From the grubby windows along one side of a square-spiral staircase I can see there’s a big, sand-stone coloured dog on the second storey roof of the shop next door. In the heat and in that coat, the dog saunters around from the water dish to the corner with his tongue waggling dangling out one side of his mouth. To me it looks like he is smiling.
In the evening when it cools slightly he throws his front legs up over the 2 and a half foot ledge and looks down at the foootpath and the road below. Still smiling, buddha-like, at the workers spilling from the factory, the mums, the kids, a poodle and me.
It’s clear to me that I don’t like these kids much compared to the regular crews back at the regular job. The syllabus here is lame-o, and a new bunch of students shifts through each week so there’s no chance to see improvement.
They don’t particularly want to be there because it’s there holiday, would you? And generally there’ just less emphasis on learning our wacky language down in the south here.
They can be a pain in the arse to coerce into doing what’s required. Luckily for me, being part-time, nothing’s dead-set required.
So the sessions go from low-key chaos to silent, beautiful concentration — when I drop a photocopied find-a-word in front of them. I don’t get the time or free-ranging to do such a thing back in ee-tchon.
And it slightly saddens me that the find-a-word is for all intents and purposes, useless. Also that the work within it is being done twleve times over in the one sitting.
I want to harness their little eyes, their brains and the chemical electric energy flowing therein. Each by itself is only one kid, but by 12 by 6 for one day adds up. Like the organic equivalent of distributed computing.
What I need to do is find (and break into small parts) the great, the gnostic and esoteric find-a-words strewn through the world’s history. Those that hold the answers to questions that are rarely asked and verging on forgotten.