This old lady walks into a bar...

"It's not that I'm a control freak, it's just that you don't do what I want." She yelled that last bit at me in order to get my attention. My dearly beloved talks a lot about controlling behavior, and quotes that woman Beyonce or Oprah or something like that.


Today I’m going to talk about Battlestar Galactica.

Those words relegate me to the dank and shadowy internment of geekdom or nerdom. Does it save me from being either, that I haven’t really worked out which is which? Surely knowledge of which is which would mean it would make me one of those. But given I don’t know…

I’ve made the mistake of telling someone I figured them for a nerd and they became indignant and insisted they were a geek. They went on to explain that geeks were kind of cool whereas nerds were social misfits. You know – during the formative stages of their life they could only make friends with computers and books and subsequently found actual human beings laughably disappointing. You’ll know the type of person I’m talking about because they’re always laughing cynically at the most inappropriate time. Alternatively they say the sorts of breathtakingly insensitive things that leave people shuffling inches in the opposite direction. Failing that they have breath that could stun a chimp.

See, the extent of my relationship with computers is word processing and itunes (I feel technically proficient because I can upload podcasts - hell, I'm dancing in a tight circle because I use terms like 'upload'). I wouldn’t claim too loudly that I’d got the human side of things worked out though. The only thing I’ve established is that people, by and large, want to be lied to. If they ask you how they look, you’ve got to subtlely assess what it is they want to see in the mirror. Then you give feedback on those grounds. You don’t go in blind. Phrases like “You’re joking, right?” or “That’s a little tight, don’t you think?” or “I’m going to walk near to you, not next to you because I don’t want to be beaten to death along with you.” I realize that sounds cynical, but think about it, how often do people like to be 'told it straight'? There's a half dozen anecdotes I could tell right now. I should mention the time a Dr. tried to break something to me gently, seeing that he was struggling I told him to just given straight. That cost me three months of worthless anxiety 'cause it turned out he was wrong. Hack.


Worse still is the teenager. They crave affirmation while at the same time encouraging you to take to them with something blunt. They don’t want to hear anything that even hints at some inadequacy or misunderstanding. They must be approached in much the same way as a large bear must be approached. Any bear for that matter. I sometimes explain to a class “It’s funny you say that because teenager is actually Latin for ‘thinks with mouth open’, except ‘thinks’ is one of those tricky words that doesn’t quite mean what we think it does – the closest translation I can muster up is clay pot…”

On another note but still the same tune, sort of…
I have a class of older students that I attempt to teach Philosophy to. I say attempt because by and large their intellect leaves me for dead. Some of these people are humiliatingly smart and some days class feels like a gladiatorial arena.

Anyway.

This one time I’m chiming on about old people (just for laughs - whose going to know? Gormless, I know) and one of the girls looks, I don’t know, pale. So I ask if she’s ok and she says no, her grandmother just died. And then I’m in a really awkward spot. If she’s lying and I say “Far out, I’m really sorry” she may laugh and go “You’re so stupid… she’s not dead, YOU’RE A FOOL!” and then the room will spin slowly shifting in and out of focus as people laugh and point . So I decide to play it safe. “Well, let’s face it though,” I say building up to a punch line as the rest of the class breaks into a look that could only be described as horror, “there’s nothing worse than having to share a table with an old person, the noise they make when they're eating, those slapping gums...” and with that she’s out of her chair and three steps in she’s not crying, she’s choking on her grief.
There’s a stunned silence. For about a second. And then, predictably, the room turns. “You’re a BASTARD Mr.Limb” and there’s projectiles made up of pens, tissues and other fairly unimportant but potentially sharps bits showering across at me.


It’s funny, I really sit down to write this blog to try and compile some sort of dialogue about what I’m thinking about and reading in the hope of dialogue with people out there in the icy reaches of cyber space. If you want to be challenged have a read of FULLMETALSEAN. His last blog is friggin mint. I recommended the thing he comments on but lets face it, he actually watched it, and then deconstructed it opening dialogue on the 'net. My blog is like little pieces of a puzzle that when you finally get most of them down and step back it just spells the word DYSFUNCTION, and worse it’s all on a background of blue with clouds so it takes forever to work out where the pieces go. Don’t get me started on jigsaw puzzles. I think I can justify spending the odd hour on the PS3 when it comes to jigsaw puzzles.

So, next blog Peter Gabriel’s SACD releases and Battlestar Galactica. And my Empire Strikes Back card collection. BTW... just for the record, not a fan of Star Trek.

