Today I saw the first sunset I've noticed since moving to London. It was just a sliver, bright behind the darkness of the clouds, and it lasted only a few minutes. Then the bus I was on turned away from Hyde Park into Kensington, and the sky was lost behind the buildings. It put me in mind of Leonard Cohen - "There's a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in."
And I don't even really have much of substance to say. These are days of wandering the city by bus and by foot, looking for work, with Mumford & Sons playing in my headphones. Of breakfast in front of BBC News. Of evenings spent with books and notebooks and films. Of tea and toast.
I spend a lot of time in old bookstores that smell of dust and stale cigarettes. After handing in a CV, I allow myself wander the shelves for a few moments, ghosting in amongst familiar names, pulling loved ones down and reading a few cracked yellow pages at a time. Riding on the Tube or the tops of busses I scribble away in my notebook, turn down my music and listen to the conversations around me. I am surrounded by pages covered in inkstains and half-moons from cups of tea.
I might be unemployed, but I am working and learning every day. I am reading voraciously. I am a little bit addicted to Radio 4 & 7, and BBC dramas (radio and television), and several new fascinations (as well as some recurring old ones). I am making my own syllabus, I suppose. Indulging my obsessions. Recommended trying, if you can, then? Sherlock, Crooked House, Small Island, Terrence Rattigan, Philip Ridley, TS Eliot, the Front Row Highlights podcast, M&S Breakfast Tea, The Man In Black, Laura Marling, Carl Barat, listening to British people do American accents, Saturday, Tipping the Velvet, and I'm sure I've missed something.
Also, Benedict Cumberbatch and Johnny Lee Miller are being directed by Danny Boyle in a new production of Frankenstein at the National Theatre, starting next month, and I cannot wait to see it. Not only do I adore the novel, there are three very good reasons listed above to see it. Most interesting to me, though, is that Cumberbatch and Miller will be trading off the roles of Frankenstein and the Creature nightly. I am very, very intrigued by this.
Oh dear, this wasn't a very interesting post, was it? Mostly I just wanted to check in. I am well, I hope you all are too. I miss everyone, of course.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
on the lights of london, and other minutiae
There is a perfect moment every evening in London, as the sun begins to set and the city lights up. Things are just a little bit clearer for those few minutes, sharp and glowing like a gem. It is, I suppose, what most people would call twilight. That little sliver of time is my favourite part of most any day. Even though it's right around when people start their commute home (for now; as the days continue to lengthen this won't stay the case.), it's a calm time for me no matter how the day before it's gone. Without fail, night after night, I'm flooded with the overwhelming presence of London, of the knowledge that I live here, in this greatest of all cities (though, I admit, I've yet to visit Cairo or St Petersburg), and the simple fact of the love I have for it.
Light, is something that has fascinated me for a long time. The quality of it, its tones and colours, the way it plays across surfaces. One of my favourite artistic techniques is chiaroscuro. This has a lot to do with my obsession with this time of day, I think. Because London is a dark city, really - all overcast clouds and fog and thin, winding streets shadowed by buildings and time. (Apparently, before the advent of the gaslamp era, London streets were so dark at night that once, a policeman involved in a street ruckus didn't recognize his rescuer as his own brother until he got him directly under a streetlight.). Nowadays, it is almost brighter at night, as though it leeches up the sun's rays rather than basking in them during the day. The colour of the light is also different than what I've experienced before. Back home on the west coast, the light was mostly tinted green and grey. Edinburgh shone gold, even with its deep, deep shadows; I imagine outside of the summer months it fades to brown. Cornwall was also gold, with the green that I think might come from the sea.
The light in London is mostly blue. Most people would expect grey, or maybe white, due to the buildings and the near-constant cloud cover. But it shines blue, especially in the evenings. It's the shadows that are grey, and black (and the shadows in London are an interesting thing, as they seem to come equally from the absence of light and the presence of history. This might be a personal thing, as before I moved here, my London was one of Victorian literature - Wilde, Doyle, Barrie, Carroll, etc - Jack the Ripper, gaslamps and fog. I had a very old fashioned view in my head. And part of what makes modern, multicoloured, multicultural London so brilliant is that that old version still hovers here, around the edges).
I have always been most comfortable in transitions. I prefer in-between stages, where things are changing, and nothing's for certain yet: fall, spring, the planning stage of a trip, the journey on public transport before you get off at your stop. That might be another part of why I love London's twilight so much, as the city moves away from the light of day and illuminates itself.
