So here's what came out of that. Even though I had some tough times this year, there's not very many sad songs on here. Because even when I was crying every day and phoning home and completely unsure of what to do I was never sad, not really. Not like I have been. But there's lots of wailing, loud, defiant stuff, because that's what I blared in my headphones job hunting - because fuck you, I wasn't gonna give up this for anything - or what I listen to on the Tube to block out fellow commuters. That's enough introspection for this post, I think. There's a bit of a general story arc of the year to the way I've arranged the songs, but some of them really are just songs I listened to a lot. An exercise in self-indulgence (certain lyrics from each song) is behind the cut.
First I was sick, then really busy with Nikki visiting for two weeks. Then busy with work, and unsure what I wanted to say.
Then I decided to reorganize my internet presence a bit. From now on, this blog will be for travel and day-to-day journal type entries only. For those of you who started following my blog to keep up with me while I'm abroad, here's the place to be.
The other type of entries I was making, along with all other thoughts and cool things I want to share, are moving over to my Tumblr. That's for two reasons: so people who are only interested in one or the other don't have to skim, and because Tumblr seems to me to me a more organic, hodge-podge style of blogging, rather like 'zines of the eighties and nineties. Which meshes well with my mix of writing about music or politics or personal thoughts or quotes or culture or my own poetry/fiction writing or... you get the picture. I'm trying out having just the two blogs for a while first, and if I find that I need a place seperate from Tumblr (which lends itself more to short snippets) to post my longer, text-heavy pieces, I'll reorganize again.
It's here, if you're interested: http://sea-change.tumblr.com
Sorry for being absent for so long. I should have more posts up here soon.
xx
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
I had a really thoughtful, honest post written up about what I've figured out so far on this trip, but as I went to post it, it somehow got deleted. Instead, here's the amazing Rie Selavy and her friend Kate's librarian manifesto, because those words and that image above were both part of the post. Hopefully I'll re-create it before work tomorrow.
• Because we not only shush, but shut up and listen • Because Hypatia of Alexandria died for her brilliance, Jeannette Howard Foster midwifed queer studies, and Audre Lorde shaped our feminist consciousness • Because we still hate capitalism and want to connect people seeking to dismantle it with the information they need to achieve this goal • Because you bet yr sweet ass we were the first against the wall when the government came looking for yr information, and we’d put our jobs on the line again for yr privacy and freedom • Because librarians love authors, artists, musicians, and performers and want their artistic legacy to grow, spread, and inspire the masses • Because this profession is still dominated by straight, middle/upper class white women & we need library staff to better reflect the demographics of the people they serve • Because we remember the lonely, scared, anxious, passionate, angry, loving children and teens we once were, and we know the books that inspired us to keep on, keep on living and want to share them with a new generation • Because as long as there are people out there who try to ban books we are needed to defend yr intellectual freedom • Because when libraries team up with nonprofit support systems and social services to serve our communities, we are even stronger • Because populations like homeless people and prisoners are often ignored (even though they are as entitled to library services as anybody else) • Because we support open information access & want our papers & zines & art etc in open archives where anyone can access them • Because we want to harness the incredible potential of the internet while maintaining a safe community and spirit of integrity • Because we forgive but won’t forget the sins and omissions of feminist movements before us, and strive to be inclusive, democratic, giving, and receptive as we move forward with a class-conscious, transnational feminist agenda • Because we discovered Riot Grrrl, anarchy, Operation Beautiful, culture jamming, class wars, peaceful protests, political art, herbal medicine, alternative education and subversive literature in the stacks • Because we are storytellers with a wreath of children at our feet, taking the old kyriarchal narratives and turning them on their heads with lush, new inspiring tales • Because we are the human face in an increasingly corporate higher education system, with a hand and a heart and database access for struggling students and exhausted professors • Because we believe that librarians can play a vital role in changing the world for real
This is a season of sleeplessness. Fog hangs over the city like a spell. Like we should all be sleeping, waiting for a prince to come. But we're awake, and our dreams tumble about our ankles like so many drafts. Trees scratch at the sky with their bare limbs, and I wrap myself up and go hunting for Sleeping Beauty.
