Experience

Experience is a fantastic teacher, but it does not come cheap. It is what makes us realise we are mistaken for the second, third, fourth time. And time is another expensive thing. Time together with experience then become even more expensive; we take the exam first oblivious of the lesson which comes in its aftermath. Sometimes I would love to be inexperienced, I would probably make less mistakes, because my experience probably does not serve me the lesson very much. Because I tend to look the other way, because I don't believe in cold heartless teaching. That is another thing which experience is all about, it is one of the most brutal of teachers... the trouble is that you should learn from it. But I am against cold heartless teaching, and I believe that a teacher should not just explain, not just demonstrate, not just give homework, but be able to inspire learners. I may be wrong. But that is my opinion to which I am entitled. It is through imparting knowledge and instilling the joy for learning. Because teaching should be perceived as a valuable exciting gift and not a hard day of labour. And I cannot for the life of me think why I am saying all this. I just am; no reason. I know that sometimes I talk about little people as if they were angels. They're not, in the same way that we adults are not. All of us can be spiteful and cruel, sadly even little people. But I'd much rather have to deal with a spiteful little person than a big one. Not because they are any different. But an adult will be set in his ways, and unless he wants to, will not change. A little person, on the other hand, can be moulded in some way or another, and yes I know, it's hard work. But people never change. Not even the little people. Mankind can only be directed towards developing themselves into a better human beings; into righteous men and women. And if that happens, when it happens, then I could die a happy woman... with experience.

Cat loo?

I love my cats. I love them to bits. But the amount of swearing I've done in the past five minutes is enough for a sailor to stare open-mouthed. Yes, there I go again being a pastaza. But I'm seething. If you're a girl, who bought a fabulous white fur coat then left it lying there in plastic for something like a month only to find that one or more of the cats thought it was a great new loo... wouldn't you lose it? I did. Thankfully it was well wrapped up in plastic, hurray for plastic, I love plastic, it's just stooped me from having my new fur coat ruined. I would give a medal to the person who invented plastic right now. As for the cats? Well, well, well, what would I do if I had a naughty child? I'd still love him wouldn't I? And the same goes for my cats, I still love them, I wish they'd never thought of doing something like this. But they have, and I love them anyway. Even if they'd ruined my coat. I'd just have cursed some more, been disappointed, lighted up a cigarette and calmed down. Because cat love is more important than any coat in the world.

Mind your business

Sometimes I wonder why so many people are into so many other people's business. I think I'm almost safe from all of this. One reason could be because I am odd and do not know how to socialise very much. So the few who do know me are completely trustworthy, the rest probably see me as this queer girl who stares into space quite a lot. And that raises eyebrows together with questions. I don't mind, in a very rude terminology which I rarely use, and which would make my mother call me a big pastaza, my butt isn't big for nothing. Plenty of space there for the ones who would love to go into my business. And if that's not enough, they could also try my hips which are not small for the same reason. Sorry mum, but sometimes I just can't help remembering the professional musician jargon I experienced in more than 16 years. And although it's rude, perhaps the fact that it was so crude sometimes is the only way to go and it goes through my mind in a flash. I could get even, I've seen professional people snipping away at their bangs in their class, drinking wine previously poured into an innocent iced tea bottle, doing their nails. Then they look haughtily at my Diet Coke. Maybe they want the Diet Coke man, I wouldn't know. And I've heard them laugh about their previous night of lovemaking, about how their spouse doesn't do it for them, how clumsy he is in bed, how they don't even grin and bear it but close their eyes and wait for it to be over because Valentine's Day is looming and they'd just love their husbands, whose dignity they've torn to shreds, to give them the Dior watch they've had their eyes on, and about how they'd just love to get an orgasm once in a while. And they will try to look at my Dior watch through the corner of their eye and talk some more. And they will wear excruciatingly tight pants while they look haughtily at my cleavage. Silly people. But I've never said anything, and never will because it's not my style. I give out a 'Leave me alone vibe' so I leave other people alone too. But getting even is not on, for one because I have nothing to get even about. And even if I had, I wouldn't. It's just so silly, look at her, look at him. Where would that take me anyway? Nowhere interesting. I have a life, although people who behave in such a manner must have a very feeble life if any at all. And that is when I am so sure that we could all learn so much from the little people we have around us. The same people who were on a gossip marathon suddenly decide to shout at a little person who is talking, they decide to show they're the boss because a little person is thirsty and wants to drink. They suddenly clean forget about the previous 15 minutes and become commander in chief. Oh dear, talk about double standards. I could never do that, it's not very self-righteous. And talk about double, I may have double their butt, but I also have double their cleavage, and that is one to die for... so there! (that's my catty side peeping out a little bit), but I like to think I have double their sense. Women shredding their husbands to bits with a five seconder head laugh now and then are disgusting. Some things are private and everybody has the right to his dignity. And all of this is professional... so please mind your professional business won't you?

Sorrow

There is a type of sorrow which nobody will understand, or the very few. Perhaps it's our fault because we have tried a million times to explain and been cut short or even sniggered at. So we quit trying to explain and embrace it all. A sorrow shared, a sorrow halved? Pardon? What a sic cliche`. Nobody wants to listen about sorrow let alone share. I thought the world would stop and listen one day years ago, but nobody stopped let alone listened. And it's the kind of sorrow that hits us hard below the belt, or specifically high above the belt to the left. And it sends us reeling into the shock of the once upon a long time ago. It suddenly jumps into action and depletes us of even walking a few steps. It's that bad. It makes us cry, a shaking kind of crying not because we're cry-babies, but because we discover how very fragile it made us, and still makes us. It's so horrible. But we have no choice except to brave it by hiding behind large designer sunglasses, because quite ironically this type of sorrow is also designer sorrow. And such are we drained from energy that we really are not sure if we can make it to the car. But we do. Somehow. And it can get so bad that we forget that nobody ever understood and think we can explain. Oh dear how wrong. We cannot explain, because people cannot understand. And to be fair, even the most understanding of people cannot understand. I cannot hold it against them because it's not their fault. They don't know, the learned people are so unlearned in this type of sorrow. It hurts, but I'm glad for them, because as I didn't deserve it, so do they. Sometimes when I get so angry, the beast in me makes them wish they could at least feel some of it. But that's the beast, we all have one. Realistically, my heart thinks otherwise. And although it would help so much if they understood, we chosen ones have to learn and relearn that it's no use. The special sorrow stops with us. We don't have to continue, but we do. We just put it on hold in a special place, go on robot remote, make it back to the car, back home, and then finally embrace the sorrow. Because it's just no use, and the world will not wait. There are a million things which guarantee empathy, just not this one. We're on our own.