And so it's strange that lately I find myself not wanting much change. I recently blogged about how my plan was to leave London in about four months' time, so I can save money to go travelling. And ever since then, I've been thinking 'is it really, though?' My roommate, who is infinitely more organized and prepared than I am, is already looking around to decide where she's going next, and searching out jobs. I am currently unemployed, and looking for work. Every day I get up, do some internet job hunting, and then head out to pound the pavement. Just yesterday I applied for seven different jobs: all of them at heritage sites, all of them in London, and all of them summer positions. Most telling of all, though, is when I was talking to my mother about my difficulty finding a job and she suggested that maybe it was time to move on to somewhere else, I said "but I don't want to."
I didn't expect or want to fall in love with London, but somehow I've managed to do it anyways.
London is dirty, and overcrowded. People here are rude. The Tube often has delays and cancellations. It is incredibly expensive. Fresh air is a myth, and I also have yet to find really good vegetables. The streets, cobbled or concrete, wreak havoc on my footwear and my feet. It can be snooty, and it is often overdressed.
But London also shines blue. Blue like policemen's lights, like sapphires, like my favourite nailpolish, like the Tardis. Blue like a bruise. It is impossible to be bored here. It is a city of intelligence, literature, the arts, but also human frailty, death, resilience. There is so much here that one would need several lifetimes to really know it. And I am enchanted.
I love the way the city pulses and flows around you; I love how easy it is be anonymous, or to break that anonymity if you feel like it. I love the simplest things: the top of the Tate Modern, looking out over St. Paul's; standing on any of the bridges over the Thames, but especially the Millenium and Waterloo; the ravens in the Tower; the courtyards of the V&A and Natural History museums; Marylebone High Street; picnics in Russell Square or or Regent's Park; watching movies or reading books and recognising landmarks and place names; vintage shops in Soho; riding on the upstairs of busses; the delight in realizing I've added more details to my mental map of the city; and this list could go on for so much longer.
So, for the first time in a long time, it's not the transition that I'm focussing on right now. Instead of looking ahead at where I'm going to go, dreaming about where I'll live next, what I want now is to stay here, to sink into this city as much as I possibly can. I spent a very long time being restless, of always wanting something more, something different. I used to walk for hours on end, pacing, planning things, attempting to shake that restlessness. Now I do the same for hours in order to soak up the city. I want to know London, to learn it by walking its streets and reading its stones. I am utterly fascinated with the here and now I have.
All that's not to say that I've given up my grand plans, of course - one doesn't break a habit as easily as that. Just that, for now, my plans are of a different nature. There are so many places I have yet to see here. Walks to go on, landmarks to visit. I've recently become re-obsessed with the theatre, and there are over 200 shows to choose from - over ten currently running that I'd love to see. Live theatre here is wonderful, and if you stay away from musicals, relatively tourist free. Currently I have fourteen different ideas for writing that all need to be worked on. And I've always been something of an autodidact, but I'm working especially hard at it now. Aside from the piles of fiction I always have waiting to be read, this is my current to-read list (recorded here for no other reason than that now I'll have to read them):
Judith Flanders - The Invention of Murder
Sarah Bakewll - How to Live
Peter Ackroyd - London
Ian McGilchrist - The Master and His Emissary
Vyvyen Brendon - Prep School Children
TS Eliot - Collected Letters
Helen Castor - She Wolves
Will Hutton - Them and Us
Rebecca Solnit - Wanderlust
And, to be completely honest, I haven't actually got a clue what my plans are anymore. I don't know how long I'll stay here, I don't know where I'll go next. I don't know where I'll end up getting hired, and I don't know if I really will stay in London for the summer now. Eventually, I imagine even my fondness for this city will be eclipsed by my wanderlust. And if it doesn't before my visa runs out, well, it'll kick in hard when I start travelling. And until then I'm content to let the rest play out as it will, for now.
Light, is something that has fascinated me for a long time. The quality of it, its tones and colours, the way it plays across surfaces. One of my favourite artistic techniques is chiaroscuro. This has a lot to do with my obsession with this time of day, I think. Because London is a dark city, really - all overcast clouds and fog and thin, winding streets shadowed by buildings and time. (Apparently, before the advent of the gaslamp era, London streets were so dark at night that once, a policeman involved in a street ruckus didn't recognize his rescuer as his own brother until he got him directly under a streetlight.). Nowadays, it is almost brighter at night, as though it leeches up the sun's rays rather than basking in them during the day. The colour of the light is also different than what I've experienced before. Back home on the west coast, the light was mostly tinted green and grey. Edinburgh shone gold, even with its deep, deep shadows; I imagine outside of the summer months it fades to brown. Cornwall was also gold, with the green that I think might come from the sea.
The light in London is mostly blue. Most people would expect grey, or maybe white, due to the buildings and the near-constant cloud cover. But it shines blue, especially in the evenings. It's the shadows that are grey, and black (and the shadows in London are an interesting thing, as they seem to come equally from the absence of light and the presence of history. This might be a personal thing, as before I moved here, my London was one of Victorian literature - Wilde, Doyle, Barrie, Carroll, etc - Jack the Ripper, gaslamps and fog. I had a very old fashioned view in my head. And part of what makes modern, multicoloured, multicultural London so brilliant is that that old version still hovers here, around the edges).