The distinction concerning extinction

The following is an actual extract from a moment in class where I answered a question pertaining to the various theories in regards to the extinction of the Dinosaurs. I wrote this down a little while after it happened out of sheer astonishment.

Precocious Student: So what wiped out the Dinosaurs then?
Me: Well, they think it was a meteorite that hit the Earth.
PS: Huh? A meteorite killed the Dinosaurs?
Me: Yes.
PS: What it just hit and killed the dinosaurs?
Me: (patiently) No. It struck the earth with such force that it blew millions of tonnes of dirt into the higher atmosphere where there isn't the wind to clear away dust and muck and this blocked out the sun. No sun means all the vegetation died, which in turn killed the Dinosaurs who ate vegetation and when they died there was nothing for the meat eating dinosaurs so they died. That’s how the theory goes.
PS: Yeah, then where’d the meteorite come from. It just appeared out of the sky and killed everything?
Me: Yes.
PS: What? A meteorite just came from nowhere?
Me: No it came from space.
PS: So a meteorite came from space and that’s how the Earth was made?
Me: What?
PS: So a meteorite came from space and that’s how the Earth was made?
I turn in exasperation to no one in particular.
Me: Can you understand why I get frustrated?
Seconds later I’m met by another student who challenges me.
Sneering students: I was told that it was extinction that killed the dinosaurs.
Me: Yes, a meteorite hit the Earth, killed the dinosaurs. They all died
S.S.:Yeah but they were supposed to have been killed by extinction.
Me: They all died, they all became extinct. That rock hitting the earth resulted in the dinosaurs dying. That is called extinct.

I’d like to point out that this does not represent the majority of students. In fact this sort of exchange is usually had by a very particular type of student. Those that show not the slightest interest in listening to anyone else’s opinion other than their own. This is often coupled with this sort of sneering attitude that presumes you obviously have no idea what you’re talking about, in fact, according to their assessment you must have come down in the last shower because unless you're drawing your information straight from Neighbours or Home and Away you're obviously talking absolute nonsense. Dinosaurs, as everyone knows, weren't killed by a meteorite, they were killed by extinction.

Sorry about turning off the ability to leave comments anonymously. Situation developed last year where someone was being intellectually disruptive and one of my dear friends attempted a literary spear tackle. So now feel free to comment if you so desire.

...to the ridiculous

It was a massive fissure, splitting the desert apart that the eight of us climbed into. Step after precarious step, observing each thin line in the gorge wall deposited there after each rain season, marking every millimetre down to the gorge floor 80 metres below.

It was overcast and signs were placed at every entrance into the gorge that we would need to exit immediately if it looked like rain because people had been swept away in flash floods in the past. In fact we had only an hour before read the memorial erected in memory of a rescue worker who had lost his life attempting to save the life of an individual who had been caught in one of the aforementioned flash floods.

The day threatened rain and it had been at the bottom of one of the more inaccessible gorges with two small children that it had indeed started to rain. Needless to say I panicked and had tremendous difficulty maintaining an air of cavalier nonchalance. In fact, I think I had said something to the effect “I’m having an anxiety attack” as people confirmed that they too were, in a more colloquial sense, starting to ‘shit themselves’.

The journey into the Gorge had been one of those life affirming confidence building experiences for the children where their Uncle Ian had done a brilliant job patiently directing the children where to place their hands and how to carefully negotiate their way along an otherwise death friendly environment. The whole journey we were taking into the most difficult part of the gorge took about forty five minutes. By difficult I mean that there existed more treacherous parts, but these were largely inaccessible without the equipment to abseil. The parts we were in didn’t need ropes to get through, but one wrong step and you would at best get wet and worst be swept away to a plummeting injury. There are no adverts for one punch sentencing for gorges so… safe to say the gorge would be acting in innocence should it inadvertently murder you.

And so at the most tranquil and beautiful parts, rain began to fall.














I looked out across the distance to notice two men abseiling their way down into the pool that was further down from where we were. It would have been so beautiful watching the rain fall splendidly down between the metres and meters of sheer rock face into the tranquil pool of water if it wasn’t for the gripping fear that by my calculations we were 45 minutes away from the exit. The point where we had got to was called Regan’s Pool. It was named after a rescue worker who was tragically killed mere meters from that very spot during a flash flood four years previously. Thankfully I made no link between the plaque we had been reading a couple of hours ago and where we currently were.