There's a forever boy-child in Hyde Park, and seven dancing princesses just waiting to be found in Kensington Palace. This is a city of fairy tales (this is also a city of broken promises, but the two go hand-in-hand). I would trade you a thimble for a kiss, if you asked. I would gift you my entire empire, built as it is of worlds and wishes. The stories taught me that you never get anything without giving something in return. And we like to think that we tell different stories nowadays, that we're all grown up, but...
The thing is, sometimes the 'grown up' stories, they do turn into fairytales. And that's where it starts to really get dangerous. Someone's hands get chopped off, another ends up in a wolf's belly. Bricked up in walls, or held captive by amorous fathers. This city burns so brightly it eclipses the moon.
Things that dwelt in the darkness and went about seeking to do evil and harm; Bogies and Crawling Horrors, all came out when the Moon didn't shine -The Buried Moon (an English fairy tale)
I spent my day off today in Hyde Park. I'd originally planned on going to one of the museums, but once I got to South Kensington, I found myself not very interested in doing that any more. So I spent awhile reading on a bench, letting the city flow around me (one of my favourite things to do here in London), and actually ended up being photographed by a charming French street photographer.
After a while I got too cold to sit still any longer, and so decided to do one of my favourite things anywhere, in one of my favourite places in London - go for a walk in Hyde Park. I love autumn more than any time of year, and I love being outside on an autumn day. The air smelt wonderful, all rotting leaves and woodsmoke, and it was full of people out enjoying their day similarly - families taking their kids out, little old couples out for strolls, people with their dogs. I love this park so much.
That's Kensington Palace you can see between the trees.
what passing bells for these who die as cattle? only the monstrous anger of the guns. only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle can patter out their hasty orisons. no mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells; nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, – the shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells; and bugles calling for them from sad shires. what candles may be held to speed them all? not in the hands of boys but in their eyes shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes. the pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall; their flowers the tenderness of patient minds, and each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
-Anthem For Doomed Youth, Wilfred Owen
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Edinburgh, Scotland
I loved Edinburgh while I was there, but it wasn't till after I left that I realized just how much. I miss it. I miss the stones, and the greenery. I miss the friendly smiles and raucous laughter. I miss my thighs and calfs aching from all the hill and step climbing. I miss buskers of all sorts plying their trade along the Royal Mile. I miss my walk into town everyday from the university housing I was staying in (that's what that last photo is from.) I miss tartan and broad accents and independent coffee shops. I miss the bohemian, art-loving feeling in the air. I miss living in the shade of Arthur's Seat, which gave me one of my best days of this entire trip on the day I hiked it and found ruins, spectacular views, and a bunny. I miss it all, really. One day I'll be back, Edinburgh, I promise.
Mixtape Mondays is an idea thought up by my friend Aaron over at his amazing blog, Grayshades, which I shall now commence to to shamelessly steal. (I did ask first.)
I think my favourite story from Keith Richard's autobiography so far is the introductory bit, about his near-incarceration for drug possession in Alabama that he got out of with the help of a defense attorney who'd worked with JFK, an idealistic prosecutor who didn't want to put him away, 200 Stones fans outside the courthouse, and an absolutely wasted judge with a bottle of whiskey in his sock. It really illustrates the "Rolling Stones Travelling Circus" idea.
Also the part about how John Lennon was a lightweight. That bit's funny.
My favourite thing about the book, though, is the little bits he's added in from his notebooks throughout the narrative. Here's the best one so far, scrawled in his own writing and scanned in:
"I forgot to mention that to play the blues was like a jailbreak out of those meticulous bars with the notes crammed in like prisoners. Like sad faces."
Keith Richards is the coolest dude ever. I already suspected that might be true, but this book proves it. The best part about Keith is how much he loves the music. You watch the Rolling Stones on stage, or listening to one of their recordings like in this video, and he's always completely engrossed in it, completely blissed out.
