Rain lashing windows,
And inside packing.
The accompaniment of the strange feeling of limbo between leaving
and whatever comes next.
Its just a flight, one island to another.
But in those moments of empty time, there is space to be lost under the waves of memories of people places, experiences that have passed... caught between them and the expectations of home, and wondering just what home is.
Not naive enough to expect a grand homecoming, and perhaps a little too jaded by experience to be excited.
Its never what it was before, and how could it be when you are not?
And so the expectation of the familiarly unfamiliar.
New relationships, homes, jobs, lives... all in the shadow of what you remember from before.
I left with expectations. Hopes. Possibilities.
But experiences were rich, and vivid in their difference from all that I thought as I left.
Home is where the heart is...
Going home. ?
Monday 29 October 2012
Saturday 27 October 2012
18 again...
Age is an illusion.
No matter how many times the Earth has orbited the sun during your life, you can be undone by the same feelings of helplessness.
You can always feel every moment in front of you obscured in enigmatic maze
... every moment behind an unfathomable mystery.
Detail notwithstanding, ive had a week, a month... perhaps more... to feel like im back at the begining of things.
18 again, and non the wiser.
Degrees, jobs of all colour and years of travel... meaningless.
Still frightened.
Still ignorant.
Still immature.
Still straining for something to change.
Still asking stupid questions of life, and still having fuck-all in answer.
Still wondering when you can wake up and not feel like a clueless adolescent.
It seems the only changes are a fading of hope and an inevitable rising fatalism
Overly romantic, perhaps diminishing... but, still, in my sentiment, im still hoping for the wind to change
“The lapse of ages changes all things - time - language - the earth - the bounds of the sea - the stars of the sky, and everything 'about, around, and underneath' man, except man himself, who has always been and always will be, an unlucky rascal. The infinite variety of lives conduct but to death, and the infinity of wishes lead but to disappointment. All the discoveries which have yet been made have multiplied little but existence.” Byron.
No matter how many times the Earth has orbited the sun during your life, you can be undone by the same feelings of helplessness.
You can always feel every moment in front of you obscured in enigmatic maze
... every moment behind an unfathomable mystery.
Detail notwithstanding, ive had a week, a month... perhaps more... to feel like im back at the begining of things.
18 again, and non the wiser.
Degrees, jobs of all colour and years of travel... meaningless.
Still frightened.
Still ignorant.
Still immature.
Still straining for something to change.
Still asking stupid questions of life, and still having fuck-all in answer.
Still wondering when you can wake up and not feel like a clueless adolescent.
It seems the only changes are a fading of hope and an inevitable rising fatalism
Overly romantic, perhaps diminishing... but, still, in my sentiment, im still hoping for the wind to change
“The lapse of ages changes all things - time - language - the earth - the bounds of the sea - the stars of the sky, and everything 'about, around, and underneath' man, except man himself, who has always been and always will be, an unlucky rascal. The infinite variety of lives conduct but to death, and the infinity of wishes lead but to disappointment. All the discoveries which have yet been made have multiplied little but existence.” Byron.
Friday 26 October 2012
The Guns of Brixton... markets.
You know youre in London when...
Everything has a warning sign.
The night-time tube takes on an amusing dimension when one realises just how riddiculous an obsession with safety and information England has developed. You can open the doors of the Paris metro before it stops, the closing Tube doors give a decent impression of the pre-launch warning of an Arianne 5 heading into high orbit...
In fact, Im sure being a french rocket, it has less warning notices than the doors of a London Tube.
The most pointlessly amusing notice would have to be the sticker announcing that the window should be opened for ventilation... as though anyone capable of reading the notice would ever be in a position to need the information it was announcing.
Happiness Forgets.
It gets help from a good dry gin martini.
An east london basement bar. Dark. Stripped brick walls, candlelight and a great top shelf.
A cousin and an old friend from another life.
Another goodbye moment.
Buses across town in the drizzling dark.
The bus to Brixton.
The village markets.
1 pound tacos and a beer wandering the bustling lanes of food.
round one of market Tapas, Carribean cod-fish balls and a burger.
Light and sound and Motion
Everything has a warning sign.
The night-time tube takes on an amusing dimension when one realises just how riddiculous an obsession with safety and information England has developed. You can open the doors of the Paris metro before it stops, the closing Tube doors give a decent impression of the pre-launch warning of an Arianne 5 heading into high orbit...
In fact, Im sure being a french rocket, it has less warning notices than the doors of a London Tube.
The most pointlessly amusing notice would have to be the sticker announcing that the window should be opened for ventilation... as though anyone capable of reading the notice would ever be in a position to need the information it was announcing.
Happiness Forgets.
It gets help from a good dry gin martini.
An east london basement bar. Dark. Stripped brick walls, candlelight and a great top shelf.
A cousin and an old friend from another life.
Another goodbye moment.
Buses across town in the drizzling dark.
The bus to Brixton.
The village markets.
1 pound tacos and a beer wandering the bustling lanes of food.
round one of market Tapas, Carribean cod-fish balls and a burger.
Light and sound and Motion
Thursday 25 October 2012
Shades of Grey
Ive been rather silent the last few weeks.
I put it down to colour and movement.
Even at my best I struggle to put in words, the vivid moments of the everyday. Perhaps it is as Oscar Wilde quipped, that the bad poet '...lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realize.”
I cant help feeling that is somewhat overdramatising my own situation, but it does afford me the consolation of believing that theres a little poetry in my life as lived.
.. Even if the expression of it remains a frustrating mystery.