Ian was keen for the kids to find their own pace. I abandoned this idea as, fighting hysteria, dragged the children as one would perhaps drag hand luggage through a crowded airport. I crashed through the water, tossing them up on to rocks that had previously taken long minutes to negotiate over and unceremoniously dropped them onto the other side. Lessons in self-actualisation were over.

Once we were safely out of the bit I felt would hurt the most should a wall of water come bearing down upon us I was stunned to meet a German walking casually through to the point we had just evacuated. What struck me as patently absurd was the shiny black leather cowboy hat he had perched on his head. I don’t think there is anything that could be worn with such a hat that would make it look like it belonged, but this guy didn’t even try. A light coloured polo shirt with comfortable looking board shorts finished off his appearance I mean really, really finished it off. I casually wondered out loud whether it was a brilliant idea whether he should continue. He explained that he had spoken to a State Emergency Worker and while bad weather was on the way there wasn’t much of a risk of a flash flood. I guess I subconsciously put together the words ‘much of a risk’, the fact that the information had come from someone who may not be the foremost expert in unpredictable weather patterns, the guys black hat and the sign that had said EXIT IMMEDIATELY IF IT LOOKS LIKE RAIN a point which seemed a little lost on everyone because it was actually now raining…anyway I just nodded. I wished him luck and then made a note of the time so I could let the authorities know when we got back to the top that a German tourist was last seen at ten to twelve and for that matter it may all be for the best given what he was wearing.

The rest of the journey out of Hell’s mouth was a little more dignified and I was starting to feel a more relaxed the closer we got to the exit point when I was startled by the men we had seen abseiling down into Regan’s Pool accompanied by the German who now appeared quite insane - looking panic stricken in his shiny black leather hat. Upon inquiring about his change of heart he said something about taking two photos and deciding that it perhaps wasn’t the best sense to risk his life taking any more. They came tearing up behind us and crashed through the women and children in their efforts to lay hands on the ladder and haul arse out of there. The two abseilers were either deaf or German because they made no attempt to communicate with us, although one of them had the name Tom written on his helmet, a means to identify his body we presumed upon discussing the events later. I will add in my defence that my wife recalls none of the fear I noted in the men’s eyes but I will insist that this can be the only reason for their apparent rudeness and wild eyed appearance they had taken on.

Once we were a considerable distance out of the gorge I quietly wished that a wall of turbulent water would come rumbling out past us at a safe distance and I would feel a heroic sense of self satisfaction. Instead there was just an echoing silence and deep seated sense that there was something wrong with me and that I should perhaps take to wearing a shiny black leather hat with the word ‘Shmuck’ written across the back of it.

John Naish and The Irony of it all

Damn it I’m going to write this! I have been haunted by the fact that I haven’t written for days now, and I really think I need to do this. It is half past eight on Sunday night and I am tempted to disengage and go and waste my time watching TV. I’ll watch the TV and then get caught up doing something else and that will be that. The prospect of sitting down and writing (difficult to write any other way) an entry will seem very unattractive.

Nevertheless I have now been forced to move. My wife has just turned the Olympics on, the one where you’ve got to guess what is actually wrong with the person to warrant their participation in the ‘special Olympics’. It makes the mind boggle at the fact China is hosting this event, and winning the thing no less. The pressure they seemed to place on competitors a few weeks ago, and everyone else participating for that matter (the little girl who ‘sang’ at the opening ceremony anyone?) you wonder how anyone ‘special’ survived let alone competed. I know, I know, you’re only meant to think this stuff. So yeah, I’ve got my ipod on listening to Bruce Springsteen just so I can block out all the distractions.

Had a discussion during the week with a colleague I love and respect about listening to ipods at work. He is advocating the free use of them at school (where we work). I was against this idea, but all for having them in private study, one of the classes I take care of. He disagreed and said it wasn’t possible to concentrate while working on something and listening to music so yeah I fed the horse this carrot and it bit my hand, things with big human teeth have scared the hell out of me ever since… actually he’s right to an extent. Classical music is ok, so is soundtrack music, but contemporary rock etc… it’s hard to think deeply. Specially when it’s the BOSS. Undervalued, I feel, is Bruce Springsteen. And I have taken to writing like Yoda because I’m listening to Bruce Springsteen so I don’t have to listen to the special Olympics and find myself distracted listening carefully to try and pick if there is a distinctive slur in people’s speech. Yes, I teach children there is nothing wrong with being different, provided what makes you different is the fact that you can run faster than a significant part of the population.


