the graffiti man 'kicks' over a log).


Dr. Whippy

I covet ice cream at the best (and worst) of times. The good folks at Dr. Whippy have come up with a wonderful idea: A machine that analyses your level of stress and dispenses ice cream accordingly! The most stressed of ye will get the largest cones and when you're just craving a bit, a little bit will be dispensed. Fun idea, eh?

Red Scarf

He leant forward, looking at me earnestly in the eyes. I felt somehow threatened by this man who was three heads shorter then me, bald and paunchy. Perhaps it was the heavy gold teeth, wider than they should be, ornamenting his mouth or the soft tufty hair that he brushed back every few minutes, rambling on rapidly, sometimes leaning back with his eyes half closed as if he were in a trance. I’d met the man only a few minutes ago and already I knew half his life story, not an uninteresting one as they go.
He’d asked me for money to make up the change for his drink. Fair enough, I thought and put an euro into his broad hand. I noticed his fingernails were immaculately clean, but his hands were smeared with some sort of stinking crude oil.
It wasn’t long before he started waving his finger at me purposefully in that rambling way that drunkards have that the story started to come out. All stories begin pretty much the same way, a general intro that people don’t really listen to, then they start getting interesting around the same time that someone speaks.
‘I was a young man then, I’ll tell you. I was born in San Fipilino de Cuididad, down the street from where Castro’s cousin used to brand his cows. We would all turn out, all of us, about six years old, black hair cut close to the scalp (for the nits, you know), black- legged and horn-footed. The cows would bellow in the hot summer sun and stumble between the cracks in the heat-seared soil. I loved that red soil- if I close my eyes when I walk over cobbles, I can pretend I’m walking over the little tufts thrown up by the cattle as they ran away from the cousin. The cousin wore a yellow tunic and a broad-brimmed hat. His moustache was the pride of the town, long and carefully triimmed twice a week. He would lean over and tell us all that if we wanted a woman when we grew up, we would need to learn how to brand a cow beautifully, so she would know that we were artists as well as men of the land. I can still feel his hand on my shoulder, gripping tightly, as he saw the blood dripping down the hairy side of the beast I’d just butchered. That was the first cow I ever killed, and I cried. I couldn’t help myself- the white hide was still soft- it never had a chance to harden with age. I couldn’t bring myself, though, to eat the meat and my helping of the steak was given to the cousins. When I got older, I went to school. It was a barefoot school, with the ground well polished by swinging feet, a well-toed knot in the plank here and there, toed by generations of illiterate students looking at the sky out of the window (it was always blue, but now and then there was a cloud which caused much excitement.) I did OK, I guess. I was good at the maths- it was simple, I used my fingers and the other fellows used to gather over my shoulder as I rounded off numbers, using toads and willow trees to explain my analogies. Ä bit older I got, my hair grew a little longer and I spent my time talking to landlords about their exorbitant rent prices, while at nights I would flit in between the shadows, people with flat faces and who seemed to know what they were talking about seemed to gravitate towards me and more than ever I felt the grip of a heavy hand on my shoulder. I had no control over the thing and even now I wonder if I could have changed the way things went, even if I’d had a choice. Heavy hands started to feel light, though, when I started taking the drugs. The hurricane came then and ruined the town. Afterwards, we all walked through the town, tall figures dressed entirely in a tasselled red tunic, our faces covered with white masks and a felt black hat over it all. It was a terrible sight, the row of coffins in front of us, ranging from the large coffin belonging to the keeper of the general store who thumbed through his ledgers and marked down a price a peso or two lower than the original price, just because you’d smiled at his daughter the day before, right down to the smaller coffins that were too painful to look at, white against the red ground. It wasn’t a good time, the ground was littered with palms and white sand from hundreds of miles away. It was around then that I decided to travel and get away from things. I needed to develop my own life, so I went first to the continent, then got a ship here and there, working like a rat and living like one too. I developed terrible hygiene, scabbed lips with bristles between the plaques, thick and warty hands and if I looked in the mirror (which, generally, I avoided doing), I would see before me stringy hair, greyish skin, not the glowing skin