Year of play

"My father taught me to work; he did not teach me to love it. I never did like to work, and I don't deny it. I'd rather read, tell stories, crack jokes, talk, laugh -- anything but work."
--Abraham Lincoln

I've been reading a book recently called Screw Work, Let's Play on "how to do what you love and get paid for it". I'm only a few chapters in so far, but I find it inspiring.

My Dad, like countless Fathers before him, had an attitude to work that I am trying to shake off -- with the help of Mr Williams' book.  My Dad has always told me that you're not meant to enjoy your job or the work you do -- if you enjoyed it, they wouldn't pay you to turn up.  I am slowly starting to realise this doesn't have to be the case -- in fact, the most 'successful' people are ones who do enjoy what they do. They are successful at what they do, and successful in the wider sense that I strive to be -- happy with myself, and with where I am.

That's where this blog is coming from.  Unlike previous incarnations, I want this blog's purpose to not just log my life, to not simply record the day-to-day in a hopefully well-written way, but to show the journey to brightness.

One of the first exercises in "Screw Work, Let's Play" has you imagine you can take a year off.  What would you do with it?  "But I can't take a year off," you cry, or you do if you are anything like me, "I have bills to pay and rent to pay and..." -- and that's where you're cut off.  Imagine it differently, then.  You can take a year off work, and the author will pay you your normal salary, so you're no worse off.  Now, get to imagining.  You write down all the things you would do, if you could do anything.

Because it's my journey and my blog, my year of play filled with grand and impossible things is as follows:

Travel the world.  Especially the ancient civilisations of South America.
Write and blog.
Interview passionate people.
Perform and write poetry.
Have adventures!  Hiking, rock climbing, camping, surfing, snowboarding...  Also learn to do all these things.
Save the sea turtles.
Be a fire look-out in a National Forest.
Help people in need.
Study Zen.
Take pictures.
Enjoy music.
Help animals.

In my next post, I'll move on to the next stop.  What would I do with my life if I knew I could not fail...

The story of my teeth (or why I can't eat solid food)

For almost as long as I can remember, I've had problems with my teeth.

Not like cavities-and-fillings problems, although I have had my share of those as well, but problems more like my teeth didn't meet and my bottom jaw slightly overlapped my top.

I can remember various hospital visits and x-ray appointments, but no action ever being taken. Maybe I was asked at the time, and said no to surgery, or if they just said let's wait and see. I don't remember, but neither would surprise me.

The option of doing something about it didn't come up again until a few years ago. It was a winter's night in the city of Leicester, some chav scum beat me senseless and fractured my jaw, and what followed was weeks of hospital appointments and more x-rays.

Only this time moulds were taken of my jaw, and the puzzled doctors tried to work out how it was meant to fit together and how it got so displaced in such a little scuffle. The scuffle was a good size, I insisted; a perfectly normal, averaged-sized scuffle. I explained how weirdly my jaw was meant to fit together -- that is it was not "right" to start with.

I ended up with some minor orthodontic work, metal brackets on my teeth with elastic bands attached to try and right the displacement caused by the punch, and the fracture. It didn't work. Then a more serious option was presented: I could have surgery. I would go under general anaesthetic, they would cut my face open, put metal plates in it, then wire my jaw shut. But in the end all would be as it should be again.

I weighed up my options and decided since I was trying to "make it" as a journalist, I couldn't afford to have my jaw wired shut. So I politely declined, and carried on my life with a wonky jaw and an inability to eat foods that would slip through the gap between my top and bottom jaw.

Again, a few years on and during a routine dentist appointment, I'm asked if the condition ever bothers me. "Sure it does," I tell them "But I'm used to it now, and mostly I don't think about it". The dentist tells me how I can be referred to a specialist in London, and they will run through my options. "I can't afford that" I say, but thank God for the National Health Service: I wouldn't have to afford anything.

What followed was again more appointments, more x-rays, more impressions and moulds. Somewhere along the way, even though I wasn't supposed to, I felt just a tiny bit pressured to agree to surgery -- like I would have wasted everyone's time if I decided against it. But really the decision was made for me one day when I was struggling to eat a simple sandwich, so I agreed to surgery.