By the way don’t start on me about writing this stuff and not understanding because I do understand and actually care very much about people. So as long as you read what I’ve written with that in mind you won’t find it as breath takingly offensive at it at first appears. Of course if you’ve read this far and not busy furiously writing a blistering comment sweat beading on your forehead because it’s people like me who blah blah blah. Like I said it’s hard to concentrate with Bruce in my ear.


I wanted to reflect on John Naish’s article Enough is Enough that appeared in the Weekend Australian Magazine March 22-23 this year. Funnily enough it talked about the inundation of information and the effect it’s having on us. Things as simple as anticipating emails when you’re doing work can completely undermine your effort to do anything effective in your job. Welcome to my world. Holy cow the irony in all of this is making my head spin.

This crushing drive to get writing about some of the stuff I’m thinking about in the area of what I teach, only to ultimately question the possibility that I am an information junkie. Running to you with the article grasped in my sweaty hand panting with wide eyed enthusiasm only to register a look across my face. A look of “I have to write about all this information… I have to tell everyone about starting with this one about information overload….wait a second… I think I’m actually participating in being part of the problem”. Might be better to say nothing at all. You can see why I’ve struggled to write anything.

Out of the mouth of....

Today I was eating some left over stir fry and a pea bounced out of the snow pea I was eating. The colleague I was talking to at the time picked it up and said, "Hey, an escapee!"

I just felt that should be immortalized. And yes, I'm coming back

In case of ermergency smash class

Sometimes when things go wrong I don’t react in any outward way. I sigh so deep it comes out of my soul and I just have to stand still. You can’t see me move, and only I understand what’s going on. Some people are struck by the oddness of it, you can tell because they stare while the rest of the world goes crazy.

During a Year Nine Beliefs and Values class a bunch of girls want to meet at lunch to discuss how God talks. It strikes the teens as ridiculous, incomprehensible that God would talk. They visibly struggle with the concept in half sentences and erratic hand waving, spitting out sentences like, “So he talks in your head… like a voice?”
“No it’s kind of like a thought that isn’t part of your own stream of consciousness.”
“So He doesn’t talk?”
“Not in the conventional sense, no. But you talk to Him and as the days go by you watch and wait, paying attention to seeming coincidence, except the things that happen, or the things that people say just happen to answer some of the questions you were asking. But it’s really important to first and foremost to read the Bible. Test everything against that.”

So a group of girls decide they want to talk about it further, can they meet at lunch? I set the bar high, telling them they need to bring another twenty kids who want to talk about the matter. I’ve been confronted by enthusiastic teens over the years that you give up your free time for only to find that they don’t turn up. I mean, there have been times when huge gangs of students turn up, a couple of years ago there was about twenty five year twelves who wanted to go through a little bit of the Gospel of Luke. That was a wonderful time. But having chased my tail I’m not so enthusiastic anymore. If it cost me it cost my family in the end and they haven’t asked to pay a price.

Nine girls meet me at lunch time. We’re eleven short but I meet with them anyway. I casually walk over to close the door to the class. My classroom is an old foyer converted by slapping up a few false walls and a million power-points. The huge glass double doors remain. As I casually go to close the door a year ten student grabs the door.
“What are you doing?” (Subtext: why are they allowed in there and we’re not?)
“I’m talking to these girls about talking to God.”
He smiles through my explanation without a hint of comprehension. I finish my point by closing the door.
He grabs it from me.
I pull it closed, dragging him with me. Suddenly three adolescent males grab the door and start pulling.
I pull back. Then I think to myself, no, use the situation to my advantage. They’re all pulling so if I push it suddenly they’ll go reeling. Suddenly I shove the door and brace that action by slamming my boot into the metal cross beam in the aluminium frame. Except I put my boot into the glass and it shatters spectacularly with a ‘set your teeth on edge’ crack.


In my defence the idea worked, they let go of the door… to fall about on the floor laughing.

The girls behind me in the class fall about laughing. The school yard outside has come to a grinding halt as students come across the court yard to see what’s going on. They try to fall about laughing, but now there's no more room on the gorund, so they just stand there laughing.
It’s like those films where people laugh in slow motion, the camera tilting wildly and careering about.
I mutter to myself a single word and after a moment, sigh.
Two girls stand and watch off to my right. They are completely silent and perplexed by my inaction. It is a mystery to them. I’m not laughing, or yelling or jumping around with the boys. I’m just standing there.
I finally move across to the set of draws where I have left my lunch.
A girl stares incredulously, “How long’s that lunch been in there?”
“A week,” I lie. She recoils in horror.
I sit and allow the questions to come.
“Are you angry Mr. Limb”
“No, I wasn’t angry, just hopelessly uncoordinated. It was supposed to look a lot cooler than that.”

