traveller or tourist

Went to see the rather wonderful Henry Rollins spoken word show the other week, and was impressed anew by his attitude of just getting on with things. If his government advise him not to go somewhere, he has to do it. He also claims to think the world is just one Al Green song away from peace; if only it were true.
 I also got a bit pissed off, remembering how much I used to just get up and go. 2 or 3 times a year, take a plane, then a bus or a boat and see where I ended up. OK, usually in Greece or Turkey or Europe, but alone and curious. Eventually, there is only so much sexual abuse a girl can take, so I stopped. In spite of my belief that if I listened to everyone who said it wasn't safe then I would never go anywhere; if more people did it, it might get safer, right? And now I am probably too old, wobbly and complacent. It's all very well getting middle aged and becoming invisible as a woman, I will still never be able to travel as freely as the Henry Rollins of the World, purely because I am still a member of the weaker sex (in so many ways, in so many lands). Does this mean I won't be able to travel any more, just be a tourist? I am so envious of men I know, who can take off around India for example. I bet I couldn't even travel across USofA without getting into trouble. My itchy feet have become roots and trapped me firmly in Europe now; age brings vulnerability in a purely physical sense. Through all my youthful trips; blood poisoning, food poisoning, assaults and adventures, I never felt actually endangered. Or am I misremembering? Gilding the memories with the patina of time? I miss the feeling of being lost, the certain knowledge that no one knows exactly where I am. Pre mobile phones, laptops and GPS, that was freedom of a sort. What am I trying to say? That there will never be equality when it comes to travel and adventure? Or that I have lost my curiosity of the World? Bit of both I am afraid. Everyone wants to go where no one else has been, but they want 4 star comfort when they get there. I just want to be invisible.
Hal Hartley said, in 'Simple Men' - 'There is no such thing as Adventure and Romance; there's only trouble and desire... and when you desire something you get in trouble but when you're in trouble, you don't desire anything at all" 

happiest day

At the risk of sounding like an utter curmudgeonly bitch, I have had a surfeit of those insanely OTT wedding proposal videos. I just watched one where a guy had flash mob dancers and a marching band  leading up to his 'surprise' proposal. I have seen so many others with lip synching or roof diving stunts or some inventive outrageous gimmick, I am starting to wonder about the whole premise. If the person said 'no' what would happen? Such a huge gesture, so somehow disproportionate; what a way to start married life, when nothing you do in the future can possibly match up to that? How can you just ride off into the sunset when the bar has been set so high? It's foolhardy and unrealistic to have to think of ever more amazing things to do to 'prove' you love someone; why not just keep it private and personal, a genuine tender moment? Instead of broadcasting it for the whole world to witness. Is it the ultimate showing off? Is it a huge ego boost in the attention seeking generation? How many people now think their ideas have to be ramped up a notch or two to impress not only their future intended, but the whole media world? I find it somehow voyeuristic and unpleasantly smug. That is my opinion, for what it's worth. 

Frequently, when I see other people's blogs, I wonder why I (or they) bother. Like diaries, if you have a busy interesting life, you have no time to blog about it; and if you have the time, you haven't done anything worth blogging about. I am not about to start a career out of stating the bleeding obvious, that pool is overflowing already; nor will I moan and rant about other people (not today, anyway). I am not Nigella in the kitchen, jut a sweary messy woman who likes to feed people. I don't dispense sex tips like Mrs Sting, or fashion and beauty advice (which you would know if you took one look at me). I don't knit my own yurts, though I did once have 3 pet chickens who were a delight. I am not in a band, nor am I writing a screenplay, script or even a novel. I don't have amazing children about to take the world by storm, (even if our only kid is a fantastic drummer, you won't hear me pushing him on the TV), I was never a glamour model (nearly) or married to anyone sleazy enough to sell my story. Even though we 'survived a life threatening accident' I don't feel like sharing any of that; it was hardly uplifting after all. I am an immigrant, not an expat, so I can't comment on those issues other than travel guide tips. Seinfeld famously made a career out of 'a show about nothing', and I think a lot of blogs are like that too; nice if you can make inconsequential small talk sound remotely interesting or inspiring, but I am afraid I haven't even got that gift. Any advice I give is likely to be 'Suck it up, Princess' or 'have you tried running it under a hot tap?'.
I frequently don't recognise this world, or know my place in it any more; I am not sure if that is a getting older thing, or a general 'turning my back on society' thing. But perhaps the sad thing is, I don't really care. I am finding it harder and harder to get worked up about so many emotive issues that fill my timelines and my inboxes. It all seems so dumbed down and uninvolving, so curiously flat and 2dimensional. Perhaps I should go back to the old chicken keeping, yurt knitting, gun toting lifestyle? Then I could blog mindlessly to my hearts content about manure?