The surgery will be in a year, and until then I have braces on my teeth like a teenager. It's been a week now since they were fitted, the pain and dull ache of them has subsided but I still have a sharp bits of wire ripping the inside of my cheeks, and still struggle to eat. And to think, this was meant to make eating easier for me... I just have to tell myself, by Christmas in 2011 the surgery will be done and the braces will be off. In 18 months it will all be over.

No entiendo

I love the sound of other languages.  I don't know if the people are discussing Big Brother, Eastenders or eating babies, I'm happy to listen if the words sound like music.  I especially like the sound of Spanish.

I think my favourite Spanish phrase -- after "dos cerveza, por favor" and "Viene tormenta!" would have to be "No entiendo", I don't understand.

I always say the phrase the same way, with a shake of the head, a sad expression and a low voice. "No entiendo" as if I am truly sad that I can't understand what they are saying.

I use this on charity muggers.  "Hello mate do you have a few minutes to --" "No entiendo", and I hurry past.   The words, the shake of the head, the sad look -- it does a job that a gruff "No time, sorry mate" just doesn't fulfill for me.  The fact that I can't look even remotely Spanish with my resolutely pale skin and unconvincing pronunciation must only confuse them further.

I'd like one day to live awhile in a country where English isn't their first language.  Even if it's Spanish, I'll still use "No entiendo" when "dos cerveza" won't do.

Your Daddy's Gonna Die

One night, I had a dream where this crow came and said: "Your aunt is gonna die."

I was so scared, I woke up my parents, but they said it was just a dream and to get back to bed.
 
But the next morning, my Aunt Stacy was dead.
                                    
It wasn't three weeks later when the crow came back to me in a dream and said, "Your daddy's gonna die."  I didn't know what to do.
                    
I finally told my father, but he said: "Oh, not to worry." But I could see he was rattled.

The next morning, he wasn't himself, he kept looking around, waiting for something to drop on his head -- because the crow didn't say how it was gonna happen, just those words: "Your daddy's gonna die."
 
He left home early that day, and was gone a long time.  When he finally came back, he looked terrible, like he was waiting for the axe to fall all day.

He said to my mother: "I've just had the worst day of my life."
"You think you've had a bad day?" she said, "This morning, the milkman dropped dead on the porch." (extract from 'Big Fish' (2003) http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0319061/)

In the winter of 2007, my aunt died of cancer. She was my Dad's older sister, and as a kid she'd played a big part in raising him in a big family in east London, in post-war Britain.

My aunt had been in remission, but when the disease returned she chose not to fight it. I'm not sure if anyone knows for certain how long she had known for, and kept quiet.

I signed up to trek the Inca Trail in Peru the following year, to raise money for Macmillan Cancer Support -- giving something back to the people who had given so much care and support to my family when it was needed most.

My aunt is still missed by everyone who knew her, it doesn't seem right that she's simply not around any more.

I recently got the news my uncle, that is one of my Dad's older brothers, was ill and in hospital. He'd become confused, disorientated, and was sent for tests. Just about the worst fear was confirmed: it was a brain tumour, and because of the size and scale of the tumour, it was inoperable. This kind of cancer is often considered secondary to a possibly-undiscovered or undiagnosed primary cancer elsewhere in the body. The upshot is it's not a good prognosis. It's heartbreaking, and I can't decide if it's a blessing or a curse that he doesn't know he's dying. It's certainly not easy on his family that he often doesn't recognise them.

But it's the entirely selfish element that brings me to this post. I'm scared now my Daddy's gonna die. This is two of his older siblings, and I think it was Hodgkin's Lymphoma that killed his own Father at an early age. It's been a long time since my Dad thought he was going to die young as well, like there was some in-built early expiry date -- but I can tell he is quietly worried as well. What if these aren't isolated incidents, but instead a trend, a sign of things to come -- not just for him, but for all his siblings?

All I can do is offer support, to try not to worry unduly about something that might not happen -- but remain wary -- and start planning another fundraising challenge, to raise money for the people who need it.