And so we talk about Jesus and how He talks all the time to His Father, and how He teaches His disciples to pray. I go and photocopy the Lord’s prayer, taking a quick detour to explain to the groundsman that I’ve smashed a door. He thinks I’m kidding. I explain which door it is and leave him to his lunch.

In closing our discussion, as I mentally gear up for the onslaught of Year Tens, one of the girls pipes up.
“Do Christians swear?”
One of the girls yells out in a rebuke. “Derrrr! Mr. Limb swears.”
“What does he say?” Asks the girl.
“Crap.” Offers a bright eyed blond girl.
“No, that’s not a swear word… he says ‘shit’ I just heard him say it when he smashed the door.” She says matter-of-factly.
I was going to offer that I thought that I had said it under my breath. I don’t bother.

Rapper Boy and the Cliff

Now just add a beard and you've got the general idea.


It's the second last lesson for the day and there is a pitched battle as both sides grasp for control of the room. In the blue corner a pack of roughly 30 fourteen year olds. In the red corner is me, sitting fairly safely somewhere along the spectrum for high functioning autism. I'm trying to explain the concept of self-control and it's relationship to happiness. Self control + teenagers + afternoon class = stupid teacher.

It's a bun fight.

Half way through the analogy in which I attempt to explain the idea that reality isn't too fussed about whether or not you believe in it, I make two important discoveries. (I have to note at this juncture that teenagers have this marvelous apprehension of the belief that "if I can't see it, it's not there" and apply this to general knowledge - if they haven't seen something it ain't there. If reality was Chuck Norris they'd all be dead.) Discovery number one: two girls right at the front on the room, I mean right under my nose, are busy doing maths homework. Discovery number two: they haven't got a clue what I'm talking about.

Me: You see, just because I don't believe in gravity doesn't stop it from existing. So if I dance on top of a building in the belief that gravity isn't real regardless of what I believe the reality is I may well fall to my death. In the same way morality is a law that may very well... girls? What are you doing?
Girls: Maths homework.
Me: Maths homework?
Girls: Yeah we have a test next session.
Me: Yeah but you probably have a party to go to this weekend.
Girls: So?
Me: (walking across the room and taking the work off them) So think of this as study for that.
Girls: What?
Interfering child #1: Tear the work up Mr. Limb!
Me: Shut up.
Me:(putting work in draw) Now girls I hate maths almost as much as I hate inebriated teenage girls..
Girls: What?
Me: Shut up. And I find it troubling that you would do that work in my class.
Girls: But what has gravity got to do with parties?
Me: I'm talking about the reality and implication of a moral law, whether or not you believe in that moral law.
Girls: But what has gravity got to do with parties?
Me:...
Girls: (one of them suddenly puts up their hands) I don't understand what you're talking about. What's morality?
Me: (beat) What?
Girls: What's that word mean?
Me: You are kidding, right? (Looks at room in disbelief, he suddenly notices something he hadn't before - a complete lack of comprehension) Who can tell me what morality is?
Room: Silence
Me: Put up your hand if you know what morality is. (there is the no movement - two students turn to ask each other a question) SHUTUP! Who knows what.... ok no-one know s what the term morality means. This is so getting blogged.
Girls: Hey rapper boy's dead.
General mass along that side of the room erupts.
I bring a meter ruler down on a desk.
Me: QUIET. Does anyone have a working definition of what morals are?
Girls: No he's dead, he jumped off a cliff 'cause he thought he could fly.
Girls: You know who he is Mr. Limb, you know? Rapper boy?
Me: (I stare)
Girls: yeah... (one of them starts absurdly bobbing up and down in her chair folding and unfolding her arms like a mummy having second thoughts) (She sings... badly)
Class erupts again.
I explode again. Ruler starts to splinter.
Me: You don't know what... that makes things a little more difficult.
Girls: Yeah morals is rules about doing the right thing.
Me: Ok. Good, now morality is the same idea.
Girls: But what's that got to do with gravity and parties?
Me: You know Rapper Boy who jumped off the cliff?
Girls: Yeah?
Me: Was he drunk?
Girls: Yep and high on...
Me: Good. Now you understand the link I'm trying to make between gravity and parties.
Boy: But you can't prove that God exists.
Me: What?
Boy: You think God might exist but you can't prove that!
Me: Where did you... (I try to make the link)
Class erupts.
Teacher quietly thinks that rapper boy may have been onto something.