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thefreckledone · 6 years ago

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Satori (Between the Lines) - Part 10

Sakura takes a seat in the chair before Shikaku’s desk, looking wistfully around the room. It has been a handful of weeks since she was last in here, though everything looks nearly the same. Yet, it all feels different. The chair in which she sits—which she has come to think of as her chair—is suddenly uncomfortable, unfamiliar. And these feelings of discomfort, Sakura knows, stem from the man who seats himself opposite her.

Sakura raises her gaze to meet his, looking into Shikaku’s familiar sloe eyes. Her heart squeezes slightly as she reminisces all of the hours wiled away speaking of ciphers and code. She admired him so much; he created languages all his own. She wanted to be him. And now?

She can barely force herself to look at him.

How did they get to this point?

“You wished to speak with me,” Sakura says in a leading manner when she realizes that he won’t speak first. Her parents have taught her the necessary skills in negotiation and she knows that she needs to get him to play his cards first. He is the one who called this meeting; he is interested in getting something from her. Sakura knows that this gives her a measure of power. And she is not in the most charitable of moods.

“Yes,” Shikaku says, folding his hands in front of him. His expression is inscrutable for a moment before he sighs, softening in a way. “I would like to formally apologize to you, Sakura. What happened on the Yamanaka grounds was unconscionable and inexcusable. I extend to you the deepest regrets of both Yoshino and myself.”

Sakura stares at him, wondering what goes on behind his intelligent, calculating eyes. He is watching her every move, every shift and Sakura wonders what exactly he sees. Can he see the rage of injustice roiling within her, barely contained beneath her skin? “What outcome would have been unregrettable for you?”

He blinks, surprise flitting across his face before it is locked away once more. But Sakura has seen and recognizes it as a chink in his armor. It is a weakness, one that—as a merchant child—Sakura knows to leverage and exploit. “What do you mean?”

Sakura leans forward, pressing her advantage. “From the beginning, you have pitted me against Shikamaru. Before I even came to your home, you built me up as his adversary, a rival he had to topple for your affection. You wished to inspire Shikamaru out of his laziness with a challenge. Yet the approach he took—the approach you took—resulted in an escalating series of bullying, even violent encounters.” Sakura pauses, considering Shikaku. “I know you received at least one report from Iruka-sensei about Shikamaru’s behavior during sparring. Every time I walked away from a sparring match with Shikamaru I had bone-deep bruises at best. You knew he was escalating. How could he not, with the constant reminders of my apprenticeship with you that you dropped whenever I came to visit? Perhaps this was not the outcome that you wanted, but how could this not be the outcome you expected?”

“Sakura, it was never my intention for you to get injured,” Shikaku says, voice slightly raised.

“But it was your intention to use me as a pawn to better your son,” Sakura replies. His resounding silence speaks volumes. “You were willing to have me be a stepping stone in the path for your son’s success. With a mindset like that, it is little wonder that I ended up injured as I was.”

“My intention was twofold, that is true,” Shikaku says in low tones, voice gravelly with upset. Sakura cannot tell if the upset stems from an anger over the way she paints him or from a frustration that she does not dance to his tune. Truthfully, Sakura doesn’t care. “I saw an opportunity to better Shikamaru, to refine him in fire. Any compliments I gave you were true, however. You have a gift for ciphers and I would see them improved.”

“Those two goals conflict,” Sakura says after a long moment, refusing to be mollified by the sincerity shining in Shikaku’s eyes. He doesn’t seem to understand and Sakura truthfully is unsure how to make him understand. But she needs him to; he has to see what he has done, the injustices wrought upon both her and, to a lesser extent, Shikamaru. There’s a sense of desperation beating against Sakura’s breast as she remembers the accounts told her of clan-born versus first generation shinobi and how the clan-born always, always come out on top. Shikaku, oblivious as he may be, is contributing to the problem and Sakura cannot abide that ignorance. He has to learn for the sake of her safety and the safety of other first generation shinobi. “Because Shikamaru and I are in conflict, thanks in no small part to you. And you know as well as I which of those goals supersedes the other.”

Shikaku is silent, unable to contradict her.

Sakura laughs, a low, bitter sound. “And that is what upsets me. You wish to refine Shikamaru in fire? I will not set myself ablaze to keep your son warm and I am not the anvil to temper him against.” She pauses, gathering her scattered, whirling thoughts. “I am a pawn,” Sakura says blandly, unbothered by her own words. “I’m just not yours. I serve the wills of my parents and the Haruno. My parents allowed me to pursue my selfish dream; how can I not offer myself in return? It is not an even trade; they are certainly losing out, but I am a child of merchants and I will always stack the odds in my favor. Outside of the Haruno and my duties to them, I serve the will of the state. That is the agreement my parents signed when I joined the Academy and the agreement I’ll sign if I graduate. You are not the state. I do not serve you or your interests.”

Shikaku watches her, crossing his arms. “And what of your internship?” he asks.