enriched in my youth from eating papayas sent in the boxes from the families abroad. I stopped looking after myself and was concerned only with getting on. After a while, I suppose, it was inevitable, a friend moved the paper with the crystalline powder towards me as we knelt on the floor near a coffee table, watching a football game, Cyprus vs. Monaco. Cyprus won and I was won over. From there, it was even more downhill. I found myself on the streets of Dublin, shivering in the cold and arguing with the owners of chinese restaurants (not the nice ones- the old ones with spindly wooden table legs and linoleum tablecloths) for money in return for opening their door for their customers. They said I wasn’t the type they wanted around the place, I called them racist and they called the gardai. The gardai brought me down to the station and gave me a cup of tea while I waited for an interpreter. The irish walked past me on the street when I left the station, a good few euro in debt to the shark O’Reilly. The name of O’Reilly became a scar on my conscience, after evading the man and his echelons for so long, I still wince when I read or hear that name…I think he gave up looking for me about twenty years ago. I was good at hiding- it was my thing. I fell in with a crowd of romanian gypsies who would gather together old newspapers and sell them to fish and chip shops to wrap their produce in. It was good money, but I couldn’t help feeling as if there was still better money to be made. I could get an apartment! Oh, even a bed would have been wonderful at that point. I would be shaken awake in the bitter cold of the morning, the freezing cement beside my cheek and the rumble of the city in the background. My backside would be gently (or sometimes not so gently) poked by the foot of the gardai waking me. I’d wave to him and generally act as if I was getting up. He’d move off, looking for another person to torment. I’d wait till he’d gone, then refold my newspaper pillow and lie there, the sleeping bag obscuring my vision until all I could see was the feet of the people passing me by. Sharp business shoes on the feet of the CEOs passing by, late on their way to a meeting. Heels on spindly ankles, wobbling- these women felt unnatural in these shoes, but wore them for the air of authority they gave. Students with the hems of their jeans worn beyond recognition. Large Doc martens, studs, together with New Rock shoes, tall and dark. Then, the best ones- small and pink with flowers on. Now and again, I’d look up at the faces belonging to the shoes- Converse shoes over narrow-leg black jeans generally belonged to the tanned and dark-haired spanish students with backpacks meandering around the city. Bright white trainers belonged to americans with matching white hair and cameras with large lens. Motorbike boots belonging to grad students trying to compensate for the fact that they studied data points until eleven o’clock at night. I ended up sitting outside a tattoo parlour (more interesting people watching in that area) and that’s where the story begins. I was talking to the tattooists, smoking outside in their white aprons, when a woman stopped and asked the tattooists the way to a landmark. I couldn’t help myself- I pulled back my hair into a ponytail, shrugged up my leather coat and told her that I’d bring her there. Just come along with me!
‘No thanks’, says she, and I suppose I understand, looking back. ‘ I’m OK. Down that way, right? Thanks ‘gain..’ and started walkign in that direction. Well, I had to follow her. Long black hair reminded me of the black hair in San Fipilino de Cuididad, when the opera singer came to town to celebrate the installation of the first cinema, an outdoor screen with the projector flickering in the back. The high music would play and she would come out with so much energy that everyone could almost hear the music without it being played. Well, this was the same thing. It wasn’t the way she moved either, it’s hard to describe- Ifelt connect to her, as if at her centre was an immovable metal pole and I was tied to it with an unbreakable rope. So I followed her. She was scared of me, didn’t talk much….at all. I tried making some small talk, asking her where she was from…..I think the answers she gave were probably wrong, she wasn’t listening to what I was saying, focusing most likely on getting away. I admit, OK, I must have been a bit of a sight then, the scabs on my face were the worst they’d been in a while (which I attributed to a bad diet and too much stress in my life) , but still, couldn’t she look beyond that? I had the soul of a poet, dammit!
We got to the landmark and she turned to me and thanked me rapidly, not unkindly, mind you. I fancied a saw a bit of a kind look in her eyes- there was hope yet! I squeezed her hand, felt it retract a little, but then again she have been afraid of her own feelings for me! We can’t help who we feel attracted to, you know! She might have felt the connection I did!

