May 16, 2014

Fire Escape

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Recently, there has been a rash of fire drills: one at my place of worship, another at my husband’s work and one at my daughter’s school. I heard that our evacuation was “slow” because one of our elderly members walked down the stairs. And we have a lot of stairs at our Meeting House. It is a complicated business, arranging a fire evacuation, requiring room sweeps, checklists and timings.

Our elevator is mainly there to help those less able. But, in the event of a fire, I have always been taught not to use the lift, only to use the stairs, the traditional fire escape with the steps round the back. I can manage them fine, but I take longer, so, l would normally be instructed to collect with other less able users, remain in a place of safety, and wait to be evacuated from the building last, so as not to hold up other able-bodied users on the stairs. If I hold up those behind me, I risk getting crushed.

Set test drills against what might really happen in a genuine emergency, and a whole new range of possibilities raise their heads. Less able users may be authorised to use the lift if the fire was well away from the lift shaft. In a ‘real fire’ scenario, I would be reluctant to await rescue, fearing that I might be overlooked.

My husband, who has arrested hydrocephalus, was, a propos of his disability (which is not something he ever discusses with anyone, not even me) instructed to move to a designated place and await collection, just as if he were a piece of lost luggage.  His disability in no way affects his speed of travel, and, like me, he disliked being singled out for this dubious attention.

It might be possible to stipulate that every building should have two stairs, one for use by the able bodied, and the other reserved for use by the less able. But if there are two stairs, the users of the building will insist that they use both, and in a real emergency, I don’t fancy trying to stop them, do you? I would not want to, even if I could.

Perhaps it makes sense to evacuate the less able users first. Of course, that would take up precious minutes. So, I guess that means we less able users will just have to take our chances. Don’t fancy it, though.

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May 15, 2014

What to Write Next

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‘We want you to write’ suggested Spirit, ‘because we think that will give you some true satisfaction.’

Feeling immediately overwhelmed, I thought, ‘Yes, but I don’t know what to write next. I don’t know anything.’

‘Oh, really? I could just feel the arch smile, the lift of the eyebrows… Here you are, almost fifty, with a husband, a daughter, one career behind you and another one well underway, and you don’t know anything? We beg to differ.’

‘You mean, about architecture, the nature of the cosmos, the probabilities of market trends, babies, healthy eating, women’s issues, that sort of thing?’

‘Perhaps you can write about these subjects. But just for the moment, consider the hundreds – thousands – of books that have passed through your hands. Do you honestly think you need to do yet more “research” before you can write about something that reflects your secret passions? Which books do you keep on your shelf? “A Course in Miracles”, the “Conversations with God” series, books about angels, the afterlife, forgiveness, time, the meaning of life…’

‘Yes, but shouldn’t I be a guru, or have a piece of paper from the University of Metaphysical Studies in order to write about these subjects?’

‘No. We all have to start somewhere. Look, instead of making excuses to put things off, just experiment. We understand that existential angst is one of your specialist subjects, but right now, perhaps it’s about time you had some fun. So instead of boring your husband with the “breakfast lecture series” would it not be an idea to share your thoughts with those who might be happy to read about them? Write about what you love, and if you need a bit of help, we will be here. After all, we are very pleased that God is one of your favourite preoccupations.’

I happily confess that I have always been intrigued by angels, the meaning of life, the importance of forgiveness, the purpose of time, the nature of progress, what it means to be successful, how to be happy and many more such topics which come under the heading “spiritual”. I enjoy fitting pieces of the jigsaw together that help answer the bigger questions, “Why am I here?” and “What is the point of existence.”

Angel stain glass window

 

I could have a stab at writing about these, I suppose – hopefully in a way that is entertaining and practical, as well as useful. Reminding myself of the spiritual buttresses of life does help me immensely to deal with daily practicalities. I could tackle potential subjects alphabetically, thematically, or haphazardly. Knowing me, it will be entirely haphazard….

 

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May 12, 2014

Difficulties

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Why does everything have to be so difficult? Discarding my clothes and relaxing, just seated on the edge of the bed, last night I paused and wondered. For once, I could look at this and see an interesting question, clearly expressed and heartfelt, but without the usual emotional downer that usually accompanies introspection of this sort. Even so, I was unsure there would be any answer.

To learn – that challenges can be overcome – with increasing ease?