Sakura tilts her head slightly, resisting the urge to shrug. “My contract is with the Intelligence Division as a whole, not with you specifically. I can work with Inoichi-san, Ibiki, and Anko-san. They’ve already agreed to let me shadow them here.”

Shikaku blanches. “You’re shadowing Ibiki and Anko’s work?”

Sakura shakes her head. “I won’t be shadowing their interrogation work, at least not right now; they’ll let me sit in their offices and work on ciphers.”

“That is a stopgap measure,” Shikaku replies. “None of them have in-depth training in code.”

“I know,” Sakura says blandly. “I will not compromise my safety; I’ll do enough of that once I’ve graduated.” Sakura swallows, waffling for a moment as she tries to decide if she should make this bid or not. She’s been toeing the line of appropriateness and this may just push Shikaku over it. It is a gambit, but it may just be worth it. “If you care about my education as you claim, perhaps you can arrange for me to work with another individual who works in ciphers.”

Shikaku’s eyes blaze for a moment and Sakura fears that she has made the leap across that line. Then, his shoulders slump as he sighs, closing his eyes. “I will see what I can do.” He opens his eyes and looks at her again. “I am sorry for all of this, Sakura. I never intend—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Well, I suppose that does not matter. I lost sight of what truly mattered and you were scathed in the aftermath. I am sorry.”

“I know,” Sakura says, getting to her feet. She looks into Shikaku’s eyes, heart heavy as she considers the man who was her first mentor, the first person to really try to foster her intelligence in a focused manner. He is the one who truly opened up the world of codes and ciphers to her. He introduced her to a lifelong passion; there is no way for her to repay him. But then, there is no way for him to make up for the pain caused by his machinations. She hates how things have soured between them, tainting her memories, but she does not know how to fix this. Sakura isn’t sure if she even should. “But I cannot forgive you right now.”

“I know,” Shikaku says, watching her with sad eyes. “I wish you well, Sakura. I know you will do great things. I’ll be watching.”

Sakura leaves his office, feeling subdued but lighter. She knows the sadness will linger for a while, but, in time, the clouds will pass.

And Sakura will continue moving forward.

“Hey forehead!”

Sakura turns, shoulders slouching in an instinctive attempt to make herself smaller at the anger in the voice. She swallows nervously when she realizes that a handful of her classmates, ones she never speaks to, are around her.

“Yes?” she asks, proud that her voice doesn’t waver.

“You’ve been hanging around with those clan kids,” the ring leader, Ami, the girl who once tormented Sakura, drawls. “It wasn’t that big a deal when it was just the Yamanaka heiress, but now you’ve extended to the Aburame and even the Nara.” She narrows her eyes. “Don’t think we haven’t noticed.”

Sakura flexes her hands, surprised at the sweat that coats them. “I am friends with Ino and Shino.” She doesn’t mention Torune, knowing that Ami doesn’t know him. Her brow furrows. She and Shikamaru are by no means close, nor is she a fan of the Nara. “I worked with Shikamaru-san’s father.”

“Friends?” Ami says, forcing a laugh. “Don’t make me laugh.”

“If you ask, I’m sure they’ll be friends with you too,” Sakura says earnestly, looking around at her fellow students. She notes that the ones gathered are all civilian-born like she is. “It can be intimidating because they’re from shinobi clans, but they are really nice! I’m sure Ino and Shino want more friends.”

Some of the students shift, doubt clouding their expressions but Ami remains resolute. She sneers at Sakura. “You’ve always been pathetic Sakura, with your large forehead and subpar looks, but this is beyond all. Desperately forcing your affections on clan kids because of their pedigree? There are words for girls like you.” Her eyes glitter as her lips curl viciously. “Whore.”

The other kids in the circle gasp, spot of color burning in their cheeks. Sakura frowns, feeling her own face suffuse with color. She doesn’t know the meaning of the word, but based on context she knows it is bad and cruel.

“I am not,” she says, glaring at Ami. “Take it back!”

Sakura sees Ami’s composure slip a bit, probably a combination of the other students’ discomfort and the force of Sakura’s reply. Ami obviously did not expect any opposition to her methods.

“I will not,” Ami says, angling her head haughtily. “It’s true.”

Sakura considers Ami for a moment, surprised at how small she is, how fragile. Once upon a time the bully seemed larger than life to Sakura, but now?

Now Sakura sees Ami as she truly is: a civilian student with unearned pride and underdeveloped shinobi skills.

Sakura has faced down the Nara scion and survived the encounter with new scars and new eyes; she has befriended some of the most terrifying and unstable members of the Torture and Interrogation unit; she has aired her grievances with grace and poise to the Jonin Commander of Konoha and emerged the victor. Sakura is forged in fire and blood; her mettle is ironclad.

“I’m sorry that you feel that way, Ami,” Sakura says firmly, squaring her shoulders and meeting Ami’s eyes. “I’m sorry that you’ve obviously never experienced real friendship, since you really think I am trying to use Ino and Shino for gain. I won’t apologize though for being friends with them and I won’t stop being friends with them just because you don’t like it. You’re just going to have to get over it.”