It was raining, but the sky was bluer than it had ever been in San Fipilino de Cuididad. The traffic and crowd sounded purer than the passion birds flying past us all in the crowd as the bulls ran down the slopes, looking for water. I felt absolutely wonderful! It was then that I made up my mind- I had to go find her!
It needed to be subtle though- poets like me work in quiet but effective ways. So I followed her home. She took the tram and I stood two carriages behind h er , looking at her stripy backpack as the tram wound and twisted around the tall red brick buildings. I got off after her as it stopped on a flyover with small palm trees planted in large pots- I hid behind one as she met a friend briefly. The rain on my head felt like tiny taps from angels on my consciousness as I finally saw the house she lived in- a three-floored red brick house, with white cast iron and topiary at the door. Well, I knew I couldn’t go up and knock on the door. What could I do? I hung around for a while, then I walked back to the tattoo shop, being sure to remember the way for posterity- here, a small groove in the wall which could have been worn down by her hand, there, a twig on the ground that could have been dropped by her as she walked into college in the mornings. It came to pass, eventually, that I would wake up early in the morning and, as the sun rose and the sky pinked up, I would be standing across the street. The golden sun on her window ( I saw her at the window sometimes, paerhaps putting on a necklace or some jewellery in the mirror) marked a new day for me. The cold bitter days I welcomed, as it meant that she would wear her (my favourite) red scarf. I decided that, since I knew her now like I understood the feelings of my cat Bonessa, when I was young (my grandmother taught me how to talk to and understand animals and ever since I’ve been able to guiile a pigeon into sitting on my knee, trusting even as to the quick snap of the neck, a dinner for that night.), it was inevitable that a letter must be written. I saved up the money from the necklaces and purloined for myself (the very best, of course) in the stationary shop (it never moved) some wonderful stationery, ivory (it said on the front of the packet) ‘tinged with gold, ideal for all occasions.’ I also got a pen, one of those fountain pens that write in a flourishy way. I wasn’t very good with it, though (a lot of black marks appeared where they shouldn’t) and I ended up having to put most of my attempts aside ‘to finish later’. Eventually, I finished one letter that I was proud of. I’ll tell you what it said. It went something like this’-

‘Dear UnKnown (since she was unknown to me, see?),

You are in my thoughts all day ( ‘How wonderful!’ she will think, proud that she has influenced me so much) and I have been watching over you all day (she’ll feel protected) and I would like you to know that you have my soul captured entirely! You are like a rose blooming in the snows of winter (a bit of poetry will surely win her heart), a star in the sky where there is none (stars always go down well) . This note is brief, but please know that I would die for you. Please look in the box for my thumb- you see- I would do anything for you! (she should really know how I feel). I have spoken with your father and he says he blesses our relationship (He probably would have anyway and this will make her feel a bit more comfortable about this whole thing.)
Please leave a reply on your doorstep- any time is fine for me, as I am always waiting…

Yours in eternal love (In San Filipino, eternal was a word tossed around like water in a bathroom fight.),

Unknown (I wanted her to feel the mystery and intrigue I myself felt about her.)

That’s the letter, then, that I wrote- if not those exact words, then pretty close- it was over twenty years ago, but I still feel the warm spring breeze on my hand as I put the letter on her doorstep and ran off across the street. I leapt over the wall and looked at the developing scene from between the balustrades. It didn’t go exactly the way I’d intended- but what can you do? The mother came out to get the milk (they still got the pints of milk, like we did in San Filipino, but they got it delivered and we got it straight from the cow) went back inside and nothing really happened for the rest of the day. I was eating my dinner ( a can of mackerel) when the porch light came on and the father left the house followed by the mother shouting at him and my sweet girl crying after him. It was a good development, in my eyes. She was vulnerable now, upset about her father leaving- I could slide in, comfort her and she would see me as her saviour, someone in whom she could confide in her moments of weakness and torment. So I strolled up to her the next day as she walked into college. Tears were dripping down forming perfect little dark circles on the cement.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked, being sure to put my hand on her arm in a comforting way. She looked up and away from me.
‘Oh…hi.’
She started walking a bit faster. ‘I’m sorry- I’m kind of late…’
‘It’s OK! ‘ I encouraged her on, as I sped up myself. ‘I don’t want you to be late- we’ll get there soon.’
She didn’t say anything, but studied the ground as it passed us by. I pressed on. In my nights of dreaming, I’d considered all the different options and decided that, in this situation, I would be silent for a while, so as to get her used to us being together (and also so she could think I was the strong, silent type, see?) So anyway, after about five minutes’ walking, we were walking across Harcourt Green, where the butchers set up their stalls, each vying for attention with the fattest pig they can find hanging up outside the stall. I pointed out one of the pigs. ‘That pig is nearly as big as the one I had at home in San Filipino.’ I added ‘- it was my pet.’ (Ah HA! I knew she would like that- small (and even rather large) animals were always a way to make yourself seem kind and fragile, even if you had butchered it afterwards, but I didn’t mention that bit to her.)
‘Oh…’ she nodded, not really paying attention.

