Textbooks

“What do you want to do?” she asked me, with a tone of voice that suggested she was ready and willing to laugh at whatever I said.  A group of us were sharing a drink after work, and somehow, in the course of the banter, I said I was going to retire early and find something else to do with my time.

“What do you want to do?”

“Make novelty ceramic dogs and sell them at weekend markets.”

That tickled her fancy.  She wanted a cheap laugh and she got it.  But then she turned half serious and said:  “But, really, if you weren't going to be a librarian, what would you like to do?”

“Write textbooks,” I replied.  She laughed at this even more than she had laughed at the ceramic dogs.  Then she seemed to noticed I had answered her honestly.

“Textbooks?  Why would anyone want to write textbooks?”

“They're endlessly fascinating.  I love looking at the design of them.”

“What would you write a textbook about?”

“I have a few different ideas.  I just need to learn more, first.”

It's true.  I love textbooks.  I love looking at course material - how have they designed it?  What's the layout, the breakup of content, the balance between information and activities...? 

I particularly like the textbooks that are usually set as “recommended texts”.  You know the ones I mean.  You get a list of textbooks for your subject, some are listed as “required texts” - these are going to be the textbooks you will actually *have* to read in your weekly studies to pass the subject.  But then there are “recommended texts” - books that will add to your understanding and make you a more rounded practitioner of whatever it is you are doing… if you take the time to squeeze them into your busy schedule.

Hardly anyone buys the “recommended texts”.  Even if you do buy it, you'll probably never find time to read it.  But I do love looking at them. They're almost always more entertaining than the “required texts”, and can be quite enlightening if you take the time to read them.  Which, I must admit, I rarely do.

These are the books I want to write:  the ones that have interesting graphic designs and chunky, textbooky layouts, but border on being non-fiction rather than course material; the ones that add to your understanding in almost completely non-essential ways; the ones you'll probably buy if you're naive enough to buy everything on the textbook list, but will probably never read because you don't have time for such things.

Why?

I don't know.  The heart wants what it wants.  I looked at a lot of different language books and materials when I was working on my last Masters, and at some point I realised I actually really loved this genre.  It's more than just information - it's also presentation of information.  It's more than just knowledge and ideas - it's the way knowledge and ideas are grouped and scaffolded and slowly sold to an unsuspecting public.

This genre challenges me with its need for clarity and brevity.  I am prone to waffling, and taking too many words to explain as much as I can.  Text books need to be concise and to the point.  How can I say all that needs to be said without wasting a single word?  Is it even within my abilities?

Maybe I will never actually write a textbook.  It may very well be that I never write anything beyond a few self-serving blogs.  I don't know.  But I can dream, can't I?

What I never knew I always wanted

I did buy the banjo that week, if anyone was interested.

It wasn't on the weekend I had hoped, due to a lack of advertised opening hours, but I did have the banjo in my hands before the next weekend.

It fits.

I know that's a strange comment to make about a banjo, but it's true. Something about the thing just fits me - or I fit it, I don't know. The tuning for the Irish tenor banjo just sounds "right" to my ears, the neck fits in my hand comfortably, the chords are where my fingers happily fall on them, the fingers on my other hand just seem to find the strings without my having to think too much about them... the body is just a little bit too round for comfort, but I tend to forget that once I start playing.

The sound is a revelation to me. It's like it fills the whole space. I know that doesn't make much sense, but most of the other instruments I play carry the melody - they don't really have much "body" to the sound. The banjo has “body”. I have to say there's something in the sound of the strings that sings to me - a quality I wasn't expecting to find, but love.

It amazes me that this is the first time I've actually thought to try the banjo. Looking back on it, I think I've wanted this my whole life.

I remember once, when I was in school, seeing an advertisement on the wall of the school office offering guitar and banjo lessons. I distinctly remember, at the time, wondering about the banjo - wondering if it would be something for me.