Anyway, be all of that as it may, the last few weeks have been rich with change and difference, the new, the old revisited, happiness, sadness, melancholy, memory and maudlin... and no small amount of alcohol (considering that last one, it is probably best for the sanity of any that may read this blog that I have refrained from writing much. You are all no doubt painfully aware that alcohol does little to improve whatever I have written under its influence.... be it only an ill-advised text message, or 20)
So, at the end of all of that, a month of erratic movement has passed since the Vendange,
a month that has seen 10 trains and 2 buses across 7 countries.
A month of old friendships revisited, and new ones cemented.
A month of language melange.
A month reminiscing about the past and ruminating upon possible futures.
80's music in Switzerland, 50's in Antwerp, Bavarian in Berlin... and Morphine in Rotterdam.
The UBahn, the Metro, the Tube. Taxis, buses, bikes and wobbled walks home at all hours.
Wine, whiskey, Beer and ill advised martinis in the early morning.
... a month ended standing in the bar of the Eurostar, humming across the sunny autumn countryside, as the wave of realisation and memory begins to catch up.
Quiet tears into my gin, under the weight of all that has passed.
The realisation of the travellers dilemma.
Once you have tasted life elsewhere, felt the difference and richness. Once you have lived a vivid other, you lose the ability to be content anywhere.
Home is home, with all the warmth, love and security of the familiar and family.
But so much of your life, your memories, and your friends reside elsewhere and to live at home is to miss them and the life they are part of.
One can try to chase them, bouncing forever between in the vain hope of finding a place where the feeling is less. But, as I stood in that bar I realised that the price one pays for living vivid, is to live with an enduring sadness and separation afterwards.
One can live many lives, but only be content with them one at a time.
...
The autumn colour of London is grey.
From the moment you see it in the distance, buried under a misty dome of clouds, it is near universal.
Grey stone streets and pavements.
Grey concrete flats.
Grey tiled rooves.
Grey river.
... grey skin as summer fades.
I put it down to colour and movement.
Even at my best I struggle to put in words, the vivid moments of the everyday. Perhaps it is as Oscar Wilde quipped, that the bad poet '...lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realize.”
I cant help feeling that is somewhat overdramatising my own situation, but it does afford me the consolation of believing that theres a little poetry in my life as lived.
.. Even if the expression of it remains a frustrating mystery.
Anyway, be all of that as it may, the last few weeks have been rich with change and difference, the new, the old revisited, happiness, sadness, melancholy, memory and maudlin... and no small amount of alcohol (considering that last one, it is probably best for the sanity of any that may read this blog that I have refrained from writing much. You are all no doubt painfully aware that alcohol does little to improve whatever I have written under its influence.... be it only an ill-advised text message, or 20)
So, at the end of all of that, a month of erratic movement has passed since the Vendange,
a month that has seen 10 trains and 2 buses across 7 countries.
A month of old friendships revisited, and new ones cemented.
A month of language melange.
A month reminiscing about the past and ruminating upon possible futures.
80's music in Switzerland, 50's in Antwerp, Bavarian in Berlin... and Morphine in Rotterdam.
The UBahn, the Metro, the Tube. Taxis, buses, bikes and wobbled walks home at all hours.
Wine, whiskey, Beer and ill advised martinis in the early morning.
... a month ended standing in the bar of the Eurostar, humming across the sunny autumn countryside, as the wave of realisation and memory begins to catch up.
Quiet tears into my gin, under the weight of all that has passed.
The realisation of the travellers dilemma.
Once you have tasted life elsewhere, felt the difference and richness. Once you have lived a vivid other, you lose the ability to be content anywhere.
Home is home, with all the warmth, love and security of the familiar and family.
But so much of your life, your memories, and your friends reside elsewhere and to live at home is to miss them and the life they are part of.
One can try to chase them, bouncing forever between in the vain hope of finding a place where the feeling is less. But, as I stood in that bar I realised that the price one pays for living vivid, is to live with an enduring sadness and separation afterwards.
One can live many lives, but only be content with them one at a time.
...
The autumn colour of London is grey.
From the moment you see it in the distance, buried under a misty dome of clouds, it is near universal.
Grey stone streets and pavements.
Grey concrete flats.
Grey tiled rooves.
Grey river.
... grey skin as summer fades.
Friday 19 October 2012
Bridges, Bikes, Balls and a Belltower.
The traveller often finds that its the places you happen upon unintentionally, that are the most surprising and enjoyable.
Having come to Utrecht, on my month long odyssey, to visit a friend... I was pleasantly surprised to find a brilliant, quietly beautiful town of lanes, and paved alleys ringed and criss-crossed by canals.
Like a smaller, more relaxed, prettier, less angsty cousin of Amsterdam,
everywhere the languidly rolling clatter of bikes by the thousand.
Not a helmet in sight.
Cars to a minimum, and the pace and vibe of the streets slows and softens.
Ducks down by the canals, and the constant, gentle ringing of the bells wafting through the lanes.
...
A Jazz club in an old vaulted cellar by the canal.
Snack shop at 3 am, for something fried.
Green, gold, orange and brown as leaves gently fall to the cobbles.
Autumn and the end is nearing...
Having come to Utrecht, on my month long odyssey, to visit a friend... I was pleasantly surprised to find a brilliant, quietly beautiful town of lanes, and paved alleys ringed and criss-crossed by canals.
Like a smaller, more relaxed, prettier, less angsty cousin of Amsterdam,
everywhere the languidly rolling clatter of bikes by the thousand.
Not a helmet in sight.
Cars to a minimum, and the pace and vibe of the streets slows and softens.
Ducks down by the canals, and the constant, gentle ringing of the bells wafting through the lanes.
...
A Jazz club in an old vaulted cellar by the canal.
Snack shop at 3 am, for something fried.
Green, gold, orange and brown as leaves gently fall to the cobbles.
Autumn and the end is nearing...
Friday 12 October 2012
Wednesday 10 October 2012
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