‘Did you like my letter?’ I blurted out (foolishly, as I thought afterwards, I should have stayed quiet about the whole thing. )
‘You sent that letter? The one at the doorstep?’ she broke into a jog, encumbered by the weight of her bag.
‘Right!’
So we ran together. Like as to the spiders scuttling through the grasses in the prairie, so we ran between the epeople as the streets got steadily more populated. Eventually, she ran down a side street into a thick crowd and I lost her. Well, what could I do? I went around. I even went into her college and stood in the lobby, hoping to see her. She’d said she was late after all though- she probably didn’t’ have time to talk to me just now.

That night I was picked off by the gardai. It had clearly been a setup- I went to my usual place, the grass packed down the way I liked it and with a small cubby where I could hide my things. I found that my camera was missing (I took small pictures of the garden and the house sometimes, to pass the time) and in their place was a dark navy man, brandishing a pair of handcuffs and shiny brass badges. It wasn’t long before I was having my second cup of tea in the courthouse and I made my one phone call to her house (her father was a lawyer and I felt certain that he would be on my side, since don’t fathers always want their daughters to be married off to men who love them?) He came down after a while, dishevelled (very insulting to the pride in San Filipino) and wanted to know the whole story. I told him everything, including the story about the bananas in Morocco and helping a monkey running away from twenty gendarmes in Paris, not my fault entirely, but I did profit to the tune of a tidy sum of twenty francs, soon to be spent on croissants and coffee.) I told him how my life had changed since I’d met his daughter.

‘I cleaned my clothes (it was expensive and I had to stand in my underclothes in the laundromat watching the clothes fall over one another as the drum spun around) and cut my hair….I’ve looked for jobs (I hadn’t) and I’ve been writing poetry (I had) for your daughter, you need to understand I truly love her.’ I grappled for his hand, soft and pink in mine) He pulled his hand away.

‘I can get you off on insanity…but do you understand what you’ve done to her? To our family? He told me, but I didn’t really understand…what they had to do with me, though of course I understand now, apparently they had understood that the father had somehow met me (they at this point thought I was a stalker, ha ha!) and promised his daughter to me (I brightened up at the thought), the mother was horrified at the idea and fainted away entirely, then the debacle led to him being ejected from the house…he patted the back of my hand and spoke to me in soothing tones…what could he do? Get me out of here, I said, and I knelt down. Yes, I say to you, I knelt down on that hard tile floor and said that I would do everything in my power to make his daughter happy--- bring her in here for me… he said he would do what he could…’