This was a few years after the guitar lesson thing - and, I think, during the piano lesson thing.

I have a slight problem with musical instruments. I suppose, in the long run, it’s cheaper than drugs, but it still leaves me short of cash and in possession of several instruments I never play.

Part of my problem is I always seem to be searching for some quality, and I end up finding things that are close – but not quite right. I bought a melodeon, a piano accordion and a cornet* when what I really wanted was a concertina. I thought things that were close to a concertina would fulfill my desire for one, but they didn’t. When I finally bought the concertina, it’s like something inside me said, “Yep, that was it,” and my quest was kind of over. I wouldn’t mind owning a better concertina one day, but I don’t feel compelled to find anything that’s “not quite” a concertina.

I think all of the stringed instruments I’ve encountered over the years have been on a similar path. Something inside of me was looking for something in particular but, unlike the concertina, I didn’t actually know what it was. The guitar really didn’t fit. The ukulele didn’t really fit. The ukulele-guitar hybrid was closer, but I ended up breaking two of the strings and found that it fit much better when it was broken…

And then, it fit much better after I tuned the remaining four strings to Irish tenor banjo tuning…

And then I bought a banjo.

The banjo fits.

It’s like something inside me has said, “Yep, that’s it,” and part of the world has fallen into place.

*Yes, I know a cornet is nothing like a concertina. That was part of my “well, who needs a free reed instrument anyway?” reaction to the piano accordion, which really didn’t fit.

December, High and Thirsty

December, high and thirsty, and I – fool that I am – have once again ventured into the unknown without a decent amount of water. Or a repair kit, for that matter. I know I should take both, but this is the tropics, where we care little for unimportant things, like making it home alive.

Truth is, I am not going too far beyond my ken. Just a little bit further down the road. A few more kilometres.

This is a trip though time, in a way. A part of my city that was build thirty years ago, and hasn't changed much since then. Should I turn left and keep going for a few minutes, I would find newer neighbourhoods build with newer trends and building codes, but I stick with the river, following it up towards the dam. These older houses please me more than the newer ones ever could, anyway.

The path by the river changes into a “safe” cycle path that may be safe, but isn't terribly comfortable. I shift to the road. How many times have I wondered where this road eventually leads? Maybe one day I'll follow it until I find my answer. Maybe one day I'll just remember to look it up.

It seems popular amongst “real” cyclists. Two or three of them pass me, and I wonder if I'll ever feel as though I belong on the same road as someone wearing that much Lycra. One passes me only to turn around a few meters ahead. It seems the road narrows, and there is no space for such things as cyclists ahead.

Me? I haven't reached my target yet. I steel myself for jostling with cars, then notice that the “safe” cycle path is still continuing over on my right. I cut across someone's footpath to get to it. I'd rather share with pedestrians than cars, if given the choice. I like it better when I'm the potentially lethal element in the situation.

Then, suddenly, I'm there. Now what? I thought it would take me longer to get here. Should I just turn around as I planned? That would make for a shorter adventure than I intended.

I coast around the car park for a moment, wondering if I want to walk to the top of the dam for something to do. Or, perhaps, down to the river. Then I remember something I saw in passing, off the other side of the road.

It's a bird-watching platform. Built in the last year or so, with a nice, shiny interpretive sign to tell me all about the birds that come to the borrow pits. I'd never heard of a borrow pit before, although it makes sense that they would exist. Now I know what they are, that we have one, that it fills up with water every summer and that a wide variety of birds can be found here. I love interpretive signs. You almost always learn something new.

I notice the mountain range on the way back. It's a range I see all the time on the way to work, but it's a side and an angle I almost never see. I'm looking at the sun playing across the face of the mountains and I marvel at how pretty it is from this side – how beautiful and unfamiliar. I can barely take my eyes off it.

Nor, for that matter, the peacock which is inexplicably walking up the bike path on the other side of the road. What on earth...? How did that get there?

The things you see in your own town, eh?