There's a lot of poetry in those notes. A lot of wit and talent with words. And the amazing thing is all the songs he still wants to write, all the ideas he mentions that he has yet to finish building. He's also kind of a sarcastic jerk when it comes to anything he doesn't like, but I appreciate that, because his sarcasm is funny.
And y'know, I had the chance to go and meet him at a book signing last week, and I did the right thing and went to work instead. And I'm still a little sad about this, but I'm getting over it because sitting behind a desk in a Waterstones in the posh district of the city isn't exactly Keith Richards' natural habitat.
In my writing biography, I mention that one of my biggest influences is my dad's record collection. I mythologize music and musicians; I have a whole pantheon of rock'n'roll gods that I believe in more than anything in real life. This is one of my strangest traits. I romanticize everything and get all caught up in nostalgia for things I've never had, and that's how I define myself most.
It's easy to romanticize rock musicians.*
Keith Richards is more than just an amazing guitar player: he's a folkloric figure. The Rolling Stones play the blues, and the blues is a storytelling tradition, of the oral variety. It's filled with superstitions, crossroads, and devils. The stereotypical blues character is an old black man on his porch in the south, with his guitar and a neverending supply of stories. It doesn't matter if those stories ever happened or not - the truth is in the telling.
In his book, Richards inhabits that character perfectly, stepping seamlessly into the role of storyteller with the conversational tone. But he also straddles the line into one of the blues' favourite characters, the trickster. He's been in love with this music and culture most of his life. He knows what he's doing.
*If you don't believe me, watch the incredible Dylan-inspired film I'm Not There.
I always loved that rhyme, and wanted to write something with it. And then I found out that Alan Moore already had.
The sky is on fire tonight.
Just a quick note to anyone who's dropped by the blog in the last few days and found it less than ship-shape: Sorry for all the dead links and bizarre formatting! I'm trying to decide what layout and colour-scheme I like best, and it's hard to decide without applying it to the page. Hopefully I'll have made up my mind by the end of the day.
The inimitable Gala Darling hosts a weekly exercise in thankfulness called Things I Love Thursday (TiLT), which I have been meaning to start participating in for a while now. So, for my very first TiLT, here's a London-themed list of loveliness!
So, I have a job now. I imagine that this is one of those things I should have mentioned in my travel-ish blog when it first happened, but. Y'know. I work at a bookstore in Islington. Every morning I get to the neighbourhood a little bit early so I can get myself a spearmint-green tea and sit and read or write until it's time to head to work. Then I spend the day shelving or working the till or (best of all) helping people find things they're looking for. Today I spent a long time helping a pre-teen girl find the perfect edition of Oliver Twist to read, and explaining to her why some were in the Children's section and some were in the Classics, and why there were so many different versions (if you're interested: once an author has been dead for 100 years, their works become public domain, and anybody who wants to can publish them.) I also recommended New York novels to a woman who was going to be travelling there (Paul Auster's New York Trilogy and The Brooklyn Follies, Jonathan Safran Foer's Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, Joseph O'Neill's Netherland, Colm McCann's Let The Great World Spin, Truman Capote's Breakfast at Tiffany's, and Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar.)
Yesterday I helped a woman attempt to hunt down these two books: "I don't remember the title or the author's name, but it's Danish and he was serving in Afghanistan and wrote an expose of what life's like over there and it caused a huge controversy. I don't know if it's been translated into English yet." and "It's Swedish and the original title translates to something like The Hundred Year Old Man Who Stepped Out Of The Window And Disappeared. I can't remember the author's name, but can you tell me if it's been translated into English yet?" Some of my coworkers get annoyed with requests like this, but I have a lot of fun. I love helping people, and helping people find books they're looking for is a bit like a treasure hunt.