So ends the story…he left…the court let me off with insanity and shipped me back to San Filipino. I ended back up where I began, with O’Reilly’s name no longer a threat. I went back to Castro’s cousin’s farm with my friends and it was as if the whole thing never happened. It was quiet. I started up a farm (it was hard to get proper employment with a record like mine) on the proceeds from the money from the family (sent with the proviso that I would no longer contact them). I always wondered what exactly had happened once he’d left the room. Actually, it came to gnaw at me after a while, more so than the tiny mice in my room at night. I started waking up earlier in the morning and one day I decided to return to Ireland to find out what happened. Bear in mind this is twenty years ago. I returned a week ago. The family no longer live in that house, so I looked up her name…I guess she got married or something, her name was no longer in the phone book. But then, guess what! I was walking in Abbey street, not far from the tattooist’s, although now it’s a clothes shop, when I saw a red scarf..and black hair. It wasn’t her, though, but it could have been her. I felt reinvigorated! Äs if God was trying to tell me to keep going! I could have gone back home to San Filipino before, but now I knew there was no chance! I had to stay and find out what happened!
So I went to donate blood one day, you get free cookies if you do. I put them in my pocket and watched the blood drain into the bag. That’s when I noticed the other names written down after mine….and one name was hers! I could hardly believe it. What were the chances? Seriously? In a city this big- and she goes to donate at the same time! But of course, it was someone else. I grew discouraged and the days grew shorter and I decided to return to San Filipino- I can’t leave my farm too long, you see? So here I am- I have a flight in four hours. I’m disappointed- but I can’t say I didn’t expect this. At least I tried, you know? I went into all the right places. What can I say? The poetic soul in me needs fulfilment. It’s not long for the world I have left, but I can say I spent most of it well. Excuse me now though…I have to go to the bathroom.’

Well, what could I say? I sat there as the man went to the bathroom, his hair (soft and supple after the last twenty years being washed in olive oil and castor soap) flowing behind him, what was left of it. I felt sorry for him and enthralled in equal measures- this wasn’t a story you’d hear too often. I liked the mystery it held, but was amazed at his naievety and inability (or unwillingness?) to understand her timidity at his mode of approaching the whole thing. He’d been unfortunate in love, but at least his stories would brighten many a dark hearth back home, this installment with a few hours to go and no real possibility of salvation. He returned from the bathroom, his hands glistening slightly and reached out for the last dregs of his drink.

‘I’d better be off now’ he cried, shouting to the public in general. Ä general reply was issued forth, with some patrons waving goodbye to the stranger. He clutched his coat under his arm and stumbled from the pub. Shouting came from outside and I went over to the door….someone pushed the door open and pushed past me and I went past the person- the world opened up to me and I could see the road, with the traffic stopped around the body- lying prostrate with a slowly widening dark stain around it. I couldn’t quite believe this was happening. Mobile phones were being produced at an astonishing rate. The traffic jam worsened and the ambulance appeared, lighting up the dark places with the electric blue light. All was illuminated. His story never ended- but it certainly took a turn for the stranger when the ambulance man called for people with him- the last I saw of him was a brown leather shoe going into the ambulance and, clutched tightly in his hand, a red scarf…………

Short story- 'Thrift Shop.'

You're walking alongside me down the corridors of the hospital ward. We're turning left here, we'll be there in a few minutes. We'll have coffee later, first we need to talk to this guy. The coffee in that place is lame anyway- we can go to Beaners, they have far better coffee and put real coffee in instead of that bracken they use in the canteen.

Do we have the files? I hope he takes it well, but how can you, really? It's nto something you hear every day. Did you see his X-ray? The mass was one of the largest I've ever seen. It's pressing on the bowel wall. We all agreed fairly quickly that it was inoperable. He's old though and I think he knows it was coming. When I left him the last time to go up to the lab to get the test results, he just said 'Thank you for all your help.' I don't know how I felt, or how I should have felt. Shouldn't I have said something? Which ward is he in? Oh, St. Raphael's. Come on. It's a beautiful day today, isn't it? Look at the golden light streaming in through that window, I love the way the wind blows the curtains back. You'd never know we were in a hospital, would you? The summer flowers certainly brighten the place up, bless the nuns at St. Joseph's. They send them over every few weeks and that new young nurse- black hair, you know her- she uses her breaks to put the prettiest flowers nearest the patients with no visitors. The patients smile more on those days.

.................
Here's his bed now. Hello, Samuel. Is your wife here? Would you like us to wait for her? I could come back. No? OK. Well, we got our test results back and it looks...well, as I said before... I'm sorry. I..I.. There, there now...do you feel better now? No, of course not. Sorry about that. I don't really know what to say. Most opinions say that you have another two months left. It shouldn't be that painful most of the time. Remember how we had you on that diet? You can restrict yourself less now. We can give you painkillers if you need it. Counselling is available. We'll give you a number. Are you sure you won't come in for that radiotherapy? We highly suggest it, you know. Look after yourself, do you hear, Samuel? I'll be back later. Come on.


