Queer Acceptance

What does it mean to me to be queer these days?

The communities I know often advocate for pride.

But pride is just the flip side of shame. 

Queer is an everyday reality.

By the time I tell people, I've known them long enough to recognise that they'll maintain a warm, genuine connection with me. Due to my sensitivity, this process doesn't take long. 

Queer links me to thought leaders, pioneers. Queer people are ahead of the game. 

Queer is also a source of pain, as when people are callous.

Everybody should aspire to be queer, at least in theory.

Best of '18: Travel Photography by Epiphanie Bloom

Intrigued by Iceland

The photographer enters the frame

Deconstructed by Spain

Passive consumer (Updated)

Every day I place myself in

Front of a screen and

Click my way into 

Bliss -- or oblivion?

You care

I see you care

But will you be there for me

When I'm unable to dare

Reimagining Riga [2]

I waited. For bowed heads with ornate hairstyles attached. For deep glares from stern, angular bodies. A vivid sense of imbalance that I could use to dismiss a nation which had wounded me with its non-Zürich-ness. But the women were mostly looking straight ahead (and at some point which was other than me), and the men, likewise, seemed neither particularly impressed nor disgusted by my presence. A few days went by and I started to see that this, too, was a likeable place. A relatable place. A place with its own dignity economy, and rewards which revealed themselves even to a short-time visitor.

(It was when I landed in Tallinn, Estonia, that I noticed more of the misogyny I was looking for. But even that was counterbalanced in between deep friendliness, a passion for technology, and a hearty way of living. This city clearly deserves more time than we had for it.)

One thing my mother and I actually have in common is our fascination with ornate architecture. As such, I spent most of the time in Riga chasing one manifestation of aesthetic bliss to another. Along the way, I found out that the regular Jane may not be able to eat out, even for a special occasion, but doesn't allow that to diminish her enjoyment of the city's delights. I only needed to look at the physical environment discernible on the streets of the Old Town to see that the people were engaged by it. The vibe was cultured and sophisticated - a place people were creating something worth tuning into. I hope I can spend more time there someday, perhaps in month warmer than October.

Reading Henning Mankell's 'Dogs of Riga' was both a plus and a minus - the crime fiction tale put the city on my map, but continued to paint it in hues so gray, that it would take me a while to disentangle myself from a sense of horror upon viewing the real thing. I suppose I am grateful that Latvia was selected at all by the Swedish author I was dabbling in. I might not have been as eager to come otherwise. Reports of abundant Art Nouveau are one thing, but a narrative that stirs your imagination is far more lucrative. And so I reluctantly raced into the unknown, and ended up relishing the reliably colourful reality. 

Notes and Reflections: My Travels in Europe [1]

A) Flying into London ain’t what it used to be

A decade ago it was pointed out to me that, being from Bulgaria, I could very well work in the UK if I felt like it. In 2018, I was quizzed extensively about my intentions for London and onward. By the end of the encounter I had handed over my phone to show the electronic proof of my onward ticket to Reykjavík, and explained those pesky visas to Vietnam (all three of them). I had more stamps from Thai airports, leaving me to speculate that it was the Southeast Asian country’s Communist status that had inspired suspicion. Whatever the case, after a 24 hour flight I’m generally not in the mood for this newfound interrogatory zeal. Next time I fly through friendlier customs in "The Continent."

B) Iceland made me feel at peace with my “psychic” powers

I have been told by my last few psychologists that it’s impossible to read people’s minds, advice I always felt missed the mark. I can agree that I’ll never know the exact detailed infrastructure of a person’s innermost thoughts, but I can often pick up quickly and intuitively on details that it might take a less sensitive, attuned person a five minute conversation to establish. Shutting down my intuition never helped me, and I see now that if I trust myself, I will go further in life than the naysayers can imagine.

