What filter did you use on that?

At first, it was yellow.

The other night, I was compelled to take my camera and capture the apocalyptic sky that had formed outside my window. Those of you with limited imaginations, and who wish to be like virtually everyone else on Facebook, probably think I used one of those awful Instagram filters to create the yellow hue, but, as a matter of fact, that is how the sky appeared that evening. Rather than attempting a cheap form of artistic pretension and trying to make the photo I took five minutes ago look like it comes from another decade, I capture the colours as they appear to me. You could claim that you're rejecting the swindling illusion known as realism — fully aware that no matter how many millions of pixels your picture is composed of, it will never truly represent reality - but I suspect you are just trying to imbue a relatively boring occasion with a more interesting hue. 

Then, it was pink.

Within a few short minutes, the fantastical sky's complexion turned pink, gifting onlookers with another awe-inspiring sight. I took some more fumbled shots, knowing well the inadequacy of my technology to capture such beauty. Perhaps it was the ineffable feelings of beholding something so beautiful yet so transient, or perhaps it was the inspiring visit to Keats's grave in Rome this year, but I was compelled to recite the Romantic verse of my late uncle Gordon. The quiet epic so perfectly matched the perfectionist lines of one of his lesser known poems. When he first recited it in 1981, at a swingers party for some literary elites, he introduced it with only a few short lines: "Modestly, I offer these lines. Look into the sky fellow travellers of the soul. Savour its eerie majesty, and tell me my lines are too emotional, that I'm in too deep."

Recurrentibus Caelum (from Mystic Tide, 1989)

Oh, how lovely you are, sky
As I observe you up there, high
I gaze upon you with one eye
And, also, with the other eye

Though I fear the end is nigh
And all humanity may die
and in the devastation fry
somehow I know that it's a lie

For beauty only makes us sigh
And never wants to see us cry
And comforts like a lullaby
And never worthless presents buy(s)

And never punches in the eye
And never leaves without "goodbye"
In rainy weather, keeps us dry
And always waves when it drives by

Whenever I will talk to my
friends, to whom I cannot lie
I'll tell them all about the sky
And colours I cannot deny

Beauty is what we must try
to catch a glimpse before we die
precious moments we must spy
even if it's on the sly

Most things end up in loss or tie
but as our tragic life goes by
keep on your face a smile so wry
brought on by sights of wondrous sky

And I wish up to you fly
On your embrace I can rely
Your clouds give me a place to lie
A place where nothing goes awry

 "Cheap thrills can rival beauty, aye"
Is nothing but a mindless lie
There's no comparison, says I
to precious things that none can buy

Visiting Keats's grave in May this year.

Childlike

Last month, I left myself somewhat open to criticism, slipping into what my marketing department would refer to as 'downsizing in terms of the proliferation of articles'. I have an adequate excuse, however. Much like Jesus was a carpenter, I am a mere TEFL teacher, with a sworn duty to endlessly differentiate between a gerund and a progressive verb. Recently, I have taken on more work, teaching modules to primary school teachers on how to use songs and games in the classroom. Half of my preparation time was spent on my mission statement, which I'm still dissatisfied with:

I am committed to imparting English language in terms of traditional English language songs, music, physical activity, and printed texts. I will empower primary school teachers [who will henceforth be referred to as PSTs] with an extended knowledge of language, training in terms of English language speaking cultures, and the ability to educate children vis-a-vis the kinaesthetic and audio learning experience.

As frustrated as I was with my failure to create a truly constipated and impenetrable mission statement, I took some comfort in the success of my classes. The teachers really enjoyed the songs, even though they were familiar with many of them, and they had fun pretending to be children. Happy and You Know It proved to be the surprise hit of the lesson, with its cosmopolitan array of children and its bold embrace of diversity.

And who could not be moved by it? It beams of warmth and friendliness, extending a hand to those who are different. The singer's impassioned vocals at the crescendo lifts the song from a joyful anthem to an urgent supplication for universal fraternity. Her voice quivers at the fragile yet awe-inspiring prospect of leaving the weighty shackles of history behind us and moving towards a world where all are accepted and can be embraced, where a joyous greeting can unlock a hope and fearlessness that the world has never witnessed before. In a fleeting moment of the simple lyrics, we feel welcome in the world for who we are, and the fear of what those who appear to lurk in the shadows may do to us can be undone by merely saying hello to a stranger. Your defences are lowered, and for the briefest of moments your realise that the energy you spent keeping them up would be better spent reaching out to others.

Some of the greetings were beyond my linguistic reach before I researched them. They span from all over the globe; German, French, Tamil, Arabic, Spanish, Swahili, Italian. I was charmed initially by the worldly knowledge of the songwriter, but clarity worked its way through my brain, and I saw the song for what it truly is: privilege. Travel is expensive, and so is a good education; clearly she has both. Her ease and familiarity with other languages suggests that she is oblivious to her privileged position, which is a privilege in itself. Most of us know 'hello' in a few languages, but we would look ignorant next to her. As we know all-too-well, privilege can only be combatted by a handful of surefire procedures. Firstly, you must utterly resent the person with the privilege. Bilious feelings of ire are synonymous with detecting it; those possessed with sufficient indignation will find privilege in the unlikeliest of corners. Resentment towards your opponent is useless unless it can be formed into a privilege baton which you can use to hit them with (and the privilege baton can reach virtually anyone). You don't like a man? Tell him he has a privilege by never being subject to menstruation jokes. Don't like a woman? Tell her she has a privilege by never being judged by the size of her genitalia. Secondly, you must make people aware of their privilege. It's a worthwhile endeavour, as being told you are a beneficiary of an oppressive, unjust system often strikes a feeling of enlightenment in the privileged. Once informed, the privileges bestowed upon the lucky few start to fade away, bringing us all closer together. Finally, make a list of privileges others have that you don't and bemoan them on the internet. This, my friends, is the way forward, not some song where children naively assume us to be on equal footing. If you have any children, be sure to encourage them to be aware of privilege and tell them to be on the look out for any children with more toys than them.