Did you see the look in Samuel's face? I know that man, I grew up near him. He owns a thrift store in town. I used to go in to look for cheap bait for flyfishing. There was a small bucket in the front of the store where they had hats and I was looking through them once when I came across a hat with some old flies in it. I was so excited, I was only eight, I ran up to him and asked him how much the hat was. He looked at me and said it was free for me. I said I wanted to pay for it and started pulling out change from my pocket. He stopped me and said if I really wanted to pay for it, I could come by and sweep the store every now and again and have a nice chat. He got lonely in that store sometimes, it wasn't a very big store you know. About big enough for twenty or so patrons before people had to stand together, pressing into each other's backs. So many faces- rough and hardy farmers looking for jerksacks and cattle feed fillers, birdlike noses on the women feeling their way through the stacks of sewing patterns in the back, rustling brown paper as the small boys stood beside their mothers chewing penny sweets. I made a lot of friends- and enemies- amongst these boys. I remember there was a low step in the back where a water heater used to stand, I used to sit on that step and do my homework after school. So I started going down. It was fun in there- I could eavesdrop people talking to each other amongst the coat racks and between the china aisles. That's where I learned about sex for the first time, from a pair of teenage girls with long stripy socks, nose piercings and pink hair. One of them was telling the other about how she loved her best friend, but she had a boyfriend and she didn't know what was going to happen. I heard all the details. I also heard a lot of stories between older women talking about their X-rays, painkillers, rheumatis, arthritis, osteoporosis and so on. I think that's where I started thinking about going into health care. Always in the background Samuel would be winking at me if I looked back with astonishment at hearing something I'd never heard before.



See, now this is making me mist up. I have to clock out over here, put your scarf on, it's cold outside. Maybe we should do some Christmas shopping now? I know, I'll take you to his thrift store. It's not far from here. Once samuel called me over and brought me into the back room. It was dark and dirty. There was paper everywhere, he was an artist, but never commercial- he just liked to paint in his spare time. It was his thing. Wait, I think we missed it. Let's go back a bit. Yes, here it is. Oh good, it's open. Hi, Maureen! ...Yes, Samuel is, well, I'm not allowed to talk about him. Patient confidentiality and all that. Sorry. He'll be back home before too long though. You know, I just had an idea. Mind if I check the back room?



No? That's OK then? Come on, I'll show you that room I was telling you about before. Mind the steps, the doorway's quite low too, this is such an old house, people were so short back then. It's quite dark, isn't it and dirty? Let me open the window.Can you turn on the light behind you? Not there, on the other side- ah, yes. Now see here all these paintings? The drawings? So many. He would tell me that if anything was ever bothering him, all he had to do was pick up a 2B pencil or a paintbrush and he would feel at home. It was his safety blanket. MAUREEN! Could you come here for a moment? I have something to ask- well, see the thing is, how come he never went into art full time? Why does he run this thrift shop? That damned Andrew Loomis.



I can't believe- well, he was on a par with him, I'd daresay. I mean, look at that one. That one too. See the way the figures glow out of the darkness, so it seems like a flickering image coming out of the night? That's his talent- to make things alive and move in your imagination. Maureen, why a thrift shop though? Why not an art shop? I never would have thought he felt that way. He always did it back here, so I suppose it was his way of..I don't know. There's a customer-see you in a bit, Maureen. We'll just stay back here for another minute if it's ok with you. I want to bring this back to Samuel. I want to give him what he's been wanting all this time- not fame, but the moment of recognition, of belonging with other artists.Come on, put them all up over there, on that side of the wall. Yes, that's it. Come on. That was quite dissappointing, wasn't it? I can't believe it was rejected. This great art! Just a few decades ago it would have been the talk of the town. The gallery owner can't be all that smart, he doesn't know what's good for him. Or maybe that's the problem, that this stuff just isn't current anymore? That no one cares for such things? That art nowadays must be fast, zippy, clean, colourful, mean everything, mean nothing, inhabit space and represent not an object but a whole way of life? Well, damn all that! Samuel's worth that and a million times more. He gave me friendship when I had none- happiness when I had none, companionship when I had none, money when I had none and bait when I had none.