I work with a bunch of amazing people. There's boy-Aussie, who was living in a garden shack for free and working as a freelance illustrator and musician before he moved over here; girl-Aussie, who wears rockabilly-style head bandanas and is a qualified architect and designer; the Thespian, who's already becoming quite a good friend of mine, is a full-time uni student as well as taking acting classes and volunteering at her theatre, and is going to show me around London and take me to see Hamlet; the Lifer, who has worked at Waterstones forever, loves books and literature and is as well-read as the most passionate English teacher and is the friendliest man I've ever met, who was heartwarmingly delighted to have the chance to spend the day hosting Howard Jacobson when he came in to sign books the other day; Miss Rose, who dresses in the most beautiful, dainty outfits and looks like a painting of the Petrarchian ideal, and who is incredibly intelligent; and the two Kids section veterans who have been showing me the ropes, who both have the most energy I've ever seen - there's the Lady, with her short bob and collection of jumper-style dresses who rushes around keeping the area clean and organised, and the Lad, who loves to sit and read to the kids, or put on impromptu puppet shows with them.
There are several others that I'm just starting to get to know, too. I can already tell that I'm going to become very attached to all of them.
I'm really tired of seeing women hating on women wherever I look. It's stupid, it's unnecessary, and it's hurtful. Why so many people feel the need to waste their energy on negativity, I will never understand. So, in order to put some positivity out there, I'm going to start doing a randomly-posted series of blogs on women I love. 'Cause there needs to be more lady-lovin' going around. First up is Christina Perri.
Beatles-esque melodies, an incredible voice, and a dreams-come-true story makes me love Christina Perri a lot. A lot. I was lucky enough to find out about her before she blew up thanks to So You Think You Can Dance, because she's best friends with Keltie Colleen, whose blog I've been following for ages. These two women give me so much hope and inspiration in following and achieving dreams, it's crazy.
Perri is talented - really talented. She taught herself to play piano and guitar (and I believe that, just like Paul McCartney, she doesn't read music), and her voice is as strong as Fiona Apple's. In fact, she says that what she wants to be is the next generation's Fiona, because there's no women around right now to fill that girl-angsty, alternative singer-songwriter hole. I think the culture's shifted quite a bit since Fiona first surfaced, and also now there's Lady Gaga who does the outsider girl bit and fills the popstar shoes, but I see where she's coming from.
But the most amazing thing about Christina is how hard she worked to fulfill her dreams (she moved to LA by herself on her 21st birthday with a suitcase and her guitar and had been busting her butt since then), and how gracious and thankful she's been as they've come true. She got a record deal because of the overwhelming response her song received when it was featured on So You Think You Can Dance, and since then she has never once stopped encouraging her fans to follow their own dreams. She also hasn't forgotten that the dance community helped her, and so she's paid them back with little extras and giveaways and whatnot. What kind of rising star bothers being that decent nowadays? Not very many.
Plus she loves The Beatles - she's even got a tattoo of their names.
It's the most wonderful day of the year! If you're me. October 31st is not only my favourite holiday, it's also the last night of freedom before the crazy rewarding masochism that is National Novel Writing Month.
And it looks like I'm going to have one more reason to love Hallowe'en in the coming years. Over on his blog, Neil Gaiman has made a Modest Proposal: he would like to start an Instant Tradition, of giving someone a scary book on Hallowe'en or the week leading up to it. It's called All Hallow's Read, and I would think it was a fantastic idea even if it wasn't dreamed up by my favourite author. Aside from the obvious correlation with Hallowe'en, the timing is perfect because it matches up beautifully with the RIP Challenge that is so popular in the book blogosphere.
Gaiman's reasoning behind the idea is pretty simple: we need more reasons to give books. (He's a huge supporter of literacy and all that goes along with it - I've lost the proof, but I'm certain he's called (especially children's) librarians the world's real superheroes - and is one of the heaviest-hitting proponents that free speech has got right now.)
He's right, of course. Most people don't think of books when they think of Hallowe'en entertainment. They think of monster movie marathons, trick-or-treating and costume parties, fireworks and bonfires, or the Rocky Horror Picture Show. And those things are all awesome, absolutely. Those are what Hallowe'en's about, and they're certainly why I love it. But why not add some literacy into the mix?