Well, that felt like an interesting notion. Living is about daily practicalities. Understanding is not just about knowing things, and theorising on them. I know, for example, that love is the strongest force, and that life is easier and more relaxing when we give out love and can see only love in whatever happens to us and to those around us. I know, the more often I give out love and live in appreciation – every second, for everything – the nearer I come to living in the perfect present. For me, success means living so closely with the perfect present that we have no need of regrets, worries or fears. In that state, we don’t even need to ask, because a wish expressed is always heard and understood. Gratitude is the lubricant of our desires, as every wish is heard.

I believe this is where we are all heading, eventually. But life is a practical course, which teaches its lessons the only way it knows – by placing challenges before us and watching to see how we respond to them. Whether the car stalls at the lights, we are fed up with spinning here and there, we can’t see a way to the light at the end of a tunnel – if the lights feel like a train coming straight for us – despite travails such as these, life is always an enormous buffet with a range of choices. If we can hold on to that grain of faith which asks us to meet every consequence with the same light heartedness, we have really won the game.

We are meant to have fun with this. Options open out as we move forward in faith and optimism, and that is how we fashion our lives. It makes a good start, to accept that “difficulties” are only opportunities to learn how to be consistent, and then consistently, increasingly, successful, whatever we choose to do. Lots of difficulties, lots of different angles, these all challenge us, all the time. They ask the question, Are you faithful enough and strong enough to remember the lessons of last time? Can you do this? And this? Let’s try, shall we?

I am totally delighted that today my book and my blog are featured on WordPress http://en.blog.wordpress.com/2014/05/12/more-wordpress-books-authors/, a piece of good news which can be likened to the good fairy coming and blessing this house. Thanks so much, Ben Huberman!

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May 12, 2014

Rebellion

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Strange, this morning she remembered getting her legs washed. As she rose and was dressing, a picture came of her standing by the sink, bored in the bathroom, as the aya washed up and down with a cloth, bent below her. Persistent but resigned, the aya would say, “Stand up straight” as Fran’s left leg bowed back at the knee, sinking her hip sideways. Annoyed and dismissive, Enjoying her rebellion, Fran thought, “So what? This feels good, it’s my leg” as the sinews stretched ever longer and the habit fixed itself. Odd child.

The wiser adult knew her right leg was shorter. It had been mentioned, “Yes, an inch or so” which must not have been very much, since no-one did anything about it. But those inches made a difference. She had used to go to a cobbler who would fit a platform, and for a week or so, she walked more smoothly, without the lurch to the right, her hips relaxed and level. But the levelling platform wore unevenly and within weeks, the shoes had to be discarded as doing more harm than good. A new pair of shoes every six weeks? Too expensive after she stopped work.

Maybe her left leg was doing its childish best to shorten itself by bowing out. Maybe such small connecting things are known, yet we do not listen for them or discover them because we are so concerned with appearances, and travel the easier paths of disinterest. Is that our karma for not listening, for being disobedient, for not bothering with the boredom and chores of others? That one day, we wake up and realise the trouble we caused had nothing to do with our legs, everything to do with our carelessness and subtle dismissal?

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May 7, 2014

Obtaining an ITIN

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This article will only be useful to self-employed workers resident outside the USA (called “non-resident aliens”) who may find themselves dealing with US business concerns and/or earning money from affairs in the USA.

Perhaps you are a writer living and working in the Scotland, England or France, and you have just had the spectacular news that your book is to be published in America, or that your sales base is set to expand to the States. Congratulations.

It might be an idea to think about the tax situation. Businesses in the United States are required to deduct 30% for tax automatically, from every cent they send to overseas authors, unless that author has already obtained an ITIN, an Individual Tax Identification Number. Through a process of registration with the IRS, an ITIN then allows an American business concern to send a UK resident the whole amount of their fees and gains without keeping back 30%. The author then accounts and pays tax as they would for their other (domestic) income. So obtaining an ITIN is a very good idea.

Sorry. This sounds like a tax seminar, which was not the idea.

To obtain an ITIN, first go to the IRS website and print off the most up-to-date application form, which is called a W-7 form and complete it. Before sending it anywhere, remember to sign and date it.  With the W-7 form, also send certified copy ID and a letter from the US business confirming the basics of the deal.

Based in Edinburgh, I am fortunate. I took my passport to the American consulate here, based near Calton Hill. They provided me with a formal copy of my passport ID page, which copy included an embossed seal and a signature. On returning home, I immediately put my passport back in its safe place and resisted all suggestions, however tempting, to send it to Austin.

