Death In The Morning

Tymooreart.com

It was a morning like every other morning. I crawled out of bed to the sound of the alarm, 5 am to prepare for my 35-kilometre journey to work. At the time, I was working in Bangkok and though I didn't start until 8:30, the traffic and the distance necessitated an early start.

After a quick shower I dressed and prepared to leave when I decided to check my email. 
And there it was as bold as brass. Title : Mum has died.

 It took a second or so to register. I wouldn't say disbelief, for it wasn't totally unexpected she was 86, but a surreal feeling of being momentarily detached. My mother was dead, full stop, end of a story.

I spent years wondering how I would react when one of my parents died. The moment had come and to be blunt it wasn't the way I expected. After the initial surprise ( my brother sent the email and is always direct and straight to the point) I gathered myself and went to work as usual.

Never being close to my mother, I had over the years minimal contact. When I lived in Adelaide I would go visit my parents maybe 3 to 4 times a year, for half an hour or so. Anything longer and we used to get on each other's nerves, never seeing eye to eye. Arguments broke out easily, the visits were literally short, sharp and shiny. We just never connected as adults, let alone mother and son.

Anyway, I found myself spending that day thinking about possibilities. What if  we had been close? Would my reaction be different, how different? What if she had died 30 years earlier? Does your own age dictate the way you react?  Lots to ponder and reflect on. 

More importantly, that day I thought about my own childhood, when I was young and my mother wasn’t an old lady. I remembered things I hadn’t thought about for years. Little things that don’t really matter, but reminded me of the tenuous link we shared as mother and son. She wasn’t a natural mother and in hind sight I think she struggled with her 4 children’s upbringing. Not to say she neglected us, we had more than adequate food, shelter and was looked after, but she lacked an emotional connection with us all - empathy. She was mechanical in the way she did things and that extended to the way she brought up her children. I assumed she loved us, but I never felt it. Nothing was ever said or done to demonstrate it or if there was; I just don’t remember.

The reflection only lasted a day and then life went back to normal for me.

As the old adage goes, we are a product of our upbringing. I look into a mirror these days and see my mother’s face as I get older. I notice the way I act at times is the way my mother did; the way I detested as a youth. We should all learn by our life’s mistakes, though fighting powerful inherent forces that lie within is not so easy. 

It’s interesting to talk to others about this. Some feel it's strange that I never grieved about her death, in fact I was and remain rather neutral in my feelings; somewhat empty. She occupies my thoughts only when something reminds me of my youth. Like all of us, unless we become famous we are only remembered through living memory; children and maybe grandchildren then forgotten for all eternity. In the grand scheme of life, individuals mean very little, the specious propagates unabated through numbers until itself is eventually replaced by something more adept to life.

And circle of life continues on.

And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We’re captive on a carousel of time…

Joni Mitchell  1968

     

The Nectar Of The Gods

Courtesy of Bing

What makes a good wine?  Ask a dozen people and get a dozen answers.  I'll state from the very onset that I have very limited knowledge about wine, no  connoisseur here, I only drink the stuff, so that puts me with the 99% who haven't a clue either.  Am I qualified to make comment then?  I think so, because it’s the 99% that drive the industry.  For these people only one criteria that matters - liking the taste or not.  

I was brought up in an area surrounded by some of the better wine growing districts in the world. (The French might not agree.)  Neither of my parents drank alcohol, so it wasn't until I became an adult that I started drinking wine.  Beer and spirits never appealed. One you had to drown in lolly water to make it drinkable, the other was bitter and bloating.  Wine is neither. After developing a palate for the reds tannin in preference to the mostly sweet whites, I found red to be the most satisfying to consume.  By volume, it doesn't  bloat and usually complements the food I ingest.  A glass of Shiraz goes down well with a McDonalds hamburger! (Philistine I hear you scream.)

This brings us to last night. Our friends invited us for dinner at their place and I was specifically asked not to bring a bottle as the host had a cupboard full that needed to be drank.  Been given the honour of deciding what to drink,  I inspected the 10 bottles on show and earmarked 2 for immediate drinking. Both were close to 10 years old. One of those, a Merlot 2005 from my old home town was opened first.

