I have mixed feelings about school. For instance, that sentence gets an F for being cliche. And then, we weren't given much guidance as to what to call the decorations above the abcs. Or when apostrophes aught to be used for the making of plurals.
Plurals, I gather, were something some school-children learnt about together. Conjoined words were indistinguishable, to us, from contractions. It may be gathered that I put my teachers out at times. One greeted me kindly after school as if to say that but a word from me and she'd spare me the effort.
Throughout school I had friends whose parents had been divorced, for which we were encouraged to use the term, broken home. But, while some people treated divorce as new-found freedom, others held onto their children for dear life, and got to hear news of the new husband or wife from their sons and daughters. Dragging this fact out, however, has made me think about getting into heels as the only way to avoid a marriage that is fated to end in divorce.
The pot thickens the porridge.
Our school was very modern. People who talk about these crazy ideas that schools are now coming up with instead of going back to the good old days of the teaching of Latin, are denying the respect that is due to a boy who chose to do home economics instead of, for example, technical drawing. But quite honestly I don't know how six months was filled with twice-weekly classes in which we learnt to remember vegetables, and to use french or Italian names for everything.
We did learn to capitalize Proper nouns, btw, but the class in which we were to learn how to identify such animals must have been within the vacuum of the science laboratory sphere.
Some of our teachers really were there for the purpose of the impartation of knowledge. But some of them had unfortunate surnames, and some of them found themselves facing a creature that knew how to stop the class, and, I gather, got no sympathy but from those with unfortunate surnames.
I knew I was a kind of rebel but I found that I had to take to misbehaviour to avoid the dunce-hat that was called prefectship. My parents often didn't know what to do with me, because I knew when I wasn't doing anything wrong, and I didn't consider teachers to have special rights that allowed them to go back on their word. This got applause all round one year, but I smelt a rat when they started waving a letter of commendation at us in order to get us to go to sports events.
Don't tell me that not going to a sporting event is unsocial or anti-social. I've never had a problem socializing. If anything the sporting events were there to encourage people to make use of school as a dating ground. At school we could see that the dating game was largely about status. Nonetheless I was encouraged to see myself as already behind-hand for having missed an opportunity that hadn't presented itself.
As mentioned, we know that bullydom is a brick building. We also know that spheres of influence affect everything except something with a vacuum inside it. Telling someone that he must have been emotionally scarred, when he felt his boyhood was quite complete, thank you very much, is to say that his parents did a bad job.
Particularly happy I was when I found I could have a small income and not bother about fitting in at all.
Sitting in clothing of my own choice, which is particularly enjoyable when uniforms are all over with, even if jeans and a t-shirt are a matter of conformity, amongst company I might say were not just waiting for me to trip over a word of four letters, a person that was called a bully came to mind as simply an example of the system, and one with whom, it seemed to me then, a few words over drinks would resolve our differences.
But I drank cider at the time; I was well aware that some people considered that unmanly. Misfits don't go looking for people who they figure haven't yet shrugged off the system.
In a similar way, boys who come to look at the facts around them, realize that trying to bring people to look at the bible by talking about divine conception, is just fucking ridiculous.
You know, when I think about it, I can't shrug off the impression that some girl must have agreed with me whole-heartedly.
Of course boys discuss the figures of girls; but we need to keep saying that this is a matter on which disagreement only encourages the friendship, and provides an example of a disagreement that might be returned to as frequently as it suits the opponents.
A game of healthy rivalry I recall, that definitely did not interest any girl I knew, was that which involved the comparison of automobiles such as cars, bikes, and aeroplanes, in terms of their capabilities or the dimensions or measured and calculated outputs of their engines.
What none could deny, with these measurables, was that technological progress outside of that which was my designated field, had hardly been made since the examples of technological progress which were events which everyone with a critical mind were able to verify for themselves, or take their doubt to someone they trusted. Notwithstanding what we were told about why boys liked to look at figures and compare them, I had one trump card which helped me forget about implausible prospects for the future, both personally for me and otherwise.
I removed the prefix super from the word trump.
I'm not an American, but I know that would just be to show them a fire and a mirror.
The card was of a machine from a country which might have America to thank for its industrial success. My recollection of it is dim; would that my recollection of the words used to describe the extent of the fairing of a bike were equally so. One of its specs was the highest. A red-line of eight-thousand is pretty high for a dual-sport.
The bikes were called enduro, although I recall two sets of those cards which had different names, that were almost identical. Rallies, apart from those for the filthy-rich, became things which debarred people with stamina from entering. No offence to a Samaritan on a Two-Stroke, but where is the fun in doing something which amounts to little more than going around on a bmx track with a motorbike?
Where a bank building stands was an impromptu motorcross track. I have no problem with that sport; I am no good at it. If your vehicle doesn't have the legs to get you where you want to have fun with it, I have no problem with that sport either; I am no good at it.
The bank building is classy and modern. Many exorbitantly expensive buildings can only be called kitsch. People who've spent lots of money on kitsch buildings seem to be of a kind with those who spent lots of hot air giving labels to the generation of their parents, and labels to the generation of their children.
Fuck yourself with that X.
The airfoil, which we knew was a matter of creativity, not stability, got the thumbs down for cars. Adding one to a building just after the city has had a tornado suggests that those who designed and commissioned it are nowhere to be found.
A work of art might be collaborative, but unless one artist has the final say, it will never be able to say, 'eat me!'
The classy and modern bank building said to me, 'goodbye motocross.'
My Yamaha Tenere-where-is-my-super-and-what-about-the-accent only knew how to find the city limits.
I took this bike to my highschool once, in an attempt to align my life goals, but I didn't go and speak to the teachers. That, to me, would have been a form of bullying. For, the good teachers have not had things made any easier for them.
I'm still struggling what to retroactively name my Yamaha (the Japanese certainly remembered to look at the name of a business in a mirror before starting out). The Antichrist reminds me of a favourite film for patriotic South Africans, wherever they now are in the world. The last thing I was thinking about when I bought the bike was school, and the last thing I was interested in was technology.
Which is a bit of contradiction in terms unless you decide to leave the track and make a lean-to in the wild, but is a new guitar always better than an old one?