Ami’s face goes pale before approaching a violent shade of purple as the other civilian students snicker under their breath. “You—you—” Her voice shakes but her hands are steady as she reaches into her weapons pouch and withdraws a kunai.

Sakura immediately does the same, watching Ami warily. They have barely covered the basics of kunai training and Sakura can see that Ami handles her kunai poorly; the weight unbalanced in her hand. Ami’s kunai is also blunted at the edges, obviously one of the ones on loan from the Academy. Sakura is immensely grateful to Ino and Ino’s training with Shiranui-san: Sakura holds the kunai properly. It is sharp, the kunai standard among active shinobi.

“Ami, we are not supposed to use our kunai outside of training,” Sakura says, keeping her gaze on Ami. In her periphery, the other students move away, getting themselves out of danger. “This isn’t safe.”

But Ami doesn’t listen to her, striking out at Sakura in a wild, uncoordinated manner. Sakura, acting on her training with Ino, catches the blow on her kunai, deflecting it back toward Ami.

There is a jarring sensation—Ami put a lot of her strength into the blow—but it is nowhere near as jarring as Ami’s response.

Ami yelps as her hand is forced into an awkward position, fumbling with her kunai. With the poor hold Ami has on it, as well as the force of Sakura’s deflection, the kunai is turned inward, catching Ami’s wrist and palm. The bluntness of the kunai prevents major injury but it digs into the meat of Ami’s palm, drawing blood.

Ami’s yelp becomes a scream and Sakura flinches back, jolted by the noise and the blood coating Ami’s hand.

“I…” Sakura doesn’t know what to say, turning her gaze helplessly to the others.

They watch her charily, with a fear that was not present before. Sakura swallows, tucking her kunai away, as she puts her emptied hands up to show that she’s harmless.

“Ami,” Sakura begins.

“You freak!” Ami screams, fear and revulsion in her face. She cradles her bleeding hand close. “I’ve always known you were a freak but it looks like you’re a monster too!”

Sakura cringes, words of apology turning to ash on her tongue. Ami doesn’t want to hear it right now.

So, Sakura turns and leaves, unsurprised that none of them try to stop her. The moment she gets out of their line of sight she begins to run, tears blurring her vision. Her feet carry her to the Aburame grounds but she doesn’t head toward the residences.

Instead, Sakura moves into the forest, taking refuge among the trees. She channels chakra into her feet, climbing up one of the large spruces. She gets above the lower branches, nestling herself into the foliage where no one can see her. Once Sakura is situated into a nook where two branches emerge from the trunk, she draws her knees into her chest and begins to sob.

She cannot get their expressions of disgust and fear out of her mind. She’s a monster masquerading in human flesh. What type of person attacks someone like that? Another child?

She is uncomfortably reminded of what Shikamaru did to her; the helplessness she experienced at his hands. Did she just do the same to Ami?

It’s what I’m training for, a cool, rational part of herself whispers. It is what I’ll do once I graduate from the Academy.

They sugarcoat it, the instructors do, skirting around the topic of death and focusing instead on techniques. But those techniques are merely the tools the students who graduate will implement in killing.

Can she do that?

Sakura squeezes her knees even harder, remembering the blood coating Ami’s hand. The bright, violent red that she caused.

Can she do that?

She jolts as she realizes she’s dug her fingernails into her knees. She withdraws her fingers, staring at the raised red welts.

Sakura thinks of her friends: of Ino’s generous confidence which bolsters her, of Torune’s wonderful buzzing which lulls and calms her, of Shino’s quirky and cute speaking habits which endear her. She closes her eyes, wiping away the tacky residue on her face.

For them, for their safety, for their happiness, she can do this, no matter how awful it is.

“Why are you crying?”

Sakura shrieks, limbs flailing for a moment before she turns and braces herself against the trunk. She peeks over beside her, astonished to see a boy perched on a branch near her.

He is of a similar age to her, with combed and shiny black hair. He is the palest individual she’s ever seen. The oddest things about him though is his lack of expression. It isn’t just muted; Sakura’s learned to read all of the Aburame expressions, however small and obscured though they may be.

His face is absolutely blank.

“Can I help you?” Sakura asks warily.

“Why are you crying?” he repeats. “I’ve never seen you do it before.”

“You haven’t,” Sakura says, alert and frightened by his words. “And how long have you been following me?”

“Three weeks, four days, and nine hours,” he replies flatly.

“Oh,” Sakura says, stunned. And then she calculates it in her head. “That was around the time that Shikaku-san extended my Academy field experience assignment into an internship, correct?” She blinks, reevaluating the boy before her. He is a spy of some sort, though she has no idea who would want her followed and observed. “Who do you work for?”

“I cannot say,” he replies, opening his mouth wide and pulling down his tongue to show her. There is a pattern of lines in black imprinted there. A seal. “I am not allowed.”

Sakura stares at him for a long moment, racking her mind to try to come up with the people in Konoha who use seals. She comes up with none, as she’s never really looked into it. At least she has a place to start. Sakura regards the boy, conflicted for a moment before sighing. “I’m Sakura, as I’m sure you know. What is your name?”