As most of us know, proper storage of wine is critical if you want to create the conditions necessary for it to reach its full potential.  You couldn’t imagine a worse case scenario in this case, storage in a non air-conditioned room standing up right.  

My worst fears were realised when the cork started to disintegrate during removal.  In fact, it broke in two and I could not get enough purchase on the remaining cork, so I did what any good wine expert (cough,cough) would do… use a knife to push the recalcitrant cork fragments into the bottle.

Finding a tea strainer and plastic container I filtered as much of the floating cork particles from the wine as feasible.  Two attempts later, all of the contaminate was removed or as much as the naked eye could tell.

Oddly the wine had little nose.  In other words, I couldn't smell anything that clearly resembled any wine I knew, just a nondescript slightly sweet bouquet.  The colour was unusual as well, chocolate brown with a dash of blood red.

All this pointed towards a tasting disaster, but to our utter astonishment it was tasting extravaganza. What a pleasure to the palate, smooth and silky, sliding down the throat, leaving a delightful after thought behind.  Even the non drinkers were impressed.  And to top it all off, we displayed no after effects the next day.

Perfect!

So it goes to show, in this case what should have occurred didn't happen. 

In the end it's the taste to you that matters and not any extensive wine knowledge.

Having said all this though, I have recently witnessed wine being mixed with coke! Now there is a limit to everything.

À la vôtre

          

On a Wing And A Prayer - Kota Kinabalu Airport

Wing Over Sabah

A bleak afternoon, thunderstorms and driving winds. I arrived at Kota Kinabalu International Airport 4 hours early for my flight back to Sandakan. Very early I know, but being the conservative person I am and the water rising in the street, persuaded me to err on the side of caution.

This airport is only 6 years old and I must say usually a pleasure to arrive or depart from compared with most. It's medium sized as airports go, the third biggest in Malaysia after KL, catering for about 12 million passengers a year who visit Sabah. It's modern, metallic and has 12 air bridges, never feels busy and you can easily find a place to sit away from others. 

After disembarking from the taxi drenched, I sloshed towards the check-in counter and waddled through the x-ray past immigration that appeared to make only a cursory glance at the screen whilst continuing their more important discussion on the day’s current gossip. Maybe I don't look like a terrorist. 

I arrived before my wife and her conference colleagues, waited  in a state of misery, some what exacerbated by the building's cold air-conditioning. 

Being a creature of habit I had immediately gone straight to my flight's departure gate, indicated by the electronic board as A8.

My wife and her friends duly arrived and as per usual discussed work, ignoring me. Feeling neglected, I got up and wandered around the terminal which is mostly empty of things to do. 

The major shortcoming in the departure hall is that most of the allocated shop spaces are empty. There are dozens and dozens of empty 'shop fronts, in a myriad of short passages coming off the main thoroughfare. It's possible to go into the bowels of the retail area and be completely alone. 

Interestingly there are two terminals at this airport which are diagonal across the runway from each other. The low cost terminal which is smaller is always very busy. It seems odd to me that they don't incorporate both under the same roof; more efficient way of using space and I suspect a way to enliven the retail areas. Anyway, the authorities must have their reasons, I suppose.

I happened to glance up at the departure board to discover, to my surprise, that the gate had changed to A6. I duly informed the others, so we gathered our belongings and moved to the new allocated gate. 

Upon arrival, only a small group of tourists  were milling around, we sat ourselves close to the front counter. The electronic board flashed up Sandakan and the flight number. A man sat there doing his paper shuffling and all seemed well. Except…

The gate next to us was experiencing some sort of commotion with a group  of about 10 passengers milling around an official all looking very animated. I had no idea what it was about, but can only assume it was something to do with a communication breakdown. ( maybe the infamous departure board) I couldn't hear anything from where we were, but it was highly entertaining and helped while away the remaining 45 minutes. 

Being the observant creature I am , I noticed as the departure time approached, a distinct lack of passengers and no aircraft in the bay. Besides that, the little man at the front counter had suddenly disappeared and the electronic sign board had stopped flashing Sandakan. I walked to the departure board and as I am sure you have already guessed, discovered we were now back at A8. !!!