I sent the original certified copy to the London Embassy at: Internal Revenue Service, 24 Grosvenor Square, London, W1K 6AH, along with the completed and signed W-7 and an original letter from my publisher. I took several good copies of both supporting documents so that, if the post got lost, I would not have to go back to the US Embassy or ask my publisher for another letter. (What? You forgot to take a copy?)(How embarrassing).

In my covering letter to London, I wish I had asked them to send the ORIGINAL certified copy of my passport on to Austin, Texas. As it was, someone in the London office returned the original certified copy to me and forwarded a bad photocopy to Austin. Six weeks later I got a letter which meant, “We need to see the original certified passport ID” though it took me four hours of telephone calls to confirm that.

For these purposes, a US Consulate is treated as equivalent to a department of the US government, and is not merely an “acceptance agency”. Therefore, no further proof is required, provided Austin see the original certified copy passport.

It is worth mentioning that while an ITIN covers all earnings in the US for five years, each separate transaction with a different company (for example, receiving an advance of royalties with a publisher, negotiating audio fees or appearance fees with other entities) requires you to complete a separate W-8BEN form. We keep hold of our ITIN papers, but we have to send off W-8BEN forms for each instance, and often, the US business will ask to see an original, inked copy of the form, which can be downloaded from the IRS website, but which may take two weeks to arrive in the US. If your fees are slow in coming, check whether accounts payable is still waiting for an original W-8BEN form, and send it asap.

I hope that is helpful. I apologise that this sounds a bit dry and formal. I am not a lawyer any more, but if anyone would like clarification, please just ask, and I will do my best to help.

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May 5, 2014

Loxodonta

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 Loxodonta

An aged bull was rubbing his back lazily against the truck of a broad acacia tree. Beneath its prickly branches, shards of deep shadow were welcome in the heat of midday. The red sandy earth beneath his feet was bright and baking, hot enough to cook a body. From the lone male, a breath escaped in long, laboured sighs of several minutes. His ribs, clearly visible through his skin, lifted and fell gently. Eyes seemingly vacant, he scanned the horizon and counted.

One, two, three men and a jeep found him as he was slumbering, rocking quietly to stay on his feet. He was such a venerable age that his long tusks swept forward in long, low arches that almost touched at the fore, and which emphasised the thinness of the head beneath. The approaching men, who smelled bad from walking and hunting in the heat, surrounded the bull without a word, creeping in slowly and peacefully.

“He’s an old fellow. Makes our job easier, doesn’t it?”

“Sure. At least he’s had a life. How old?”

“Dunno. Probably near ninety, from the look of his feet and his tusks. Check out the tears on his ears, too. Looks like we’re doing him a favour.”

One bullet was enough. The shot was louder in the shade and the report shocked dazed birds out of the trees. Their weapon was meant for much tougher prey than this animal, who slipped down, sank and keeled over almost without a sound. There was no hurry and they waited, lighting cigarettes. Five minutes later they figured he was dead. Ten minutes after that, two great tusks were lying covered in the jeep, the body of the last elephant left to decay where it lay.

This band of men was not to blame for extinguishing the flame. All slow-moving guardians of the savannah had been shifted out of the way with the advance of suburban Africa. The savage yielded to the tame. Wild creatures incapable of domestication were judged pests and routinely cleared off land needed for agriculture, away from fish ponds. Precious wet patches and shimmering marshes were reclaimed for growing food and the forests harvested for wood. Bulky elephants made easy targets for Russian-style semi-automatic machine guns. Picked off singly, or butchered in families as they grazed, washed or licked salt from secret deposits, they gradually disappeared.

Their ivory was shipped to the east to make aphrodisiacs and potions that sold for thousands of dollars in the Asian markets. The West, too, with its hunting parties and exclusive safari deals had a hand in the demise of Loxodonta. Skeletons were scavenged and scoured to make talismans and powders. With the demise of the elephants – though no-one cared enough to notice at first – native trees, matured to hardiness over thousands of years gradually thinned out and disappeared, like the hair on an old man’s head. Gradually, the savannah became a bare expanse of sand, with rocky outcrops and low-lying shrubs clinging to the edges of housing developments. Losses were gradual, unseen until dust kicked up everywhere because the trees were not there to hold it down. With their vast, extending root systems, trees were like the tap in the sink, keeping the water in the soil. Without them, and without the elephants to partner them, the stuff of life gradually disappeared, leaving a giant dustbowl on the World’s largest continent.