“I am designated 000347,” he replies.

“That’s your name?” Sakura asks, aghast.

“It is what I am called,” he says. “I have answered a number of your questions. As this is not an interview, social niceties dictate you reciprocate. Again, I ask, why are—now were—you crying?”

“I was crying about what happened earlier. You saw?” He nods. “I hurt that girl.”

“Incorrect, she hurt herself. She was incompetent in handling a kunai; her grip on it is what caused it to gouge her skin when you deflected it,” 000347 says, giving the assessment coolly. “She provoked you when she chose to attack. You mounted a sufficient defense of yourself; she has to face the consequences of her actions.”

“Alright,” Sakura says, a bit stunned at the clinical dissection of the event. “Sure. Still, she ended up injured in part because of my defense. When Ami cut herself, they all looked at me with fear. They looked at me like I’m a monster.”

“A monster?” 000347 repeats, eyes widening slightly.

As this is the first time she’s seen him react to anything, Sakura thinks it’s a good sign. “Because I hurt. Because she bled. They are civilian-born students, unused to violence. They aren’t prepared for what the Academy will make us. We’re being training to one day be monsters.” Sakura sighs. “There’s a reason that there are so few civilian-born shinobi in our active forces.”

“And you’re alright with that?” he asks, tone shifting ever so slightly.

“If it means protecting my friends then yes. My friends are all from shinobi clans; they cannot escape this violent life. They won’t even try. And why would they? It is their heritage and legacy. So I’m going to follow them into that life.” Sakura looks down at her hands, taking in the calluses developing there. One day, they will be hard and firm and she’ll be able to stand equal with her friends. “I will act as their shield and protection.” She looks up into 000347’s sloe eyes that are fixated on her. “I will become a monster for them.”

000347 swallows at the force in her words and gaze. “You’ll let yourself be destroyed for them?”

“Friendship is a powerful thing,” Sakura says, shrugging. She clears her throat and shifts the topic away from the heaviness. “000347 is not a name. I won’t call you that.”

“Then what will you call me?” he asks.

Sakura assesses the awkward boy, stunted in so many regards. He is odd undoubtedly, dangerous assuredly, and working for an unknown entity who is keeping tabs on her which is both concerning and creepy. And yet there is a fire in him, muffled beneath the brush certainly, but burning still.

And quiet fires are some of the most perilous of all, accruing unseen power until it billows over completely and destroys everything in its wake.

Sakura sees hope in him.

“I’ll call you Celandine,” Sakura decides. “It’s a yellow flower. Its symbolic meaning is ‘joys to come.’”

#satori (between the lines)#sakura haruno #shikaku nara #sai #my fic #sakura is reaching her breaking point #she may be burning some bridges #but she isn't the first #she needs time to heal before she rebuilds #and she'll be forged anew in fire