A mad dash to the new gate ensured where we joined the throngs who were about to board the aircraft. ( How did they know and not us?) Throughout all of this there were no announcements on the intercom that things had changed.

Lesson to be learned.  Mistake on my part - If I hadn't constantly been checking the departure board we would have been blissfully ignorant of the transitory change.  Don't assume officialdom will tell you everything you need to know in this part of the world. Most information seems to be gained by the mysterious process of mental osmosis, you are just expected to know. For some reason, the authorities don't like giving out info unless it's deemed unequivocally necessary (to them). Who decides this is anyone's guess, so be prepared to expect the unexpected. 

One little side issue to finish, Just before take off, after the safety video, a short prayer was offered for the safe passage of the flight. 

Now that really does instil confidence! 

KK Airport

Wiring Sandakan Style

Half way between the local shopping precinct and where I reside, there is the local district telecommunication exchange - sub station. Well, I think that’s what it's called. It is a metal cylinder about one and a half metres tall which contains thousands of multi-coloured insulated copper wires.

I know because frequently, when I’m doing my daily walk to the coffee shop, I see an army of technicians working feverishly on a bundle of these wires. Not a pleasant job in the tropical sun, but a job that seems to occur all too often.

Telecommunication infrastructure in Sandakan is fully stretched. The fastest Internet connection that one can buy is a paltry 4 mbps and that is limited to only a few areas in town.  We have just upgraded to 2 which is the highest possible in our street. They say 2 mbps but in reality if it crawls to 1.5 mbps we are ecstatic.

I shouldn’t complain really. Before the upgrade, the service would drop out 10 to 20 times a day. A technician investigated twice, 6 months apart. He assured us nothing was wrong with the phone line after inspecting the fore mentioned exchange. Miraculously the moment he left it’s been perfect ever since, well as perfect as it gets here. A little face saving I suspect. Anyway it's much better than it was, although downloading anything of substance takes forever.

The problem lies in the infrastructure. It’s old. The very poles that originally held a single phone line now attempt to hold numerous cables. They are thin and made of cast iron. Note the accompanying photographs.  The original pole has bent over at right angles due to rust and weight. At some stage a second pole was erected in an attempted to add support to prevent it from collapsing. As you can see, a further pole has been added to support the other two and not to forget the four guide wires to keep all three poles from falling down.  Crazy you say? Sure is. Why not replace the original pole in the first place with something that can support all the weight.

Theirs is not to reason why…………

You Can Lead A Horse To Water, But...

I was asked by my wife to make sure that my nephew was studying after school for his Form 5 final exams that are coming up in the next few months.  

The response was as I expected, an excuse why he couldn’t do it right now ( this case a seemly urgent hair cut that couldn’t wait another day ) and a promise to get stuck into it as soon as he could. 

Well we go through this game a number of times a week which always leads to a grumpy studier and a frustrated and exacerbated instigator. 

Personally I couldn’t give a damn if he studies or not as he old and ugly enough to live by his own convictions; eighteen going on fourteen with not an ounce of foresight.

 Cruel you say? Maybe so, but as the old adage goes you can lead a horse to water but you can't make it drink. After numerous speeches about how important these exams are for his future choices in life and only to find it falling on mostly deaf ears is infuriating and deflating. I don’t want to drag the horse along anymore. 

This drives  my wife, who spends an inordinate amount of time with him, to distraction, but she has more stamina and commitment to see it through than me.

A lot of his attitude is a reflection of his environment. Pro active parents are very important defining the early direction their children take. The school and social aspects of the provincial town he has grown up in has not been very inspiring. Small town mentality does not necessary embrace the big picture. Ambition beyond the town limits is limited or in most cases non existent.    

Success in life depends on a number of things, but innate intelligence and  drive - perseverance I think are the most important.

Interestingly I have seen intelligent people do very little with their lives because they have lacked drive and conversely I have known success coming through hard work with limited intellect.