Acacia became endangered, and although it was monitored for growth and germination success, lab results were stunted and inconclusive….not enough could be done, quickly, to save the species, so scientists, who had been flown from Zurich and Amsterdam and America to help with the problem, worried. From their purpose- built labs they sent out distress signals around the planet, hoping to find a cure.

On the fringes, other watchers waited, just as they always had. Men and boys at the gates – the gardener who clipped the bushes into shape and kept down the termites with creosote and sprays of sparkling water from a coiling hose; the houseboy who swept aside the dust every morning and afternoon and straightened the mats – knew that the world flattened up here would soon crumble into powder. The glass would shatter and the bricks would bake.

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May 2, 2014

Fran

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The last hours of the term had come and gone, and with it the last day of her schooling: The faded purple jackets, the wrinkled socks, the scuffed shoes, the bare legs beneath prickly tweed skirts. All these things were at home only in her memory now, as well as the sounds and calls that went with them, the slope of the ground in this spot, or the shade next to these bars. All in the past. Next year it would be someone else’s turn, and she was too old to do any more of this.

With a small sigh of longing, she walked to the gate, always one of the last to leave. This time she was old enough to take herself home and did not have to wait to be collected, as her mother forgot: nineteen next birthday, she was old enough to get home alone, even if she took a long time. There was no hurry, she didn’t start at her new studies until October – so long! Almost four months.

Suddenly she heard a voice: “Fran!” and felt the arm of her friend, the teacher, over her shoulder. A close goodbye: A real hug! Her spirits leapt for this sign of love, “Good luck, Fran, you will be fine!” and a heart-wrapped embrace in strong arms, the sort Fran would fall for. Now, no-one would say anything, there were no raised eyebrows. It was all okay. There were kisses on her cheeks, and she smiled up into eyes which glimmered. They said nothing, though both meant, “Thank you. If I don’t see you before, see you in heaven!” and it was finished.

Raised up, Fran was happier now, and more confident. She knew it would be all right. And that next year, although it would all be different, unusual, to be learned again, no matter. The bruises of lost friendship were already healing, fading.

Fran was used to moving, to change, to a feeling that nothing lasts. And yet, her friendships meant a lot to her and anchored themselves deeply. Nothing much could really be said – it was all a look, a smile, a passing word – but the resonance stayed, hanging like a perfume, and was never forgotten. Fran, for all the rooting up and re-setting, each time weaker in a new place, was a deeply loyal woman, and knowing. She knew what she was doing, when she gave her heart so easily. She knew that she would not stop loving those she fell for. And time, distance, age meant nothing. Death was not the point. It would all work out, it was all understood, allowed, agreed at the end. She knew she would see her friends, her lovers, even those she had adored from a distance. She would see them all again.

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May 1, 2014

Telling Stories

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Telling Stories

Are memoirists selfish? Occasionally, after reading “Trapped: My Life With Cerebral Palsy” a reader may comment with a wistful sigh, that they don’t get to discover much about the other members of my family. Do they gaze quizzically into the middle distance and suppose they are dealing with a narcissist? Self-obsessed at least….the reflection may leave them wondering…

Memoirists don’t even have to claim to be accurate, for goodness’ sake! They can just bring a whole pile of memories to the table, and, so long as they are “what I experienced” they are allowed their own creative licence. No poring over volumes in the dusty halls of academe, no flights to far-flung Istanbul to track down long-lost relatives whom you recognise vaguely, but can scarcely speak to, as they stand before you patting your hand and remembering the way it used to be, before your grandmother left home….

There are indeed many other telling stories wrapped in with a memoir, waiting to be told. But the subject of a memoir has to wade into the past gently, finding a way through which leaves the bulk of other people’s recollections untouched, while benefiting from them enough to provide context, depth and explanations. I have no right to tell the story of anyone else’s life, and so I must leave other people’s life strands almost entire and alone, respecting the privacy of their memories, trials and tribulations and not using or abusing them to gain extra attention.

Deciding what to write about, and what to omit, has become, for me at least, an exercise in honest self-control; and if I aim for that, I will probably not go too far wrong. That is what I have always tried to do, at any rate, so that if anyone has an objection, I can at least be clear that I was doing my best to recount my story in my own way, with no other objective than to finally tell my truth. Not a bad aspiration, actually, for a day’s work.