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jkrawling · 6 years ago

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25-May-2019 viewer, Greg Simcock here. Author J. K. Rawling if you want to know the author’s pseudonym, but you were never given the opportunity to get to know me for my art and design drawings or stories, inventions and tunes. The theft of my work has seemingly followed my activities over many years and so I feel I am rewarded in as much as God has been since the Heaven's and Earth turned in time. Nobody really knows for sure how the universe was formed and no one will ever know. It is a long-standing mystery, so great in dimension, that only the broadminded persons alive can understand its well-established geophysical existence in what is simply an infinite voluminous void called space, but if it didn’t exist, you wouldn’t be able to read this message now. So that is why the lord God was invented by man. God was the answer to the questions so many people never gave much thought to. You see if there was no God people could not think of a better reason that would explain their existence. The stories in the bible are indeed written by people exploring the existence of God as they sorta purposeful answer to their nagging question: Who created the world, with all its splendours?, and; How did man originate from nothing?“ In order to reveal that information, I would have to take one back in time to when the universe began to form. From there it would evolve, eventually becoming the God-forsaken place people are prepared to believe was created by one being. Let me explain. God is an invention of man that only stands to let people imagine well enough that there is a logical answer as to why such a thing exists. It isn’t something taught in schools. There would be no need to query anyone for the real answer of why we live, eat and breathe, if any one person could provide the unequivocal answer to that finite question without disagreeing by anyone, so God was invented to allow people to recognize there is a reason for mankind and every other living thing in the world, be it on planet Earth or somewhere in the universe. That brings me to thinking about why I am an individual who is one of the creators who has, for many years, developed a mindset of knowledge so vast that I have found nobody to believe in what I know to be true. I believe my mind to be a sponge for knowledge. I was a curious boy from the time when I was a baby, sucking on my mother’s breast nipples, which I remember vaguely doing on occasion, and looking at the stars, wondering where the planets and galaxies I heard about were in the night's sky. From an early age, I was imagining how the features where I lived would appear from the sky, where birds appeared to fly as they flew by. I began to draw things from an early age the things I imagined, such as creatures that lived in the sea, boats, cars and girls I liked. I became creative in my way of thinking and drew numerous mechanical things, such as planes, trains, tractors. I pulled apart many items, whether they needed fixing or not (that rarely went back together or worked again) and from doing that I developed an inventive mind. In 1978 I joined the Australian Army to hopefully get a job that I could build a career of. I scored the position of a cinema projectionist (ECN-320) and entertained hundreds of thousands of soldiers, screening motion pictures made for cinemas in the motion picture industry. I served nine years, mostly with the rank of Corporal, until 1987 when I had to resign after sustaining a lower-back injury. That was a two-edged sword for me. For one thing led to another and while I was out of paid employment, I worked long days, well into the nights, for about 9 years, designing things, drawing many characters, and creating hundreds of stories with the range of characters, creatures, and machines I drew for use in designing my projects. Nothing I drew went to waste. From fishing reels I drew, I created vehicle designs and a range of characters. From a computer mouse and a cleaning tool for the mouse tracking rollers inside the mouse, I created more characters. Drawings that failed to meet my needs became unusual characters of things. One drawing of a wobble-head lion car-dash ornament, which I was creating drawings for to become a product I could sell, was ruined from excessive lines I drew on its neck. I simply drew the lined thick around the neck and had what appeared as a three-headed guard dog. As it was an unusual drawing, I put it in my story file, eventually adding it to my stories of a wizard boy I saw myself as. I had served nine years screening to people of all age groups, including children from preschool, juniors, teens and adults. I loved my work and play while in the Army, as well as after being left on my own to recover from my emotional time of seven years afterwards. When the designs of my stories and inventions were all well developed, with many of them showing good prospects to become a breadwinner for me and my needs to settle with a desire to raise a family after my work on creating things was done, but that didn’t go to plan. I was robbed of my work over many years. The Harry Potter story developed into five stories, with two extra titles and the ending scene drawings made, which was showing the clash between Lord Voldemort and Me as Harry Potter. I was robbed of my work and the families I had grown to love and imagine were my own family members. I cried many nights after accepting my work of hundreds of stories and inventions had gotten stolen. I could not raise anyone’s attention when I spoke of my lost drawings, many technical design drawings, songs, tunes and animations. All with names of the main characters and titles for the programs I had tirelessly built up from my creative mind and the activities I had been accustomed to doing over the years I was actively pursuing my goals. All I had left was time, so, after my tears dried, I began sitting and thinking, staring into nothingness, as I tried to fathom what had happened to my artwork for such a lot of projects. I had been seeing things come onto the market and wondering how someone else had thought of the same thing as I had designed, but my mind would not let me think about those things and the reason they had managed to become products on sale in shops. Eventually, my mental flashbacks of things I had designed and seen on sale, or in motion pictures, began to bother me, so I began to draw what I could remember of something that had flashed a mental image that caused me to wonder why that had happened. Although I cannot remember how long those flashbacks occurred, I eventually had drawn enough segments of some inventions one designed that I was able to redraw them. Only then was I able to realise my mind had been alert enough to recognise things I had drawn and after my loss, it was all the while on the watch for to help me remember designing things I chanced to see with the mind's eye. One night, I wanted to see a children's program but it was being broadcast in the early morning hours, so I set the video recorder to record the program as I slept. When I viewed the program in the morning, I was shocked to hear the theme tune and song for Thomas The Tank Engine. I had created the song lyrics and tune for Thomas The Tank Engine. The engine was drawn using an un-needed drawing of a caster-ring fishing-reel I designed and patented. I drew my initials in the circle at the front of the engine's boiler so as to give it what became the characteristic face of Thomas. I was delighted when I first created it, thinking it to be a really useful little engine for use in my children’s story about a tank engine. Even the program was based on my setting for the screen animation I had hoped my work would be used to make for children. Drawings of the mouse cleaner were made into characters for other animations. One I named Boom And Reds, their Boom was a messed up drawing, creating the monster named Boom, and Reds was curved lines from a drawing of my mouse cleaning tool design. When a man named Alan Page asked me about the characters, I told him it was a children’s animation in which the characters would move along and hide under their curved hat. The monster thought he was useless, so the Reds characters befriended the monster (Boom) and made him feel happy by playing a game with the Reds. Flamo has no hands, but I drew my initials in a stylized way to save me having to draw hands and to code my drawing.Sam Sam was named after an uncle who had died. Master Raindrop was named after I had observed raindrops running along a rope I had tied between two veranda posts. I was amused by the energy in the raindrops running back and forth, so I went into my loungeroom and drew the raindrop on my design page of a project. The character eventually got drawn from that downpour of rain. Alan Page showed an interest in what I had drawn and asked me why I had drawn it, so I told him about the rain running along, back and forth, under the rope. He then asked me if he could have the rope. I allowed him to have that rope, as I had the memory of the actions of the raindrops and the character drawing, so I created the programs story-board for what I named Master Raindrop. Alan Page asked me many questions about other characters, stories, drawings and program ideas they were in, all set in sections of my design files and story-board files. That includes numerous drawings and theme elements in the story-boarded stories of my Harry Potter series. My writer's name is J. K. Rawling. I created that pseudonym after I had created the story-boards for my story I named The Lion King. My third story I named Finding NEMO. Up to 2009, I had given a police officer, named James Langley, six compact disks (CD’s) of notes and images of things I had discovered on sale to do with my projects work. In that year, he got promoted to Sergeant and was posted to Fremantle, Western Australia. The Rockingham police did not assist me in any way, but from then on I simply wrote notes and became lost in this mad, uncaring world I was living in much as a hermit may live. Recently, I found an early notebook of 2009 with some of my drawings in it I had drawn to remind me of characters and programs I had designed to be made. They are not as tidy as my original artwork would have shown, but, since that is not at hand, I post a number of photocopied pages with drawings of some of my characters from my notebook for your perusal. I have mentioned only several of my stories and some characters but the majority of my characters, inventions and stories remain to be discovered.They formed story-boards for productions such as Jurassic Park, Spiderman, Batman - The Dark Knight, Avatar, Terminator, True Lies, and many more titles. Posted 3 minutes ago Tagged: j. k. Rawling, jk rowling, jk rowling, boom and reds, Thomas the tank engine, master raindrop, flame, the dark knight, avatar, the lion king, finding Nemo, the plagiarist.