Of course “ success” per se is subjective; one man’s success is another man’s failure. It depends on the focus. Making money is probably societies main gauge in marking success.   I personally endorse intellectual or humanitarian endeavour having never made any real money myself. I suppose if just before one kicks the proverbial bucket, one can feel satisfied in one’s life achievements than one has succeeded. 

Maybe being happy and content with one's lot is success. Who knows.

What ever the answer, the slate is always wiped clean in the end unless you believe in an afterlife, of course.  

 Perhaps we should all strive to be as good a person as we can be during our lifetime. Now that would be true success.  

Which line to follow?

My Last Swim

Nothing like a reality check. Having a relaxing, if lazy Saturday morning in the Sabah Hotel contemplating life as one does when in the middle of a mid life crisis, I decided it was time to try out the hotel’s swimming pool. 
Not to swim mind you, just a quick slash and paddle. Never really having learned to swim, I can with a sort of toad-like breast stroke/ splash for all of 10 metres and if I’m feeling particularly energetic a robotic / cadaver back stroke. No potential olympian here, but a dreamer of greater things.   

Anyway, I rustled through my backpack to find my well-worn-white-activity shorts and my never-been-to-the beach, beach towel. Taking a quick look in the mirror ( it’s always quick these days ) I perused my once manly figure and  after missing a beat or two, darted out of the room towards the lift.

The pool was fortunately devoid of swimmers and apart from a few sun baking ( must be from Europe ) we had the place to ourselves. 

Feeling more comfortable with this fact, I ordered a beer and a mineral water for my dearly beloved. I know before you say it, “You mustn’t drink and swim.”   True, but as I explained, I shimmy rather silly than swim out on a limb. ( sorry, I couldn’t help myself )  

A beer and the tropical sun builds a mountain of confidence.  It was time to take the plunge.

Off with the T shirt, a final adjustment to the leisure shorts and a quick stroll to the pool ladder. Just before committing, I looked up and to my utter astonishment, the pool was now full of 20 somethings looking trim, lean and mean. 

The men were built like Greek Gods and the women came straight from the garden of Eden. Not an ounce of fat to be seen.    

As if to react to this sight, my sea of fat decided to become mobile. Waves of cellulose, starting from the navel, travelled south looking for landfall only to fold up and over my shorts looking much like a melting toy Humphrey B Bear placed to close to the heater. ( You would have to be Australian from the mid 60s to understand that one. )

I slinked down the steps and covered the erupting jelly as fast as I could. 

Now dear reader as i said before, I’m a dip-and-leave sort of swimmer, but I had to endure 1 hour of soaking until the last of the super beings left the pool. 

And before I finish this little ditty I wish to leave you with this image. Remember the old white faithful leisure shorts of mine?  Well, just think of wet and transparent! Not a pretty sight. 

Humphrey B Bear

Holiday at home

Early morn and the birds outside the window can be heard as they greet the beginning of another hot and humid day in paradise. The hotel overlooks the extensive swimming pool, the largest in Sandakan proudly announced on the website. Not so impressive when you discover they're the only two hotel pools in town. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. No, this place is quiet apart from those birds. I can live with that. Much preferred to that cacophony of irritating noise pollution that greets me most other mornings. The room is cool to the extent it stimulates the skin into thinking that it's fresh and alive. A feeling that unless you have experienced it in a cold crisp environment is totally alien in the tropics. 

The hotel we are are stopping in, to my mind, is the best in town. It's not the newest, in fact it's one of the oldest. No flat screen televisions here, but what it lacks in modern facilities it gains in space. You can swing the proverbial  cat in this room and not hit the walls. What a combination of space and quiet. It's heaven to me!  

We arrived last evening after an extensive drive of 5 minutes. Yes that's not a typo - 5 minutes. 

You see it's my birthday this weekend and because of work commitments and other circumstances, it was too difficult to go anywhere out of town. So here we are at the Sabah Hotel 5 minutes from home.

"Silly, frivolous," I hear you say and I totally agree.  But "a change is as good as a holiday" as they say and I can attest to that. 

Is This Right?