I have always been most comfortable in transitions. I prefer in-between stages, where things are changing, and nothing's for certain yet: fall, spring, the planning stage of a trip, the journey on public transport before you get off at your stop. That might be another part of why I love London's twilight so much, as the city moves away from the light of day and illuminates itself.
And so it's strange that lately I find myself not wanting much change. I recently blogged about how my plan was to leave London in about four months' time, so I can save money to go travelling. And ever since then, I've been thinking 'is it really, though?' My roommate, who is infinitely more organized and prepared than I am, is already looking around to decide where she's going next, and searching out jobs. I am currently unemployed, and looking for work. Every day I get up, do some internet job hunting, and then head out to pound the pavement. Just yesterday I applied for seven different jobs: all of them at heritage sites, all of them in London, and all of them summer positions. Most telling of all, though, is when I was talking to my mother about my difficulty finding a job and she suggested that maybe it was time to move on to somewhere else, I said "but I don't want to."
I didn't expect or want to fall in love with London, but somehow I've managed to do it anyways.
London is dirty, and overcrowded. People here are rude. The Tube often has delays and cancellations. It is incredibly expensive. Fresh air is a myth, and I also have yet to find really good vegetables. The streets, cobbled or concrete, wreak havoc on my footwear and my feet. It can be snooty, and it is often overdressed.
But London also shines blue. Blue like policemen's lights, like sapphires, like my favourite nailpolish, like the Tardis. Blue like a bruise. It is impossible to be bored here. It is a city of intelligence, literature, the arts, but also human frailty, death, resilience. There is so much here that one would need several lifetimes to really know it. And I am enchanted.
I love the way the city pulses and flows around you; I love how easy it is be anonymous, or to break that anonymity if you feel like it. I love the simplest things: the top of the Tate Modern, looking out over St. Paul's; standing on any of the bridges over the Thames, but especially the Millenium and Waterloo; the ravens in the Tower; the courtyards of the V&A and Natural History museums; Marylebone High Street; picnics in Russell Square or or Regent's Park; watching movies or reading books and recognising landmarks and place names; vintage shops in Soho; riding on the upstairs of busses; the delight in realizing I've added more details to my mental map of the city; and this list could go on for so much longer.
So, for the first time in a long time, it's not the transition that I'm focussing on right now. Instead of looking ahead at where I'm going to go, dreaming about where I'll live next, what I want now is to stay here, to sink into this city as much as I possibly can. I spent a very long time being restless, of always wanting something more, something different. I used to walk for hours on end, pacing, planning things, attempting to shake that restlessness. Now I do the same for hours in order to soak up the city. I want to know London, to learn it by walking its streets and reading its stones. I am utterly fascinated with the here and now I have.
All that's not to say that I've given up my grand plans, of course - one doesn't break a habit as easily as that. Just that, for now, my plans are of a different nature. There are so many places I have yet to see here. Walks to go on, landmarks to visit. I've recently become re-obsessed with the theatre, and there are over 200 shows to choose from - over ten currently running that I'd love to see. Live theatre here is wonderful, and if you stay away from musicals, relatively tourist free. Currently I have fourteen different ideas for writing that all need to be worked on. And I've always been something of an autodidact, but I'm working especially hard at it now. Aside from the piles of fiction I always have waiting to be read, this is my current to-read list (recorded here for no other reason than that now I'll have to read them):
Judith Flanders - The Invention of Murder
Sarah Bakewll - How to Live
Peter Ackroyd - London
Ian McGilchrist - The Master and His Emissary
Vyvyen Brendon - Prep School Children
TS Eliot - Collected Letters
Helen Castor - She Wolves
Will Hutton - Them and Us
Rebecca Solnit - Wanderlust
And, to be completely honest, I haven't actually got a clue what my plans are anymore. I don't know how long I'll stay here, I don't know where I'll go next. I don't know where I'll end up getting hired, and I don't know if I really will stay in London for the summer now. Eventually, I imagine even my fondness for this city will be eclipsed by my wanderlust. And if it doesn't before my visa runs out, well, it'll kick in hard when I start travelling. And until then I'm content to let the rest play out as it will, for now.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Why I Write, by Jacqui, age 21 and three-quarters
There is a story I tell often. Not so much a story, really, as an anecdote, a fact. It goes like this: I first decided I was going to be a writer when I realized that there were people behind the stories I gobbled up as a child. People created these magic things, and I was going to be one of them.
And this is true, though nowadays I think that if you look hard enough, and maybe squint a little, there is a deeper truth there. That maybe there wasn’t really any decision. Maybe it was more of a realization, a recognition that there was nothing else in the world that meant as much to me as this. That there was only one thing I was really meant to do, regardless of ability, economics, or the likelihood of success.