#j. k. rawling #jkrowling #jkrawling #boom and reds #thomas the tank engine #master raindrop #flamo #the dark knight #avatar #the lion king #finding nemo #plagiarist

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robertemeryofficial · 6 years ago

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How to choose a musical instrument

Most of you know me as a conductor. Someone who waves my arms around in unusual patterns and in return, I usually get paid in pounds; unless I'm working in the desert where they offer me a couple of camels instead. Conducting however has been a minor part of my life compared to what I always wanted to be; a pianist. But how did I choose a musical instrument?

Tinkling the ivories was supposed to be my career, so what happened? To get to that, I need to take you on a journey to 1990, when I was seven. This was when Top of the Pops was still on the box. My favourite hobby was to listen to the song that reached number one and then dash to the family heirloom that was an out of tune, ivory keyed piano, and figure out how to play the piece. This all happened long before I had lessons, and in fact, this was the catalyst for my Mother to contact the local teacher down the road.

Every Wednesday for a year I walked 5 minutes to the teacher's house. Every Wednesday I manipulated the teacher to play the piece for me that she wanted me to learn, and every Wednesday I'd then memorise what she performed and could pretty much play it straight away. People thought I was a wunderkind; I wasn't - it's just that I could copy and mimic well. As a child, I wasn't doing this deliberately to fool everyone into thinking I could read music - I just found copying a quicker and more direct way to learn the piano. It wasn't until my Mother placed some sheet music in front of me that I openly admitted I couldn't understand what all the squashed flies on the page were.

From that moment on I was sent to Margaret Toon, a teacher who was a 15 minutes drive away and was the equivalent of a hard-working, reliable, sturdy Volvo compared to the previous Lada. In two and a half years, Mrs Toon taught me to read music and took me from grade one to seven (out of eight). In the blink of an eye, I could play the piano. But did you know I was also playing the cello and clarinet?

No. Of course you didn't. Imagine a bat who has lost its voice and can't produce the sonar echolocation sound it needs to. Now imagine the result when heading towards that rather large brick wall; a cartoon-like 'SPLAT' and a speech bubble 'OUCH'. That is my cello playing. The clarinet was far worse. And here lies the most significant misconception amongst parents when it comes to music tuition. If little Jonny is so atrocious at the violin you banish his Psycho screeching to the attic, not only will he feel unenthused that his parents want him as far away as possible, but he will feel like the mouse in the trap; cheesed-off. Did it ever occur to Mr and Mrs Big Jonny that perhaps the violin was not the right instrument for him?

If your child doesn't like learning the instrument they are playing, there are only three possible reasons why:

1. They have a lousy, tedious, insipid teacher

2. They have an excellent teacher, but the instrument isn't right for them

3. See number one or two

That's it. No other options are available; so stop trying to complicate matters.

I genuinely believe that every child has the capacity to love playing an instrument. I suspect if you put that child in a room with all the instruments ever invented, and the most fantastic teacher for each instrument, they would pick one that they want to play, and they would lap it up like a cat drinking its lactose-free milk.

For four years I played my instrument every evening. I had one lesson a week. I played in the school assemblies. I played for the school concerts and theatrical productions (knowing what I know now, I'm not sure if you could call them 'theatrical' - but I'll let fond memories take precedence). I had a weekly general music lesson at school where I could bang a tambourine and call it music. I played for the school choir. I played background music for the school open days. If you didn't realise by now, I played all the time. And aside from my private music lessons, my music teacher at St Michael's primary school, Mrs June Davenhill, was the gift that keeps giving. She gave me an all-around musical education and the opportunity to play at all those events listed above, and more. I had the support and slight pushiness from my parents, from my private piano teacher, and the school. I had a twenty-four hour, fifteen tog duvet of music wrapped around me; to which there was no escape. Looking back, I would have had to try really hard not to become a musician.

