The Silver Trumpet Brayed

Did my father feel, think like this as he grew older?

posted by Weasel @ 12:37 AM 0 comments

The longing to have someone here, someone with whom to gather around the piano and sing like we did when I was a child.

posted by Weasel @ 8:57 PM 0 comments

The prospect of retiring, of ending what has been the biggest part of my life, of stopping all that which makes my life worth living. There are lots of things I want to do, lots of things I can't do whilst I am working, but when I think about it, the inspiration comes from those with whom I work. If I retire, will the inspiration still be there?

As with many things, talking about retirement is one thing, actually doing it is quite something else.

posted by Weasel @ 7:12 PM 0 comments

Oh they did not speak the lines they should have spoken - they never lied, mislead nor sought to move our thoughts, but even so, the eloquence of silence was omnipotent.

posted by Weasel @ 11:13 PM 0 comments

I think the shadow of the pine tree passed over me today, a shadow, just for a second or so, then over.

The heath, that is still there and still soft beneath my feet, soft, and comfortable I suppose, the comfort that comes from familiarity, not from anything real. It's like a comfy chair from which one can achieve nothing - to achieve one needs to get up and do something. It's the chair that waits outside Kafka's door.

Today the hatred burns and I must not let it, but even from that I take a little pleasure today. The need to get out and the realisation that it may not be long before I can do just that. And with the hate there is the love and that helps me to carry on, nay, it compels me to go on - the love for that girl and the pride in her achievement, the joy in her heart when she realised that she could do something that she'd never dreamed possible. That is teaching.

posted by Weasel @ 10:40 PM 0 comments