There is another story, one I very rarely tell, and never in its entirety. This is that story:
I didn't write anything for nearly three years.
Oh, sure, I still carried around a notebook for all of except about four months of those years. I jotted down little things, mostly quotes from other people, a few small ideas, the like. But nothing real, no proper writing. No stories, no poems. I was completely dried up. More importantly, I was completely passionless. My heart wasn't in it. No big deal, right? I guess writing was just a phase, it wasn't meant to be, all those platitudes.
No.
It was a very big deal. I didn't realize how big until I'd finally started to struggle loose of the fog that I'd been living in, but it was a big deal. Living isn't even the right word. I was closer to a zombie - merely existing, shambling through life dull, indifferent, and apathetic. Nothing I did was with any effort. Certainly not my writing.
I dropped out of college twice. Only the second time was due to wanting to pursue something I wanted more than a degree.
It took a long time, even after I started consciously chasing it, for my passion to come back. I was scared, for a while, that I'd never be able to write again. That fear is what made me do it, more than anything else. More than writing classes, goal-setting, reward schemes. I was terrified that I could have lost something that meant so much to me.
Because here is another truth: I don't know who I'd be if I wasn't a writer.
I don't care if I'm never a commercial success. I don't care if I always have to work another job to support my writing (ideally, of course, this won't be the case, but I don't care if it is). I don't care if I never write a bestseller, never get interviewed, never see any royalty cheques. Just so long as I never lose my writing.
Writing is my way of approaching the world. It is my chosen means of communication. I can't sing, and I'm a shitty dancer, but I'll tell you a story about the colours of your vocal cords, or the bones of a ballerina that are hollow like a bird's, if you like. Writing is my voice.
A few months ago, right around the time I had my first professional publication, I stumbled upon two quotes about writing, or using your voice. The first was from Yoko Ono, and the second is anonymous, as far as I can tell:
"Every time we don't say what we mean we are dying. Make a list of all the times you died this week."
and
"Writer's block isn't having nothing to say. Writer's block is being scared of articulating what it is you have to say."
There are plenty of times, even still, that writing can be incredibly difficult for me. That sitting down to an empty page, I will be filled with sheer terror, certain I'm not going to be able to say anything. But these days, I work through it. I keep trying. Because writing is my voice, and I'm not giving that up again for anything.
The powers-that-be in this world so often wants you to be quiet, to keep your eyes averted, never speak up, always back down. The most political thing you can do, in a climate like this, is refuse to shut up. To claim your voice, and insist on using it in whatever way you choose. To be yourself, boldly, beautifully yourself. That is the strongest thing there is, for you and for others.
I hope to one day be a mentor for youth. I don't know yet if this will take shape as a career in teaching or something extracurricular like a poetry coach. This is my biggest dream: to be a creator, and to facilitate creation. I don't think I'm qualified quite yet - I've still got some work to do on me. But some day soon, this is what I'd like to do.
And in working with those youth, I want to help them find their voices. I want to encourage as many people as I can to live out loud. I want to make sure as few as possible other people who need words lose them. I just want to do my bit.
In the latest Brave New Voices (youth poetry slam competition) video, there is a moment before the competition that all the kids are together, getting ready. They are chanting something:
"You got something to say. Say something."
So, this is why. Why I blog, why I poet, why I storytell. Because I am one person out of 6 billion on this planet. Because I have a heart, because it broke, and I stuck it back together with sellotape and chewing gum. Because I'm looking for something, and I don't even know what it is yet. Because I lost part of myself, and I was lucky enough to find it again. Because I can't not.
And this is true, though nowadays I think that if you look hard enough, and maybe squint a little, there is a deeper truth there. That maybe there wasn’t really any decision. Maybe it was more of a realization, a recognition that there was nothing else in the world that meant as much to me as this. That there was only one thing I was really meant to do, regardless of ability, economics, or the likelihood of success.
There is another story, one I very rarely tell, and never in its entirety. This is that story:
I didn't write anything for nearly three years.
Oh, sure, I still carried around a notebook for all of except about four months of those years. I jotted down little things, mostly quotes from other people, a few small ideas, the like. But nothing real, no proper writing. No stories, no poems. I was completely dried up. More importantly, I was completely passionless. My heart wasn't in it. No big deal, right? I guess writing was just a phase, it wasn't meant to be, all those platitudes.
No.
It was a very big deal. I didn't realize how big until I'd finally started to struggle loose of the fog that I'd been living in, but it was a big deal. Living isn't even the right word. I was closer to a zombie - merely existing, shambling through life dull, indifferent, and apathetic. Nothing I did was with any effort. Certainly not my writing.