All of this was due to my interest in the piano which the adults responded in kind. Almost everyone I've ever met thinks I was born to play music. But if I chose the clarinet as my first instrument, I think my blog would be called 'Robert Emery proves that Search Engine Optimisation can be fun' and I would have coding as a hobby. The fifteen tog duvet would be a summer four point five, and I would have had to try really hard to become a musician.

After my generous primary school experience, I moved to secondary school and at the same time was sent to the newly opened Birmingham Conservatoire Junior School (I was literally the first pupil to be signed up) and for six out of those eight years, I upgraded from the excellent Volvo to the inspiring Rolls-Royce that was Heather Slade-Lipkin. The BCJS operated every Saturday, and the inspirations of Mrs Toon and Mrs Davenhill combined to make the power-house that was Mrs Slade-Lipkin.

Believe it or not, for the first few months I continued to study cello and clarinet alongside the piano. Perhaps my most significant luck in life so far was figuring out I could enjoy and play the piano BEFORE I even thought about trying other instruments. So when my failure on the two C's was more prominent than the mess that is Brexit, it didn't matter. I just dropped them with no repercussions.

Under the leadership of Heather, the BCJS gave me lessons in aural, theory, general musicianship, piano, organ, composition, improvisation, choir, orchestra - and the method of teaching meant I never felt like I was learning. At this age, I was doing the most important thing; having fun with my friends and being a grotty teenager. But crucially, I was enveloped with music. It was everywhere, so much so it formed part of my DNA. This didn't happen by accident. My parents and teachers carefully curated it. By this time I had stopped experimenting with other instruments and settled on the piano. Yes, I played the organ, but I was told from a young age that one could earn a fast buck or two playing down the local church, so I figured it would be a sensible back-stop if my piano career didn't take off. The massive shortage of organists in the UK meant I had more work than I could cope with, and at thirteen, I was earning on average £30 a week - which for a teenager growing up on the outskirts of Birmingham in a little village meant I felt like 'Del-Boy'; this time next year...

After Heather thrust me into competitions such as the BBC Young Musician of the Year, she steered my playing so that I would become one of two pianists accepted from the UK at the Royal College of Music. It was finally time to flee the nest and move to London. And for me, this was where I became an adult. It was now my responsibility to wrap myself in that duvet of music, and for a couple of years, I failed dismally. I was interested in making money, and that came at the expense of my playing. Becoming 'a concert pianist' was harder work than I thought. I needed to use my skills as an organist to tie me over. The job notice board at the RCM clearly said 'DO NOT REMOVE THESE NOTICES', so when I found an organist ad for the perfect church in the perfect location, I immediately ripped it from its pin and put it in my pocket. I persuaded St Paul's in Chiswick to give me a job, and the duvet of music was slowly coming back to me. I had chosen the organ as an instrument when I was eleven, but it wasn't until eighteen that I started conducting. I thought it looked a lot of fun, but due to my studies at the RCM I was trying to become a serious pianist for serious people; this meant pausing anything that had the word 'fun' associated with it and replacing it with 'practice'.

You can imagine my reaction when after a Sunday morning service, a professional conductor offered me some work as his assistant. This meant I had to conduct, which to me was breaking the rules and having fun again, and so like a duck to water, I quacked. Waving my arms was exciting, and as the number of camels for payment seemed to be higher than playing the piano, I thought I'd stick with it; pardon the pun. The rest, as they say, is history.

If there is one thing to learn from this miniaturised path of my life, it should be that like everything else; music is a journey. It doesn't start or stop with the first pluck of that string. Inspire your child by getting them to practice in the room you are in, and if squawking on a saxophone doesn't empower them as Pelé with that ball, change the sport, and see if hitting a drum will make them feel like Björn Borg with a bat. So finally you ask 'How do you choose a musical instrument?' The answer: You don't; it'll choose you.

Book recommendations discussing Music Lessons

Music Lessons: The Collège de France Lectures - Boulez book publishing his extraordinary Collège de France lectures

THE Music Lesson - From Grammy-winning musical icon and legendary bassist Victor L. Wooten comes The Music Lesson, the story of a struggling young musician who wanted music to be his life, and who wanted his life to be great.

How to Play the Piano despite Years of Lessons: What Music is and How to Make it at Home - an adults guide to learning music

I Wish I Didn't Quit: Music Lessons - A great little book helping you to inspire your child with tips from world-class musicians

Help Your Kids With Music: A unique step-by-step visual guide - Are your children struggling with music theory? This book by Carol Vorderman might be just what the need. Newly released in 2019.

A Child's Introduction to the Orchestra (Revised): Listen While You Learn About the Instruments, the Music and the Composers Who Wrote the Music! - an interactive, bestselling introduction to the world of classical music.