Personally, I think it fits right in. This time of year, when the sky gets dark quickly, the smell of woodfire and rotting leaves is in the air, and everybody's looking for ways to get cozy, is perfect for curling up with a good book. And the right scary, spooky, or Gothic novel will take you away from your cares in the real world like no other. Plus, something about the October/November air makes them that much more believable.
Unfortunately, I got this up too late to do much within my own social circle, but maybe you could do a belated All Hallow's Read book-giving? Personally, I bought myself a few spooky novels recently in lieu of having anyone to gift one to over here, and I spent a large part of the last week at work directing as many customers as possible towards some 'Hallowe'eny' reads.
For future reference (and because I'm a list-addict) here's some recommendations. Most of these are personal favourites:
*anything by the man who started it off, obviously. Neil Gaiman is a master of the spooky-if-not-quite-horror genre. His short story collections, and the children's books Coraline and The Graveyard Book are especially well-suited.
*It, The Shining, and pretty much anything else by Stephen King. Read one of them alone in a big house like I did and be unable to sleep for at least a week!
*something by the absolute king of the Hallowe'en-flavoured fiction, Ray Bradbury. Not his science fiction, but one of his short story collections, especially The October Country. Also perfect would be any of these novels: Something Wicked This Way Comes, A Graveyard For Lunatics, From the Dust Returned, and The Halloween Tree. The last is really the ultimate Hallowe'en novel, with a great story and lots of information on the origins of the holiday, and appropriate for all ages (it would actually make a great bedtime read, extended over a few days). It's even been made into an animated movie!
*not really horror, but every year around this time I find myself returning to the Sherlock Holmes stories and novels. Mysteries, gaslamps, and fog. Lindsay Faye's novel where Holmes meets the Ripper, Dust and Shadow, is as wonderful as the originals, which is not something one can say about most Holmes pastiches.
*speaking of Holmes and pastiches, the other ultimate Hallowe'en read, I would say, is Roger Zelazney's A Night In the Lonesome October. Even the title is perfect! A clever and darkly humorous story featuring a host of classic monsters from the horror genre and their familiars, there's a chapter for each night in October (plus an introduction) so you could give/receive this one early and read a chapter a night. Personally, even if I try to do this, I end up gulping it down in one sitting, because it's such a good, fun read.
*the classics themselves: Edgar Allen Poe, HP Lovecraft, Dracula, Frankenstein, Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, Algernon Blackwood, MR James, William Hope Hodgson, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, The Woman In Black, The Turn of the Screw, We Have Always Lived in the Castle, Wuthering Heights, The Haunting of Hill House, The Body Snatchers, The House of the Seven Gables, and so many more.
*Dark Matter by Michelle Paver. This only just came out. I read it in a few hours at a bookstore in the bright afternoon light, surrounded by shoppers, and was still scared absolutely witless.
*find out for yourself! Go ask your local bookstore clerk or (even better, really) librarian. They'll be happy to help you find something perfect. Happy (& haunted) reading!
Saturday, October 30, 2010
It's October 30th! That means two things: one, it's the day before my favourite day of the year! Two, and far more importantly, it's my Dad's birthday!
I've already phoned you, but happy birthday, Dad! Thanks for helping me with math, and looking up all the things I wanted to know in encyclopaedias with me when I was little, and exposing me to good music, and coaching my ball team, and buying me so very many books over the years (the kids' questions books! The Nancy Drew classic sets in shrink-wrap!). I miss you so much every day; I wouldn't be myself without you, and I certainly wouldn't believe in myself enough to embark on this crazy adventure.
(It's also my aunt's birthday! Happy birthday, Moe! Thanks for encouraging my quirkiness, making Hallowe'en costumes, and teaching me how to bake!)