I dropped out of college twice. Only the second time was due to wanting to pursue something I wanted more than a degree.
It took a long time, even after I started consciously chasing it, for my passion to come back. I was scared, for a while, that I'd never be able to write again. That fear is what made me do it, more than anything else. More than writing classes, goal-setting, reward schemes. I was terrified that I could have lost something that meant so much to me.
Because here is another truth: I don't know who I'd be if I wasn't a writer.
I don't care if I'm never a commercial success. I don't care if I always have to work another job to support my writing (ideally, of course, this won't be the case, but I don't care if it is). I don't care if I never write a bestseller, never get interviewed, never see any royalty cheques. Just so long as I never lose my writing.
Writing is my way of approaching the world. It is my chosen means of communication. I can't sing, and I'm a shitty dancer, but I'll tell you a story about the colours of your vocal cords, or the bones of a ballerina that are hollow like a bird's, if you like. Writing is my voice.
A few months ago, right around the time I had my first professional publication, I stumbled upon two quotes about writing, or using your voice. The first was from Yoko Ono, and the second is anonymous, as far as I can tell:
"Every time we don't say what we mean we are dying. Make a list of all the times you died this week."
and
"Writer's block isn't having nothing to say. Writer's block is being scared of articulating what it is you have to say."
There are plenty of times, even still, that writing can be incredibly difficult for me. That sitting down to an empty page, I will be filled with sheer terror, certain I'm not going to be able to say anything. But these days, I work through it. I keep trying. Because writing is my voice, and I'm not giving that up again for anything.
The powers-that-be in this world so often wants you to be quiet, to keep your eyes averted, never speak up, always back down. The most political thing you can do, in a climate like this, is refuse to shut up. To claim your voice, and insist on using it in whatever way you choose. To be yourself, boldly, beautifully yourself. That is the strongest thing there is, for you and for others.
I hope to one day be a mentor for youth. I don't know yet if this will take shape as a career in teaching or something extracurricular like a poetry coach. This is my biggest dream: to be a creator, and to facilitate creation. I don't think I'm qualified quite yet - I've still got some work to do on me. But some day soon, this is what I'd like to do.
And in working with those youth, I want to help them find their voices. I want to encourage as many people as I can to live out loud. I want to make sure as few as possible other people who need words lose them. I just want to do my bit.
In the latest Brave New Voices (youth poetry slam competition) video, there is a moment before the competition that all the kids are together, getting ready. They are chanting something:
"You got something to say. Say something."
So, this is why. Why I blog, why I poet, why I storytell. Because I am one person out of 6 billion on this planet. Because I have a heart, because it broke, and I stuck it back together with sellotape and chewing gum. Because I'm looking for something, and I don't even know what it is yet. Because I lost part of myself, and I was lucky enough to find it again. Because I can't not.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
promises, promises
I have just over four more months left in London, according to my current plan. It’s true, of course, that four months is a long time, especially when you’re thinking within the limits of a two-year visa. My plans may change. Hell, I know they will - they’ll change multiple times, all over the map, from the probable to the impossible and back again. Because the only thing I’m better at than drinking tea is making plans.
But as it stands, I plan out heading out of London sometime in May, after my Dad visits and we go to the Clapton concert. I don’t know where to yet. Somewhere in coastal Wales is a strong contender at the moment, as are Brighton, Liverpool, Northern Ireland, and several different islands. I will probably get a live-in job, so I can save money for travelling. I might not get a live-in job, because I like the separation of space between home and work. I might go somewhere tiny, so I can hear myself think. I might not, because I love cities. I want to go to a writing seminar in Vilnius, Lithuania, if I can afford it. I want to volunteer in a primate reserve in Devon. I want to drink coffee in Paris and Istanbul, mint tea in Marrakesh, and wine in Rome. I want to go home and start back up on my degree. I want, I dream, I might. (This is what I mean about myself and plans)
I don’t believe in New Year’s resolutions, because they don’t work, and I think people approach them the wrong way. I’m not going to stop anything this year. I’m not gonna diet, or cut back on my drinking, or exercise five days a week, or anything like that. Those are all things that if you really wanna do them, you will, new year or not. I do, however, believe in making yourself promises. In working hard to make your life as amazing as possible. So here are some things I’ve promised myself that I will do this year (and if I don’t get them done, then next year!):
-attend the Edinburgh Fringe Festival.
-see Stonehenge, and the White Horse in Wiltshire.
-visit Hay-on-Wye, preferably during their book festival.
-go back to Paris.
-work on my French skills.
-take as many daytrips and mini-vacations as possible.
-keep writing and submitting and working hard at this.
-go to the Summer Literary Seminar in Vilnius.
-spend the night on Cader Idris.
-learn some Welsh and/or Gaelic.
-see the final Harry Potter film (of course). Cry like a baby (inevitably).