“Is this right?" Deep within the recesses of my mind, these simple three words radiate into my consciousness. 

“What err agh?” is my slow response. Then, through the clearing fog of sleep deprivation, realisation strikes me like a hammer slamming on an anvil, I’m married to an English Teacher!!

Ok, ok a little dramatic I admit, but when you are sharing a life with someone who lives and breathes English teaching, discussion on the subtle nuances of the English language is never far below the surface. 

My wife teaches English in a Malaysian high school. She is a local and English is her 3rd language. Because I’m a native speaker, I am often relied upon for advice to help correct any difficulties that arise in the spoken and written language that crop up from time to time. 

I am capable in the language, but nowhere near and an expert. In fact, when it comes to editing my own work I’m what you could call, copy blind.  I can read a sentence I have written numerous times and still not pick up an obvious mistake. My wife is much better at it. Where I do have an advantage is in conceptualising whereupon my writing relies on knowledge gained through a life time of experiences and extensive reading.  This has help galvanised my thoughts into a reasonable coherent way when it comes to expressing myself on paper... (you might want to disagree after reading this)

My wife, on the other hand, is the technician; much more structured and defined in content than I. She is more constrained in general usage whilst I, on the other hand, tend to be uninhibited.  In other words, her style is adept for teaching the mechanics whilst mine is better in expressing fresh ideas in free form. (code for crappy in Grammar)

That was a little long winded, but in essence, we compliment each other well when it comes to doing a project together.  But and it’s a big BUT.

I don’t live and breathe it like she does.  So come midnight when I am in la la land and those dreaded words drift over into my dream state, I tend to get grumpy. I’m naturally grumpy and as old age approaches it isn’t getting better. 

Now, I don’t want to give the impression I don't co operate with the request. I do, but I do it under duress.  The way my mind works is that I can’t contemplate anything by just listening to the words.  I have to read what is being said. Needless to say, I have to drag myself over to the desk to help.  After much toing and froing, we come to some sort of consensus. I go back to bed, re enter lala land until once again the spell is broken with those most damning of all words - “Is this right?” 

  

Me approaching La La Land

A Moment In Time

The Fish Pond

The oval shaped fishpond stood there quiet and serene as the early rays of sunshine pierced the outer layers of the glasshouses exterior. The crisp cool morning air settled deep within my lungs as the shadows and light intermingled on the flat undisturbed water, playing with each other as the Lilly Pads watched on.

 They always did this, I observed, whenever the morning sun was able to break through the gloomy winter cloud. The many pads large and small spread out over the water’s surface, green flat circular serving plates awaiting the day’s meal of sunlight.

 Only a single delicate white flower broke the sea of green, the belle of the ball looking to be asked to dance but alas all the likely suitors were preoccupied, a symbolic wallflower.

 Most of the activity this morning was below the surface. The small silver fish, amphibians and invertebrates stirred into life, darting here and there looking for security under the giant Lily pads as the light penetrated all the way to the  bottom of the red concrete pool.

 All this was happening as a young couple stood in deep thought on the far side. A moment in time shared with some strangers.  Never to be repeated.

The Day The Internet Died

Headline, headline read all about it, shock horror!

October the 12th 2018 at 9am, the day the Internet died.

Just what if… the unthinkable happened, the Internet stopped. Stopped, ceased to function in its entirety. Computers once again became self-contained isolated islands in a sea of unaccessible information. Good for writing on, doing some sums and playing games. That's it! The smart phone lost its smarts.  The iPad was now a no info dumb pad, only good for games and taking photos.

We have just all become time travellers, back, back...  
25 years to the dawn of information enlightenment.

But why?

Rumours abounded that it was them, the powers to be, who wanted to wind back the clock to a time and place they could control. The drift of power to the people had become too much for some.  Who knows?

For whatever reason it was, it just stopped working one day, gone the next.

As for me? At first, I found it slightly bemusing. It wasn't like everything had stopped. Like, I mean to say, it wasn't the end of the world, not a sequel  to "Day of the Triffids" or anything as dramatic as that. The cars and buses moved along the street. The shops still sold food and other goodies. Life bobbled along as usual. Besides, it made very little difference to the older generation. Most have never really embraced the computer age, the Internet thing.  No siree, made not a jot of difference to them. They continued to watch television and read their newspapers like nothing had happened.