I didn’t know how to save you then, so forgive me. How you were able to latch onto your spirit and go on breathing, astonishes me even now. Even though you knew who wrote Faggot on your locker in indelible ink your junior year, you never said a word. And still somehow, you kept going. In your mind, you sang to them and your voice filled them with light. You imagined they became your friends: the ones who stole your gym bag, smashed the headlights on your car, or yelled Queer down the hall at you. Still, you kept walking. And singing. Quietly, almost silently, to yourself. But then, how you found the courage to take on the choir solo, I’ll never know. Your lips trembled next to the mic. At first, a tremor, catch in the throat. Then the first notes, unsteady and broken, but poised to soar. Flaming Caruso. How you torched the auditorium with your song. Then afterwards, the handshakes and back pats from the prom king, captain of the varsity football team. All docile. All dumbstruck. All yours. Until you left alone that night. I didn’t know then. If I could have somehow stood next to you, walked you to your car. Made sure you got safely through the dark parking lot. Now some twenty years later, I still touch my throat. That thin line of raised white scar tissue. But I am not silent. I’m singing to the you who once was me, and to all the brave Carusos who dream their voices into the world, a little wounded, but on fire.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
You must be somewhere in London, You must be loving your life in the rain. You must be somewhere in London, Walking Abbey Lane.
I tend not to blog much when I'm stressed or upset. Which, unfortunately, is how I've been feeling lately. But I think I may have snapped myself out of it finally.
Here's the thing. I’m in London, now. This city is… it’s hard. And expensive, and disinterested, and overwhelming. And I’ve cried pretty every day lately. But at the same time it’s beautiful and intoxicating and I’m living my dream. I had a great job interview for a position that I desperately want today, and my stepmom's visiting in just under a month.
I’ve not yet visited Abbey Road, but I did spend a week in Liverpool this summer. I’m planning on moving there for at least six months of my two years in the UK, because I’ve never fallen in love with a city like that. It was friendly and clean and full of positive energy. I adored it. But for now, I’m in London - probably till January, then five months in a live-in in the mountains of Wales if I can make that happen.
And then. On my birthday… not only will my daddy be visiting, but. We have tickets to see Eric Clapton. At the Royal Albert Hall. On my birthday.
So I’m broke as fuck, living out of a hostel having trouble finding a job, all my friends here have decided to move out of London, and I’m missing the people back home like crazy, but even with all that… I wouldn’t trade this for anything.
I went for a walk today. There’s nothing quite like an autumn-evening stroll along the Thames.
Put an ocean and a river between everybody else, Between everything, yourself, and home Put an ocean and a river Between everything, yourself, and home
On Tuesday evening I dressed myself up, slipped on my brand-new Oxford shoes, had a delicious take-away curry picnic in Hyde Park (excluding today, the weather has been so nice here it would be a shame not to spend any and all spare hours out-of-doors), and then crossed the street for an evening with one of my heroes: Stephen Fry was speaking at the Royal Albert Hall.
And what an evening it was! The Guardian once called Fry a “national treasure,” and judging by the audience, there’s a lot of people in London who agree. Every single seat was filled. Apparently, the Monday night show was similarly attended, and an additional show was put on the roster for tonight due to demand. For my part, I was sandwiched between two young couples - one lovely pair of lesbians, and one equally lovely yuppie businessman and his Spanish model girlfriend. There was a group of four hilarious teenagers in front of me, and a late-middle aged couple behind me. This is a man who really does appeal to a wide cross-section of the population. (For good reason, as any one of us would be willing to tell you.)
It’s a funny thing, this business of idolizing people. Here are some of the people I call “heroes”: Allen Ginsberg, Oscar Wilde, Neil Gaiman, Angela Carter, Tori Amos, Tom Stoppard, Sherlock Holmes, Alan Bennett, Virginia Woolf, Diana Wynne Jones, Ray Bradbury, and the Doctor (I am especially found of Eleven). I am aware that several of the abovementioned are purely fictional; I do not think this matters. I do think it noteworthy that the majority are writers even in this small selection of all the people that I look up to. (I am a cultural magpie, always searching out new ideas and entertainment. This excess of inspirational figures is not in any way a handicap as far as I’m concerned. “All novels are sequels;” as Michael Chabon says. “Influence is bliss.”)