-visit Dublin and hopefully the rest of Ireland.
-volunteer at the Monkey Sanctuary.
-try to finish a novel manuscript.
-meet my British family.
-intern at the BBC (if I get accepted).
-go to Amsterdam with my friends like we said we would.
-go back to Cornwall and see a play at the Minack Theatre (also, visit the Eden Project.)
-attend a proper Guy Fawkes Night celebration.
-visit the Shetland Islands.
-spend the night in a proper (preferably haunted) castle.
And that's it, so far. Did you make yourself any promises for this year?
But as it stands, I plan out heading out of London sometime in May, after my Dad visits and we go to the Clapton concert. I don’t know where to yet. Somewhere in coastal Wales is a strong contender at the moment, as are Brighton, Liverpool, Northern Ireland, and several different islands. I will probably get a live-in job, so I can save money for travelling. I might not get a live-in job, because I like the separation of space between home and work. I might go somewhere tiny, so I can hear myself think. I might not, because I love cities. I want to go to a writing seminar in Vilnius, Lithuania, if I can afford it. I want to volunteer in a primate reserve in Devon. I want to drink coffee in Paris and Istanbul, mint tea in Marrakesh, and wine in Rome. I want to go home and start back up on my degree. I want, I dream, I might. (This is what I mean about myself and plans)
I don’t believe in New Year’s resolutions, because they don’t work, and I think people approach them the wrong way. I’m not going to stop anything this year. I’m not gonna diet, or cut back on my drinking, or exercise five days a week, or anything like that. Those are all things that if you really wanna do them, you will, new year or not. I do, however, believe in making yourself promises. In working hard to make your life as amazing as possible. So here are some things I’ve promised myself that I will do this year (and if I don’t get them done, then next year!):
-attend the Edinburgh Fringe Festival.
-see Stonehenge, and the White Horse in Wiltshire.
-visit Hay-on-Wye, preferably during their book festival.
-go back to Paris.
-work on my French skills.
-take as many daytrips and mini-vacations as possible.
-keep writing and submitting and working hard at this.
-go to the Summer Literary Seminar in Vilnius.
-spend the night on Cader Idris.
-learn some Welsh and/or Gaelic.
-see the final Harry Potter film (of course). Cry like a baby (inevitably).
-visit Dublin and hopefully the rest of Ireland.
-volunteer at the Monkey Sanctuary.
-try to finish a novel manuscript.
-meet my British family.
-intern at the BBC (if I get accepted).
-go to Amsterdam with my friends like we said we would.
-go back to Cornwall and see a play at the Minack Theatre (also, visit the Eden Project.)
-attend a proper Guy Fawkes Night celebration.
-visit the Shetland Islands.
-spend the night in a proper (preferably haunted) castle.
And that's it, so far. Did you make yourself any promises for this year?
Monday, January 10, 2011
I didn't post about this yesterday because by the time I got to posting here yesterday, I was consciously not thinking about it in an attempt to calm down. Because I am usually angry about something, since the world is an unjust place and I wish it weren't, but right now I am so full of rage and hurt that I noticed myself shaking several times throughout the day, that I can only listen to Rage Against the Machine and Gogol Bordello and Eminem's "Not Afraid" because every time I put something calmer on I have to stop myself from throwing my ipod across the room.
Because on Saturday, as I'm sure everyone has heard by now, Democratic Rep. Giffords and at least eight other people were shot in a parking lot in Tuscon, Arizona. Because a nine-year-old girl, who wanted to become a politician to help people less fortunate than her, was killed. Because federal Judge John Roll is also dead.
Because Sarah Palin and other extreme rightwingers had been using violent language, such as "elimination" and shooting-related metaphors in her tweets, and crosshair targets on a graphic of the US on her website, for months, creating a rhetorical political climate of violence and bigotry. (Palin is now eliminating all such content on her twitter, facebook, and site.)
Because Giffords called her on it: "Palin's list has a gun sight over our district. They have to realize there are consequences to that."
Because during his campaign effort to unseat Giffords in November, Republican challenger Jesse Kelly held fundraisers where he urged supporters to help remove Giffords from office by joining him to shoot a fully loaded M-16 rifle.
Because in the responses to this attack, it is repeatedly being called "unfortunate," a "tragedy," and "inexplicable." Because the shooter Jared Loughner is being called a "deranged individual," "mentally unstable," and "psychotic." (Full disclosure: he is schizophrenic.)
Because people with mental illnesses are NO MORE LIKELY to be violent than people without them. In fact, they are more likely to be victims of it than pereptrators.
Because of course he's being classified as a mentally unstable individual, because he's a white American. Therefore he can't possibly be a terrorist, right? Even though terrorism is essentially violence and attacks designed to incite fear and political change. But every person of colour or Muslim person who does such a thing is a terrorist, and representative of all POC/Muslims; every white person is a fringe character.