But then the reality for others was quite different.

The young were at a loss. No instant gratification posting selfies or social chat. For many their world is online; no Internet no life. The prospect of having to make personal contact with their distant Internet friends was now impossible.  Those friendships however tenuous were now extinct.  The art of conversation in person had to be relearned and not just that, but eye contact, looking at people instead of a screen; painfully difficult for some.

Now before I go on, I will have to confess something to you. Even though I don't pass off these days as a youngster, I'm not ancient either, but I do love finding out things. You see I'm a bit of an information junkie, so after the initial shock of losing my play thing, I became deeply depressed. After a few days, I was finding withdrawal difficult to handle. My daily fix was not getting met. In fact I was at a lost to know what to do. Relying on the printed media (never watch TV) for my daily dose of info was without doubt unsatisfactory.

I had become over the years skeptical about a lot of the things written in newspapers. The owners political leanings dictated the direction most articles expressed. I know, I know, what you are saying. Can't belief what you read on the Internet too, but there is a difference and a big one at that. I can choose to read what I want and not be restricted to local sources. And more importantly, I can choose different forms of information delivery, social networking versus more formal sources of information, for example. By using both I could decipher, as they say, the chaff from the wheat or to put it more crudely the crap from the good. I had the control, not them. Besides, it was fun trying to work out fact from fiction. I could discuss issues with others of similar ilk with ease and at little cost and come to my own conclusions.

Think of the disputes that will now occur around the dinner table. Mr X says A, Miss Y says that's not true, it's B, Mrs Z thinks they're both wrong it's C, old aunt doubleXX thinks it's all three!  No instant confirmation now. No going to the Internet to solve the dispute. Just a lingering background of unease; life will never be the same again!

I was dreading having to pay the bills!   I used to hate going into a bank or what every public utility at the best of times, waiting in line forever. What a complete waste of one's time. Much prefer being online, done and dusted in a few minutes not to mention the saving on fuel to get there.

The cat had been let out the bag so to speak, but was now securely back in.

Maybe I’ve become a little paranoid.

Oh, well such is life. Think of the positives. Ummm, are there any? Oh yes, of course: books shops would come back into vogue;  I might read a novel (hard copy) in the evenings before bed again; talk on the phone instead of looking at its screen all day; go for a walk to smell the roses. Maybe not all is lost.

It's hard to go back in time and live a way you are used to then, but are not now. Like most things there is good and bad. The scales of right justness will tell us if we come up short or not.

I look down at my lonely white phone and sigh, It was a lovely love affair while it lasted,  but like all good things, it has come to an unexpected end.

Google images

Food or Selfie - Which One Will it Be?

Sitting in my favourite coffee shop once again, thinking, something I do a lot of these days.  Been reading a couple of books lately about the wonders of the human brain and how it functions and the fight between proponents of theism and atheism.  Am I going to discuss the lofty heights both these  subjects reach?  No, of course not.  I wouldn't be able to give them justice.  Besides, I want to talk about something much more important - taking photos of food you're about to eat. Yes, folks, this phenomenon has been with us for sometime, but the ubiquitous use of mobile phones has increased the practice exponentially. 

Facebook is full of foodie pics. Why? Is it to torture your poor student friends who are in their dorm eating cornflakes with no milk or Maggie instant noodles with no flavouring? Or, maybe the person you are dining with is so darn boring, taking photos of food is a form of cerebral relief. 

Could you imagine going to see your friends for real and showing them a picture of what you had for breakfast.  They would give you a queer look and think, “Get a life,” but somehow posting it on Facebook etc. transforms you into an interesting informed foodie. 

I can almost understand it, if the dish was exquisitely presented and made from unusual exotic ingredients, but photography of a plate of fish and chips or Nasi Campur -  Really! 

Woe betide  any one eating before the unforgettable snaps      (in this case an oxymoron)  have all been taken, sacrosanct. 