ANYWAYS. Heroes. We have heroes for all sorts of reasons - inspiration, awe, wanting to be as great as them, learning from them… and sometimes, if we’re really lucky, we find heroes that show us, genius as they are, that it’s okay to be who we are. Stephen Fry is one such hero for me. Granted, he started out (in junior high) as the funny Melchett character from Blackadder to me, and then I moved on and found A Bit Of Fry and Laurie (it took several years for me to develop an interest in Jeeves & Wooster - either the TV series or the books. Oh, heathen soul!). But it was in high school, that time when we are most impressionable, and thus most likely to find heroes I suppose, that I truly became enamoured - I was one of those unbearable twats of a high schooler who thought themselves greatly cleverer than anyone else, utterly misunderstood, and who listened to The Smiths and The Libertines and carried around The Collected Works of Oscar Wilde all over the place. (To this day I have a great fondness for both Moz and Mr. Wilde.) …Which is when I stumbled upon the film Wilde, starring none other than Stephen Fry. And if I wasn’t utterly hooked by that, then I found his novel The Liar at the library, and reading it sealed the deal.
Now, because I draw influence from so many places, my love affairs with certain figures wax and wane as other interests crop up - I don’t discard any of them, I am not quite so fickle as that, but I do cycle through them, sometimes paying more attention to one than another. Such was the case with Mr. Fry. I got through my exams (the ones, to be perfectly honest about my selfish and lazy attitude towards schooling at this point, that mattered to me, anyway) with the help of Stoppard, Shakespeare, and Eliot. Etc, etc, etc, through college and my subsequent dropping out, until we get to a week ago.
I’ve just arrived in London, after what was frankly a rather miserable time at a live-in job in Cornwall. Feeling a bit adrift without having a friend to wander around with after spending over a month attached at the hip with a wonderful girl who will be cropping up more often as we move in and adventure together, I wandered into a place guaranteed to make me feel at home, and provide me with more friends than I can number - a bookstore. The flagship Waterstones store just down from Piccadilly Circus, if anyone’s interested. By the best-sellers shelves, there is a sign: Stephen Fry’s brand-new autobiography, half-price “because we love him.” I pick up what turns out to be the last book in the store - as the clerk I end up buying it from delightedly informs me, he’s knocked Tony Blair of the top of the charts.
Now, memoirs can be really hit or miss for me - they have to be both well-written and interesting to keep my attention. Focussing on his years at Cambridge and subsequent rise to fame, it instantly engrosses me. Witty as expected, terrifyingly honest, and heartbreakingly poignant with his writing, Fry talks about his obsessions and fears, of always feeling like a fraud, like he’s about to be “found out,” of his love of language and knowledge (as far as Fry is concerned, the only true sin is incuriosity), and in the process makes you (me) feel quite a lot better about being human, about your own doubts and fears.
And that’s the end of that, until a gentleman sees me reading on the Tube and asks me if I am going to see him (Fry) at the Royal Albert Hall. …what? Could it be possible? As a matter of fact, it could.
And so on Tuesday night I went to see him, and came away feeling like everything was going to be okay. It’s an amazing thing to look up to someone who looks up to the same other someones that you do. And it’s an even more amazing thing to look up to someone as gracious and intelligent as Stephen Fry. After an evening recounting things like his first meeting with Hugh Laurie, a few of his old one-man sketches (including the Dracula one), and answering Twitter questions, he decided to end the evening by dedicating it to Oscar Wilde. And so he launched into a speech praising not, as everyone who talks of Wilde tends to do, his wit, but rather his humanity; his braveness, his gentleness, and above all, his kindness. It put me in mind of Fry’s autobiography, when he tells the reader one of his favourite quotes from a Dean at Cambridge:
“A word of advice: don’t try to be clever. We’re all clever here. Only try to be kind, a little kind.”
My next few posts will be all over the map as I attempt to catch up on my trip so far. And I have a lot to write about - about stony Edinburgh and sea-bound Cornwall and the magical properties of Liverpool. But first, here’s where I am now.