day out

I don't like going over old posts; blogging is like having a big old 'dump' and you certainly wouldn't go through that to check what came out?
Today we took a family day out to somewhere down in the South East. As usual I came running out in a panic eating my cheesy marmite toast, then we were ten minutes early for the bus, hopping to keep warm. As usual I was unprepared for the sudden drop in temperature, lulled into a false sense of security by the crappy winter so far. As usual I got all stressed about nothing.
As a writing exercise, I jotted down my observations from the train; I shall endeavour to make sense of them. Or not.
A pale owl, swiveling and blinking next to the track, his branch level with our upper deck window; and out through the polders a juvenile bulldog being restrained from chasing ducks. The sun behind the clouds like a paracetamol, fanning rays over a windmill and skeins of low flying geese. Lines of water shining like pewter as four massive turbines shifted in and out of sequence. Two pheasants drinking, the whole area is criss crossed by waterways; bubbles and rippling circles of unseen diving things by the small station of glass and concrete. Slow motion pulling away, graffiti of vomiting technicolour clowns gives way to stacked up shipping containers like carelessly discarded toys. Two passengers who just sat down are talking as loudly as possible without shouting. They have monotonous voices and banal conversation which even cuts across the Nine Inch Nails remix on my iPod, so I keep surreptitiously nudging my volume up. I don't need a book, my hungry eyes eat up the miles outside. More graffiti; 'Kontkorst' (roughly translated 'arse crust' ) then abruptly wide fields, ten to twelve swans converging on a confluence. Picking up speed again, I realise it is getting more and more cloudy/hazy and that the whole country is a gigantic construction site. Everywhere you can see the debris of new train lines, new roads and houses. Cheek by jowl and completely haphazardly, the rubble and newness, the old farms and new estates, tiny horses and massive chickens, fields and towns. More graffiti- 'Atlis Gizpot' 'WishMelo' it's getting more artistic too, and trees (real trees!) are becoming more apparent. Klimtian beech forests, buzzards and kestrels (a sure sign of healthy food chain?) even 2 cranes flapping off in ungainly panic. In the train, on the top floor, we are higher than the houses, then lower than the land, never out of sight of water of some kind. It's endlessly fascinating to me, like a film that is never the same no matter how many times you watch it. I am not writing this with any goal in mind, just wanted to set it down while the feeling of moving through a landscape was still in my mind; the green and grey of it, all the chaotic contrasts.

sail off into the sunset

I have been thinking about the quest for a partner. In my 20's and early 30's I was a very needy person; always wanting to be reassured that I existed and was worthy of love (or plain old lust). I had very low self esteem and was unaware I could actually just say 'no'. No to casual sex, no to drugs and alcohol, no to date rape, no to beggars and - well, you get the picture. I lived in one room for many years, having been briefly homeless I didn't want to lose everything so I was 'nesting' in a way. I had small heart breaks and crises of the soul on a regular basis, and probably through my own ignorance I hurt people too. I had one massive broken heart episode that made me think I would be better off alone, then a rekindled relationship ended abruptly when he topped himself on Boxing day (waiting for me to be conveniently away), thus reinforcing the belief that I was meant to be alone. Out of the blue, and not long after I took the decision to stop looking, a friend of a friend appeared in my life. Absolutely the opposite of all previous partners so naturally I spurned even the thought; but it soon became apparent to both of us that something really was different. I fought it all the way, really I did; he is 7 years younger, Northern to my Southern, and at that time he had the long blonde locks of a Timotei girl (I usually went for tall, dark and psychotic). We lived hundreds of miles apart blah blah - but we  just worked as a couple. It was like being a salmon and swimming against a current all your life, and suddenly plopping into a calm pool. But. If he hadn't met me, we would never have been in a near fatal car accident; he wouldn't have been in a wheelchair/not walking for 18 months.  In pain the rest of his life, never the same again. But, we would never have left England and moved abroad, and he would never have written so many songs. What am I trying to say? Have hope, you who long for a life partner to share the good stuff. Because what you need is someone to share the shit stuff with. The past that you are ashamed of and which they accept. The scary shit, the ugly stuff and the pure honest helping them on and off the commode type stuff. Stop asking if you are 'good enough' to be loved; you are. It just takes someone special to see that. Most of all, it takes you to see that. If that sounds patronising I am sorry, it's a cliche that is possibly true.

dates

I am anti blogging. If something bad happens it makes for a good blog, if nothing happens then somehow we have to make that nothing seem as funny as Seinfeld would. So many people have blogs full of meaningless chatter about their days, but I am afraid I don't wish to do that, nor do I feel like pushing advice or my opinion on anyone (should I have one). Sometimes this is a therapeutic place, where we confide things; fears, prejudices,  angry rants. I want to think no one will read it, so it isn't really a blog. More of a confessional. I hate Christmas and New Year, so fake and superficial. Such a waste of money. But it is still taboo to say it out loud. There can't always be a 'special' feeling at midnight, only the restless ghosts of our younger selves whispering in our ears. Not just memories, they can be controlled and edited; but emotions can creep up on you, knock you over with unexpected toxicity. Everyone has advice for you, but their expectations are a burden; we all have baggage but it is our choice as to whether we use it as luggage, or an accessory. No one will come along and make you happy, or rich or successful, the good guy doesn't always triumph over Evil and we don't ride off into the sunset. We just get older and have to make an effort not to be jaded; and treat our battle scars as lines in a story rather than lines to be erased from our faces. There is no fairy godmother, just a fairly odd bother.