Maybe some are documenting it in case it's their last meal, like a condemned prisoner awaiting their execution, so all the world can goggle over what they have consumed before they depart to the afterlife. (Makes me think, what is a perfect last meal? Is it better to be light - toast and marmalade or go out with a bang, a full blown 3 courser with all the bells and whistles - I transgress.)

Needless to say 99.9999..... % survive to eat another day.

Oh, the memories of using film for photography.  No indiscriminate shots of food those days.  It would have to be the level of a wedding banquet or a 21st birthday to justify the expense.

Maybe I'm being a little too harsh here. The average punter doesn't give it a lot of thought.  As long as you have a constant stream of info to amuse your friends ( or not ) on Facebook, that's all that matters.  

After reading most of the banality that passes for comment on social media, the occasional picture of food is fairly harmless and of course much, much better than that narcissistic selfie!    

Exquisite example of a bowl of light fluffy opaque over processed white rice. 

  

The Lost Art of Reading

The ironic part of this post is that the thrust of what I'm about to say most probably won't apply to you.  The simple fact you are looking at this means you obviously enjoy reading. 

Reading is an activity that most of us do, on a daily basis, without much thought.  We read the street signs going to and from work and school.  We read the daily news in print form, online or more likely, the headlines on television. 

Some of us are "Readers" and some of us are not.  What I mean to say is, only a relatively small percentage of the population read books for pleasure.  Is this a good thing?  You can argue either way, I suppose, but I know through my experience people  who read extensively are generally more knowledgeable and interesting to talk to.  Of course, that's a generalisation and I can hear you say from here that Uncle Freddy has never read a book in his life and he's interesting, the life of the party and knows everything about everybody and everything about everywhere.  True, but for all the Uncle Freddys' in this world, there are plenty of Nigel knows nothing.

  

Most of us start learning to read at school from early age.  We have to be able to read, if we want to learn from our text books and expand our knowledge and understanding of the world.  Very few enjoyed the experience though.  Reading can be tedious and boring for those who are have not developed the love for it by being exposed to their parent's bedtime stories.

Not long ago, I was in a senior high school classroom conducting a meet and greet session when I popped the question.  How many of you read books for pleasure?  Out of the class of 50, only two raised their hands.  Out of those two, only one read fiction novels.  You might be thinking to yourself, that's all very well, but these students are busy learning and spending time using their text books.  This is true up to a point but here is another example to ponder. 

In another senior class for English studies, the curriculum had designated only a single novel to be studied.  In the best class for that level, less than 50 percent bothered to read the book.  They relied on formulated answers for exam preparation to pass.  I would suspect this is not uncommon around the world.  Very few want to read for pleasure and even fewer want to read anything with substance. 

Is the art of reading dying?

Today's youth have access to television and computers.  To most, watching a movie is much more enjoyable than reading a story.

Movies are visual, of course and the information is fed to us by picture form and sound.  We can relax and let it wash over us in a manner that requires little energy or thought.  Books, on the other hand, require us to create an image inside our head through words that ignite our imagination.  It’s not passive information gathering; we have to work at it. 

The question to be asked then, ‘Is child development being hampered by not using reading as a tool for mental stimulation?’  This is not to say television or computers don’t hold an important place in the education development of the young, as they clearly do, but isn’t it like only having 4 senses to survive instead of 5?  We can be blind and still live, but we can’t see what the world really has to offer. 

Varied reading is like that.  It opens our minds up for us to see the many possibilities that exist.  It creates new worlds for us to explore; places and events that we may never be able to experience in real life but can dream about through the power of the written word.  Sadly, where I live, there is not a single book shop where I can go and buy a novel.  It's an ever increasing reflection on the dominance of other forms of media.  I'll leave you with this thought.

There is a tendency for authorities  around the world to attempt to control the content of electronic and printed media.  It is relatively easy to do.  By owning the TV stations and the press, you can feed the populous, pancakes instead of soufflé.   Books, on the other hand, are much harder to censor. 

Life awaits you in this beautiful world of words.  Go and find out for yourself.