...................
Now I want to give him everything. Get the phone book out. Come on. I can't wait. Is my tie straight enough? My jacket white enough? No-not down there. He's been moved into intensive care. Yes, I know- he doesn't have enough time. This didn't arrive a day later. Samuel, hello! How have you been? Your blood pressure looks rather elevated. I'll call the nurse in a few minutes and have a chat with her. I hope they're treating you well? The wife and kids are doing very well, thank you. John made this for you? See? It has a picture of you in the thrift store with Maureen and see, here he is buying a new book. He's into the Goosebump series now. Yes, these are good too. I'll ask him if he wants to read these. Well, I have something for you. I hope you like it. Here you go- you can open it later if you like, or now. The paper's a bit fiddly, I know. Do you want me to open it for you? You've got it, ok. They're all in there, Samuel, every one of them! All your paintings. That book is being published as well, it's in all the bookshops. It's on the shelves in Borders, Easons and Barnes and Nobles. It took a few months to get the publishers' approval, then I went and talked to the estate of Andrew Loomis. They agreed to help us publish this book. I'm glad you like it, so glad- See, how could I ever repay you for all your- here, give me a hug. You deserve it, Samuel, you really do and everyone here will agree. This money could pay for your radiotherapy, Samuel! You don't have to worry about Maureen losing the house or the store to pay for it anymore, Samuel! What a gift, Samuel and you deserve it! Maureen, here you are! Isn't it wonderful! Yes, show Maureen, Samuel! Here's another tissue. Are you OK? Why aren't you talking? Let me give you- wait a second. Push that button behind you, Maureen! Help me push this- Nurse, come here!

.........

Thanks for coming. I didn't know if you would. It's late now- I'm not sure if I want to go in. It's quite crowded in there. I can't believe it still, although in a way I can. But what a way to go. Look, the doors are opening now. Let's go stand over here where we can see everything. Give me the book now. Be quiet, the Father is talking. Doesn't Maureen look pale? Poor Maureen! She has no children either to distract her and give her comfort, I'll go over and stand beside her. Will you come? Maureen, hello. I- I brought the book? Would it be OK if...? Do you want to put it in with him? His heart will go with him, Maureen and it'll stay with you at the same time. Every time you go into the bookshop, you'll see his heart on the bookshelves, on the train when you see students reading it, in the streets when you see people carrying them. His heart will multiply and reach people all over. I'd better go now- they're patting down the earth. I'm sorry again, Maureen. I'll talk to you around. You know where I am if you need to talk. Wasn't that sad? I do know that he's happier now- that's a hell of a painful way to go, I'll tell you. Yes, I know I told him it wasn't, It's a psychological thing I suppose...Let's go down here and give one last visit to the old thrift store.

Things I hate no. 2: Art which is not meant for public consumption.

This one needs a little backstory. Yesterday I went to an art gallery with one of my friends to see a new exhibition. We ended up having to go down a small back street and through an anonymous door which in any other situation would have me reaching for a can of mace. There wasn't even a sign on the door. There was no indication of any sort that this was a gallery. Once inside, we had a look around. Stairs led up to the main gallery, which was a large room with about five pieces in it. The artwork included the wallpaper- repeating 'conceptual design' up and down it' produced a dizzying effect which I rather liked and two neon pieces proclaimed- with glow!- I CAN'T EXPLAIN and a wild scribble. I liked the scribble, it's the sort of piece you can put into a home. There were less impressive paintings as well, but the neons and the wallpaper were the main features. After having looked at these, I wandered over to the literature that the artists often provide, scrapbooks filled with articles about their work and a manifesto usually declaiming the world and showing how terribly unique they are. I read both these things and moved onto the book he'd written. It had dead pages with small text at the bottom with epigrams at the bottom- 'I couldn't think today.' 'Conceptual'. If he had just one of those up on the wall, I would have been impressed but repeating them in a book is a tad lazy, in my opinion. It's been done before and it's not particularly clever. My friend came over and asked me what I thought.
'I like the neons, but the paintings don't really have much of a vibe.'
'Yeah. I know what you mean. You know, I love this space. I'd like to have an exhibition in here.'
We both looked up. It WAS a lovely room, a very urban feel in it, high ceiling, skylights, You could say it was roomy and I did.
'The only problem, though,' I said, 'is that it's so out of the way. It's not really the kind of place that passersby could just pop into for a quick art fix. It'd be nicer if there were....more...signs....' I trailed off, since she was looking at me in a way that firmly said 'No, it wouldn't.' I asked 'Wouldn't you want people to come and see your art?'
'Yeah, but it's not really for..the...'
'....general public?' I finished her sentence.
'Right.' She went on to explain. 'Art dealers come in and other artists and the general public is...well...'
'Unnecessary?'