I arrived back in London almost four months to the day that I first came to the UK - something that I didn’t realize until I was already here, but that seems fitting. This city has an excess of gravity, I think; like a planet, it causes everything that falls into its orbit to either revolve around it endlessly or give in and come back. There are a lot of ‘ifs’ at play, too, of course. If I had found a job in Edinburgh… If I’d enjoyed St. Ives more…
But in the end, London’s gravity was strong enough to hold me, and I came back. And I am happy here, despite not yet having a job or a permanent place to stay, happy enough to realize just how much I wasn’t enjoying the last place I was in. But enough of that. This post is for the here and now.
Samuel Johnson once said “when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford,” and I think that is even more true now than it was in his time. In just five days, I have found dinosaurs, English majors, businessmen with Disney-character ties, an Indian music video shoot, most of the known species of butterfly in the world, part of a spaceship, comic shops that I won’t let myself buy anything from until I’ve found a flat, people asking me for directions, a giant statue of Freddy Mercury, a theatre built into the side of an underpass, Shakespearean plays, a painting come to life, and a fairy-tale castle with seven dreaming princesses, among other things.
I did not find Paddington Bear, despite looking high and low.
And now I am sitting in the courtyard of the Natural History Museum, one my favourite public spaces anywhere. I’ve found a small patch of sun between the trees, and the cup of tea beside me helps chase the last of the early autumn chill away. When I am finished typing this, I will go across the street to the Victoria & Albert Museum, to look at a collection of 60s rock‘n’roll photographs, and then I will take the Tube and spend my afternoon wandering Bloomsbury, looking for places to apply for work. Bookish Bloomsbury, which is fast becoming one of my favourite parts of London
No, I don’t think I will tire of this city. Because in London, to find your way to the riverside, you don’t follow the yellow-brick road. Instead, there’s a path lit by orange streetlights for you.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
south bank, london
i love cities. i love their bustle, their vitality, their people. i especially love the way that cities harbour vibrant subcultures, how anyone can find their niche if they work hard enough.
i arrived in london nauseous, exhausted, and sore from a long plain ride, and the panic attack i had before even getting on the plane. even though i was still nervous once the plane landed, i now was able to put it aside, because i had to concentrate on getting myself to my hostel. that's something i've noticed about travel already - when in doubt, force yourself into motion, and you won't be able to concentrate on your nerves anymore.
i spent my time in london walking. i walked and walked, went back to the hostel and bandaged my bruised and blistered feet, and walked some more. wandering the city rather haphazardly, and happily going back to places i'd enjoyed. this means i missed out on a lot of sights - i never made it to camden town, for instance, and both times i tried the globe a play was in progress, but i refused to stress about it, telling myself that i'd come back, i could see it later. it's bigger and denser than any city i'd ever been in before, and i got lost countless times, but it was all part of london's charm, and i found some lovely places i'd otherwise never have noticed.
as dylan thomas said, let's "begin at the beginning." i'm not sure what the exact beginning is in this case, but i think when i was a little girl is as good as any. i grew up in victoria, bc. i was a very shy child, but a voracious reader, and the books i read were a big influence on me.
when i was little, i didn't actually have a wardrobe, but i checked inside any that i came across (my granny's seemed an especially appropriate choice) for a snowy wonderland. i wished i could travel to camelot, and meet king arthur - i would be his bravest, most loyal damosel. i wondered what my daemon would be. and i know i'm not the only person who hoped and prayed for a letter to arrive by owl on my eleventh birthday.
as i grew up, i of course realized that fiction and reality are two different things, but that didn't stop me from wishing that the worlds inside my books - worlds of teenage runaways, bizarre and amazing places, brave orphans, girl detectives, secret worlds and gardens, gypsies and pirates, adventures and quests - were real. i know now, as an aspiring writer myself, that existing in books makes them real, but i wanted adventures of my own, private worlds and battles against evil.
so here we are. i'm 21 now, an age where you're not supposed to believe in the fairy tales anymore. i'm too old to be a teenage runaway, and not nearly wise enough to be a gypsy, but i'm not going to let that stop me. i've got a passport & visa, a camera, a notebook, and good music for long train journeys. i'm off to meet the uk, explore europe for two years, and make my own ordinary adventures.