Jules Breton - La Glaneuse Lasse
Jules Breton – La Glaneuse Lasse

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April 30, 2014

Lopsided

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Okay…so now to put on shoes.  Gingerly, she dried her toes, being careful not to let the towel flop into the sopping puddle beneath the bench.  Though she instinctively tilted to the other direction, it was important to remember to put her right sock and shoe on first, so that the broader, flatter foot could then support the weight of her left leg lifted over her right knee to put on her left sock and shoe. Done the other way, her left foot bent uncomfortably outwards, trying to support the weight of her right leg as she lifted it over her opposing knee. That caused warping and damage of all the wrong sorts, so it was important to remember the right order of things.

Collecting her towel, costume, shampoo bottle and comb, she was grateful that she travelled light. Given her body’s lopsided lurch, could she pass through that gap? Would the floor be slippery? Was she risking a drop into the pool? Only one way to find out – “Excuse me!”  All right this time.

Passing through the swing doors, she balanced carefully so that the door weight would help rather than hinder, and carefully negotiated the stairs down. It looked easy enough, because she had been coming to this pool for almost forty years, but, put her at another poolside, and the vista became more frightening, less certain. She had patterns, places she went and could visit, because they were familiar. Remove that relaxing element of knowing what came next, and she floundered. It all became a bit predictable after a while though. She did long to go somewhere different.

People are not symmetrical, naturally, and there is no harm in that. Mostly, our hips and backs are able to compensate for minor differences, such as one leg slightly longer than its neighbour, or a slightly off-kilter spine. But put the whole mishmash together, and some days, she just wanted to dissolve into the water, so fed up was she with her short-sighted, just about can’t quite get it life. This morning at the pool, for instance, putting on her top and jacket, she leaned against the wall of the cubicle and tears just sprang up and kept coming. She was grateful for poolside noises echoing, which disguised her gulping sniffs. The yearning for release was so intense that she could hardly see her way to leave, to walk down the steps and out the door. But no-one commented as she reached the car, sank into her seat and wept shamefacedly, until she forced herself to stop. Got to go. Lopsided or no, must get on.

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April 29, 2014

The Way We Work Now

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Alice was in a bad mood. Perched angrily on her ergonomic stool at her work station in the basement, she seemed to stay with these moods more often, increasingly impatient with the way we work now. Defiantly, she remembered a time when people worked together in teams, throwing questions to each other, making progress with thorny dilemmas in cheerful company.

In the days of plenty, there had also been colleagues to help make the tea, to tidy the desks and do the filing. There had been older gents and genial ladies only too willing to share their hard-won knowledge of the way the world worked; to point out pitfalls and advise on a solution that they were delighted to have discovered by accident: “Why, just phone him up and ask, dear. He is a nice bloke, really. I daresay a lot of people feel intimidated by him, but there is nothing he likes more than someone seeking his advice on something abstruse.”

She had preferred it, when people had had the time to use words like abstruse. Now it was all pixels, hard-drive, software, configurations and apps. Now it was all supposed to be so easy, you could simply do everything yourself, see? You don’t need a secretary these days, or a typist, you can just do that typing on your own dedicated PC. You don’t even need to print letters, or spend time on the phone, you can just email round, with attachments, or use your drop-box or intranet, and set it all up remotely. So quick, so easy. So much fun.

Not. The group emails from all the staff, advising on badly parked cars, on new timetables or rosters for the staff cover, or reprimanding the junior staff for rowdy conduct in the staffroom…the endless directives from management about productivity, filing and time management….the isolation of being responsible for drafting and sending correspondence with only a computerised task manager for company….

Alice, being the wrong side of fifty, was a telephone person, but rarely got the opportunity to speak now. Surprisingly few people telephoned, preferring texting…. without the delicate nuances of voice exchanges, alarming misunderstandings blew up out of nowhere, scattering sand all over her nicely soothed relationships. When the management abolished the tea trolley and the tea break, relationships that had been finessed with office chat became strained and unreliable. That ended up costing a lot, in wasted time, in extra meetings, disciplinary hearings and time off with stress.

Alice watched. She noticed what good working relationships were about: intangibles like loyalty, fair play, communication, give-and-take. Since none of these could be measured, computed or assessed for efficiency, the boys on the other side of the glass ceiling ignored them. Soon, all that thrusting aggression would implode.

For the moment, she waited, aware that her retirement was fast approaching, a release which would take her out into the sunshine. Summer beckoned, and she would leave this darkness behind.

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