I thought about it on the way home. Art is, in a way, like a currency. It's a form of valuation of culture, both mainstream and 'sub'. If all art were suddenly to become worthless, the values of the markets would change drastically. Sotheby's. Antique art collections. Large collectors like Saatchi who go around snapping up anything that looks like it might float out of the main river into the 'this is so hot right now' side river and the silt builds up, people who are good but didn't quite make it, behind these people. Eventually the art world closes itself off and forms an oxbow lake, to continue the analogy. The gallery I went to is part of that oxbow lake. I've always taken the opposite tack when it comes to art- that it's for everyone, that it exists mainly to fulfil that part of a persons' soul that can't really be fulfiled by daily life, that it speaks to something higher. I feel it SHOULD be for everyone. The result of the art oxbow lake is that you end up with a clique that doesn't care about the river and the river which doesn't care about the lake. This is why there's been a massive fall away from art, because it's stopped sharing it around. If you want to get into the art world, there's only a few small holes in the wall- go to an opening exhibition and speak to the people there, go to an auction and speak to people beforehand. Go into an art college and comment on the artists' work. Speak to them. The art world really is just all about communication. The best talkers get ahead. The ones who can move it, groove it AND talk are the ones who float to the top, like algae in the oxbow lake. Every now and then, someone floats to the top who is actually genuinely good- Odd Nerdrum, for example, or the Wyeths. These people are (sorry, another metaphor coming up) like the lilies on the top of the lake, floating around and actually elevating peoples' souls, minds and idealism. These people, though, won't achieve their aims properly if they don't get out of the oxbow lake and into the main river. The main river by now has become apathetic and ignores the lilies trying to grow lungs and make a quick dash from water to water.
The metaphor is severely strained now, but that's how I feel- strained, that such a gap should exist and which is making my creative life harder to fulfil happily. So- that's my no. 2 of things I hate: Art Which is Not Meant for Public Consumption.

Great words J-Z

Jerk (n.)
1935, "tedious and ineffectual person," Amer.Eng. carnival slang, perhaps from jerkwater town (1878), where a steam locomotive crew had to take on boiler water from a trough or a creek because there was no water tank. This led 1890s to an adj. use of jerk as "inferior, insignificant."
Kench: To laugh very loudly.
Leggadrious: Elegant. (although it sounds like it would mean a tall person...)
Monkey's Wedding: (South Africa) A wedding day with both rain and sunshine.
Noceur: Someone who stays up late.
Oredelf: The right to dig ore.
Paddereen: An old irish word for rosary bead, apparently. I never heard this myself before...
Quagswag: To shake back and forth.
Retardataire: Behind the times
Sandapile: Coffin.
Telmatology: The study of peat bogs. A common hobby amongst alcoholic culchies.
Ubiquarian: Someone who goes everywhere. :)
Vease: Running before you leap.
Woofits: A feeling of general malaise, particularly a headache (I have the woofits...)
Xylopyrography: Burning designs into wood.
Yestreen: Yesterday evening.
Zoilist: A person who rejoices in finding fault (everyone knows one..).

Artists I like no. 1: Michael Hussar

I'm going to be mentioning a few artists I like in no particular order. Michael Hussar is first to the plate- he's a great artist, both digital and analogue. His stuff is haunting and has a great blend of un-doneness and detail at the same time. His stuff can be seen here. Here's one:


Check out his alla prima section, it's particularly nice.