Because when Giffords voted in favour of the health care bill (which is what the above-mentioned map was about), her office in Tuscon was attacked and vandalised.
Because Judge Roll had previously been threatened due to his ruling that illegal immigrants could sue their employer, making him extremely unpopular with the hyper nationalist movement.
Because Loughner was unstable enough to be cut from the military and suspended from college, but dammit if he couldn't buy himself a semi-automatic gun.
Because Arizona is a hotspot of racism and anger and intolerance that would most definitely skew the beliefs of someone with a mental disorder. (They may not be more violent, but they can be more easily swayed or unhinged.)
Because now people are too busy pointing fingers and assigning blame than trying to group together and work on fixing the issues that lead to this happening.
Because so many people on the left are now using this as a reason to blame Palin and others (and they should be held accountable, yes) while glossing over the very real climate of anti-immigration - which is racism against immigrants but also white supremacy and the militarization of borders, and the policing of them on homes and workplaces and bodies and families - that also contributed to it.
Because when you add all these factors together, this shooting becomes not shocking, but inevitable.
Because, as someone tweeted on Saturday, when a nine-year-old is killed in cold blood, we have all failed.
Because someone retweeted that and added, simply, "Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan." And they're right. Palestine, the US-Mexico border, gang violence, Sudan, Uganda... We have all failed.
A list of smart people who are saying smart things about this:
-Sady Doyle has several posts about it here, and also here
-The majority of Sarah Jaffe's recent posts, but especially this one.
-The Utne Reader
-Professor Juan Cole on white terrorism.
-Obama London: Inexplicable edits on Sarah Palin's Facebook
-Colorlines: The Inherent Self-Destruction of Government-vs-the-People Ideology
-Shakesville: Let's Get This Straight
And because I'd like to end on at least a slightly positive note, I want to tell you about my new hero, Daniel Hernandez, the 20-year-old aid of GIfford's who on Saturday ran towards the gunshots and who is most likely the reason she is still alive - he held her and applied pressure to the entrance wound until paramedics arrived, and then rode with her to the hospital.
"Of course you’re afraid, you just kind of have to do what you can," he said, as well as: "It was probably not the best idea to run toward the gunshots, but people needed help."
This man, you guys. This barely-out-of-his-teens, brown, overweight, openly gay man. This man, whose body has been criminalized in Arizona, who the white right-wing doesn't want there, says has no place, isn't good enough to be there. This hero.
Because on Saturday, as I'm sure everyone has heard by now, Democratic Rep. Giffords and at least eight other people were shot in a parking lot in Tuscon, Arizona. Because a nine-year-old girl, who wanted to become a politician to help people less fortunate than her, was killed. Because federal Judge John Roll is also dead.
Because Sarah Palin and other extreme rightwingers had been using violent language, such as "elimination" and shooting-related metaphors in her tweets, and crosshair targets on a graphic of the US on her website, for months, creating a rhetorical political climate of violence and bigotry. (Palin is now eliminating all such content on her twitter, facebook, and site.)
Because Giffords called her on it: "Palin's list has a gun sight over our district. They have to realize there are consequences to that."
Because during his campaign effort to unseat Giffords in November, Republican challenger Jesse Kelly held fundraisers where he urged supporters to help remove Giffords from office by joining him to shoot a fully loaded M-16 rifle.
Because in the responses to this attack, it is repeatedly being called "unfortunate," a "tragedy," and "inexplicable." Because the shooter Jared Loughner is being called a "deranged individual," "mentally unstable," and "psychotic." (Full disclosure: he is schizophrenic.)
Because people with mental illnesses are NO MORE LIKELY to be violent than people without them. In fact, they are more likely to be victims of it than pereptrators.
Because of course he's being classified as a mentally unstable individual, because he's a white American. Therefore he can't possibly be a terrorist, right? Even though terrorism is essentially violence and attacks designed to incite fear and political change. But every person of colour or Muslim person who does such a thing is a terrorist, and representative of all POC/Muslims; every white person is a fringe character.
Because when Giffords voted in favour of the health care bill (which is what the above-mentioned map was about), her office in Tuscon was attacked and vandalised.
Because Judge Roll had previously been threatened due to his ruling that illegal immigrants could sue their employer, making him extremely unpopular with the hyper nationalist movement.
Because Loughner was unstable enough to be cut from the military and suspended from college, but dammit if he couldn't buy himself a semi-automatic gun.
Because Arizona is a hotspot of racism and anger and intolerance that would most definitely skew the beliefs of someone with a mental disorder. (They may not be more violent, but they can be more easily swayed or unhinged.)
Because now people are too busy pointing fingers and assigning blame than trying to group together and work on fixing the issues that lead to this happening.