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#Backstage #Music Lessons #music lessons

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timobook · 7 years ago

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Learn Raspberry Pi With Linux

Learn Raspberry Pi With Linux Download Introduction Despite sounding like something Grandma would bake on Sunday afternoons or a noise that would make people glare and tut, the Raspberry Pi is in fact a computer. That much you probably knew (although, let’s be honest, the name and logo don’t really give much away) but the Raspberry Pi promises more than that. An awful lot more. The venerable Commodore 64 was released in 1982, and with sales reaching upwards of 17 million, it is often considered the best-selling computer of all time. More importantly (at least from my perspective), it was also my first computer. For Christmas, just before my ninth birthday (when the C64 was nearly a decade old) I received the new model (C64C), which was identical to the classic machine in all but cosmetics. It arrived all set up and attached to a nice new 14-inch television (it even had a remote control!). I suspect my dad had hatched what he believed to be a most cunning plan; if he could sneak in and set everything up while I was asleep, come Christmas morning, I would be so busy playing with the computer that my parents might get an extra few minutes of sleep. Sadly, things did not go quite according to plan. Although everything was set up, and even though the television was tuned to the computer’s signal, one simple but key thing had been forgotten: it hadn’t occurred to anyone to tell me how to actually load a game. Needless to say, a lie in was not forthcoming . . . Games came on cassette tape. This was before CDs, and at least on the C64 had to be played in a special tape recorder called a datasette. (What do you mean what’s a CD?) Sadly, the datasette spent more time in the shop than being attached to my computer and as it was the only way to load anything into it, I had no choice but to occupy myself with the manual. This I used to great effect and taught myself how to program good old BASIC (Beginners All Purpose Symbolic Instruction Code—can you believe I actually remembered that?). While I’m sure this story is very gripping, you could be forgiven for wondering why I am boring you with it. Those events happened more than two decades ago, so what possible relevance could they have today? Well tinkering with that machine and then the Amiga that followed it (still my favorite machine of all time) gave me a real appreciation for what a computer could do. The Amiga was severely underpowered compared with PCs of the same era, yet it consistently beat them with better graphics, better reliability, and better sound. It was able to do all of this because the hardware was exquisitely designed. Amiga enthusiasts were some of the most resourceful people I’ve ever seen. Who’d have thought you could turn a real–time clock port into a connector for high-speed storage? All of this was only possible because people really understood how all the parts fit together. They knew how to get the best out of the machine because they really knew how the machine worked. These days, I spend my working day trying to make fast things go faster. To have any hope of success, I too need to know how everything works. Companies need people like me to push things forward, but they’re coming across a bit of a problem. People who really know computers inside out are getting much harder to find—we are a dying breed, and this is the situation that the Raspberry Pi Foundation is desperately trying to reverse. So what happened? Well, things changed. Computers went from being the curiosity in the corner to being a basic part of everyone’s lives. They evolved to the point where they just work and everyone knows how to use them. This is similar to the family car. Everyone has a rough idea how a car works, but few people are very interested. The car takes them from place to place, and that capability is what is interesting, not how the car achieves it. Computers are generally seen in the same light. People have a rough idea about turning them on, installing software and so forth, but how they actually work at a low level isn’t really seen as relevant or interesting. This in turn means that not only are fewer people getting excited by computing itself but even fewer people think that there’s more to it than doubleclicking an icon This problem has drifted up through schools and into universities. Teaching programming is a relatively challenging task. It requires a certain way of thinking that for many people is tough to get a handle on. Traditionally, universities would start a computer science course by teaching about logic gates, how memory works, and how to program a CPU. Only once you understood what the bare metal was doing would you try to learn C because although C is a higher language, it reflects the hardware it runs on. Understanding the hardware makes understanding C that much easier. But with larger class sizes, more limited teaching time, and students arriving with less and less knowledge of computing fundamentals, universities have had to adapt. Rather than teaching all that low-level stuff, now they teach Java and other scripting languages. Because these languages handle all of the “fiddly bits” for you, you can effectively pretend that they don’t exist (although this can cause some issues; see “The Infinite Memory Myth”). This is simply fantastic from a productivity point of view, but when you do want to take it to the next level (maybe you’re processing data and your script is just too slow), you have no idea where to turn. Worse, when someone tells you the technique for improving that performance, you have no idea what they’re talking about. Of course not all universities have taken this route. I’m studying at the Hong Kong Polytechnic University, and its course on Computer Architecture is very detailed and covers a lot of ground. If you want to get the top grade, you will need to implement a CPU cache for the CPU simulator program. Needless to say, there is a lot to learn for everyone on this course. That said, we need more than this. It’s too late to capture people’s interest when they’re starting graduate studies. I taught seven-year-olds how to program BBC BASIC when I was in my last year of primary school (they even got presented certificates by the school) and they loved it. Computing lets you create a virtual world with your mind (the children liked to create little text–based adventure games) and ultimate power rested in their hands. They got creative; they added spells, new roads, secret entrances, and much more. Okay, they needed a helping hand (they were only seven) but they had the desire to create and to build cool new things Via TimoBook

#TimoBook

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