Walking around Reykjavík, I was often treated in a way highly conscious of my general disposition. So used to trying to conceal aspects of my eccentricity, I was taken aback at the locals’ openness to it, and would have liked to stay longer and get used to ‘snap-judgements’ that worked in my favour!

A note to those thinking that I am indulging in magical thinking: I’m pretty sure my perceptions would be backed up by science, if tests were conducted. I even agree with those who claim that there is no such thing as intuition, but acquired (heightened) powers of observation.

C) London is still worth the visit

One my last night in Europe I made it to the 02 Brixton Academy to see Lykke Li live. An old favourite, LL charmed me and countless others with her feisty, sad ditties accrued around haunting, off-beat soundscapes. She was psyched to be there, and I was in a good mood for quite some time after.

In a nod to what makes London stand out as a global hub, I made the acquaintance of a Muscovite who had spent lengthy stints basking in the plentiful outsiders (and outsideryness) of the British capital. He only wished the people of this city were more enthusiastic about literature, and could incorporate more Russian-style authenticity into their lives. I was shown that Muscovites wouldn't smile at you if you asked them for directions on the street, but that smiles were something saved for a genuine friendship.

And so, even with Brexit looming, it's going to be hard to dismantle the melée of international influences which have made London into one of the most alluring cultural hotspots to be found. I will confess to feeling more relaxed about the city, having wandered off the (dark, gloomy) headlines of the Guardian page, and onto its shiny, elegant thoroughfares. People here treat each other with a kind of mutual respect that's appealing.

Late October in Zürich

They may only have been absent for four days, but it was so good to be side by side with my partner again. We reunited in a place with nostalgic value for them, a place where we’ve been tracing their past footsteps, petting cats and eating delicious things.

Switzerland shares a similar type of natural resplendence with Finland, to the extent my partner is getting Finnish and German intertwined. As long as they keep playing with languages, though, things are well. 

Me, I’m lucky enough to have been travelling 6 weeks, with a view to return in April 2019, so even as my time is running out I remain grateful. I feel deeply relaxed on some level.

*

German language TV filters into the soundscape of a handsomely decorated bedroom. Our host has mastered the art of Thai clutter- style wallscapes. 

It’s not hard to make abundant and evolving plans for a return to Europe, noting carefully which destinations make for a balanced, poignant celebration - and knowing that a fraction of those plans will ever be realised. But that’s okay - because I’ve got an amazing person to realise them with!

Relaxing in Bilbao

Soft jazz plays. I’m the only one here, apart from the receptionist who only occasionally makes noises indicative of efficiency. Outside the sun is shining, but I dream of dreary skies. I’ve booked the hotel across the car park. This changeover marks the beginning of the end of my Basque stay. It’s been a reassuring return to Spanish grace, however I’m impatient and some good things aren’t best savoured when the traveller is distracted.
I will say that a 2 day stopover in Zaragoza was a clever way of cutting up the journey. Two 4 hour bus rides are far more palatable than one 8 hour one. It helped that the city had a lovely patina, and soaring peaks to gaze longingly at. Floating up and down a Main Street or two, I indulged my senses with pretty patterns, vibrant colours and the promise of something tasty with every step.
You’d think I would be sick of jamón y queso, but their quality is consistently mouthwatering. You quickly forget to try to mind that it’s on offer all the time.
Another curiosity is how few American visitors can be found. I’m staying in a tourist hotspot near the airport, yet I believe I’ve only heard a solo feminine voice introduce American tones into my jumble of foreign impressions. It’s the Brits that dominate amongst the English speakers, though internal tourism seems to be making up the bulk of the hotel customers.
It’s not hard to find Americans in Rome or Reykjavik, but the abundance of Spanish speakers in their home country makes for an emphatic absence. Do they have limited engagement with Latinxs? Do their forays into learning this “second language” of the nation only advance so far?
There are no Australian voices at all, but that can be excused given the non-negligible matter of geographical proximity.
And yet, here I am.