Because so many people on the left are now using this as a reason to blame Palin and others (and they should be held accountable, yes) while glossing over the very real climate of anti-immigration - which is racism against immigrants but also white supremacy and the militarization of borders, and the policing of them on homes and workplaces and bodies and families - that also contributed to it.
Because when you add all these factors together, this shooting becomes not shocking, but inevitable.
Because, as someone tweeted on Saturday, when a nine-year-old is killed in cold blood, we have all failed.
Because someone retweeted that and added, simply, "Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan." And they're right. Palestine, the US-Mexico border, gang violence, Sudan, Uganda... We have all failed.
A list of smart people who are saying smart things about this:
-Sady Doyle has several posts about it here, and also here
-The majority of Sarah Jaffe's recent posts, but especially this one.
-The Utne Reader
-Professor Juan Cole on white terrorism.
-Obama London: Inexplicable edits on Sarah Palin's Facebook
-Colorlines: The Inherent Self-Destruction of Government-vs-the-People Ideology
-Shakesville: Let's Get This Straight
And because I'd like to end on at least a slightly positive note, I want to tell you about my new hero, Daniel Hernandez, the 20-year-old aid of GIfford's who on Saturday ran towards the gunshots and who is most likely the reason she is still alive - he held her and applied pressure to the entrance wound until paramedics arrived, and then rode with her to the hospital.
"Of course you’re afraid, you just kind of have to do what you can," he said, as well as: "It was probably not the best idea to run toward the gunshots, but people needed help."
This man, you guys. This barely-out-of-his-teens, brown, overweight, openly gay man. This man, whose body has been criminalized in Arizona, who the white right-wing doesn't want there, says has no place, isn't good enough to be there. This hero.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Bed in Shakespeare & Co, a little-but-incredible expat bookstore on the South Bank in Paris. They stock new & used books in a plethora of languages, have some lovely kitties, and house travelling writers for free - just as long as you'll work in the store three hours a day. It's my kind of bohemian heaven.Gods but I love this bookstore. Not only for it’s charms, but for the memories that come with it - that was the best night of our France trip (aside from maaaaybe the night we went bowling in Avignon, all of us together, French and Canadian, and we all sucked except for the fourteen-year-old little brother of my exchange partner, and nobody knew what size shoe we needed, and we all tumbled together onto benches meant for far fewer people and laughed and drank and held hands.), the six of us seperating from the main group and wandering the South Bank late at night, hopelessly lost until we decided to follow a cat and finally, finally ended up outside of this little green-and-yellow shop. We spent hours browsing, because Shakespeare & Co. doesn’t close ‘til midnight, and met a Norwegian photojournalist who’d spent twelve hours there for a piece he was working on, and the lovely people who were living there at the time, and then we made our purchases and started wandering back through the wide, dark (but still so well-lit!) streets, and once we got back to our hotel we climbed through the window one of the boys had dismantled for us, and sat on the roof and read Ginsberg and Kafka and… Milton, I think is what we bought for our literature teacher, late into the morning.
…And maybe, the real highlight of that France trip is the evening that the father of my host family, after my awkward attempt to make conversation over dinner, responded “I do not like Jimi ‘endrix. I love Jimi ‘endrix!” and proceeded to take me into the sitting room and play me a bunch of his rare Hendrix bootlegs on vinyl, and we stayed there for hours talking about music. (He later gave me a CD of a bunch of the Hendrix recordings before I left for Paris - I lost it somewhere, and I regret it every time I think about it.) Or maybe it was the time I didn’t really want to eat the veal my host family served me, and they thought I didn’t know what it was, so they kept saying things like “cow” and “meat” and finally the previously mentioned fourteen-year-old went “mooooooooooo” and we all cracked up. Or maybe it was their simple kindness in general, or the apricot orchard they lived next to, or the day they took me to a traditional spring festival in the next town over. Maybe it was looking down on Paris from the top of the Eiffel tower, or the markets in Aix-en-Provence, or the sheer beauty of Fontaine de Vaucluse, or maybe it was the easy camraderie we built up on our long bus trips, discussing Rage Against the Machine or singing K-OS or whatever else we did.
Maybe it was all of these things.
This isn’t what I originally intended to write with this photo - I just wanted to say that I loved Shakespeare & Co., and I can’t wait to go back to it and Paris (hopefully soon.) That France trip is what fueled my hunger for travel, and I’ll always be so glad I went on it. And, while I hunger to rediscover places that I’ve visited and loved, I’m just as eager to visit new places. London is an incredible city, and I really do love it here, but moving somewhere is not the same thing as travelling; they both shape you, help you grow, but one is so much more fun than the other. More tiring, too, and difficult, and it can be lonely. But the sheer wonder of all these places that are waiting to be seen is so much stronger to me than any melancholy or potential bed bugs.
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