Reykjavík to Barcelona

The number of churches I saw in Reykjavík in seven days: 1. 

The number of churches I saw in Barcelona in one afternoon: 2.

Spain feels familiar in soothing ways, even though the pollution irritates my respiratory system. The kindly gentlemen who display restraint with their drama, even as their features suggest incipient catharsis. I, too, am searching, but afraid to suggest the wrong kind of vulnerability or enthusiasm. Since friendship is based on willing to make yourself vulnerable, I stutter, look on jealously as the world continues to turn with my fears proving once more unsubstantiated. 

Barcelona edges closer to 

The word I mainline in my quest for identities

You’ll have me longing

For a very simple kind of salida

Don’t know what to do with you

Now that I’m in here

Stealthy correspondence, a cynical encapsulation

Of what would be the essence I could

Come closest to capturing

Catalan flags still up

Gorgeous touches erupt

Into my vision

Necessitating detours

Pursuing division

So I can represent myself as whole

What’s really to fear

In an Icelander’s love of Beyoncé?

What’s really to learn

When you can’t break through

Neither to yourself nor other

Just remaining locked 

On autopilot, go!

Bad habits may lead me elsewhere

If the price is right

We've all got problems

It's been pointed out to me recently that I've spent very little time playing the compromise games that characterise much employment. I have suffered in many ways, both heightened and of lesser significance, but I don't know what it means to have to conceal my sexuality from el jefe.

Every so often, someone will also urge me to enter the workforce despite my protestations. My "disability" being invisible, I often look a lot healthier than I am. People don't realise that I am constantly anxious. My practiced calm fools them all. I don't even mind admitting something akin to Generalised Anxiety Disorder on top of all my other mental health problems. Hey, how many people even read this blog? If you're reading, you're probably familiar enough with me to understand how I could be a ball of nerves underneath all that cool-as-cucumber. And I welcome your familiarity.

Questions of being medically incapable to join the modern labour force aside, I have two conflicting wishes: a) to subject myself to as few forms of domination as possible, and b) to give myself enough economic independence so as to relocate to a different part of the world.

I have intermittent commitment to writing a book. But I'm not quite there yet. I need -- not a room of my own but -- an apartment of my own. One where I have peace of mind through solitude, and the emotional space to set up shop. With my current arrangement, I am guaranteed to tear my hair out if I start a writing project longer than a blog post that I complete in one sitting.

Writerly Imagination

It used to be that I did too much writing and not enough reading; now I've turned the tables. I don't trust my literary voice. I concern myself with niggling self-doubt which pauses my progress effectively. What now?

When I first started blogging on the now defunct Orble, I wrote five times a week. Now I'm exceeding my own expectations if I write five times a month. 

Interesting things do happen - it's not that I have a shortage of material. Yesterday Mehreen Faruqi was sworn into the Senate, reminding me that there are a dearth of diverse women and queer people out there to draw inspiration from, as the news reel conducts its censoring out of the kind of people who really matter (to me). My catalogue of straight, wide, middle or high class, cis men grows, while the people forced to be smarter than the status quo compete amongst each other for the crumbs the media throws their way. 

This time last year I was three weeks away from travels, but 2018 leaves me uninspired. I've been on holiday before, and it's wonderful - up to the point when I come back with no funds, and my dream of relocating seems even further out of reach. 

I'm romantically inspired by a gorgeous genius, however I may be able to spend more time with them by saving further and spending a longer time period overseas when the time arrives. If I spend that time in one city, I could call it a temporary relocation and have it actually work to that effect. It may not be permanent, but it would teach me about independence and responsibility. 

*

Right now I'm reading The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood, The Hate Race by Maxine Beneba Clarke, and What A Life Can Be by Carolyn Dobbias. I've noticed I've been able to reflect further on my thought processes, with the help of the books I follow up and down the screen. Perhaps continuing my current schedule of reading is fine, and adding the element of writing (plucking it out of all the spare time I allow for) is not so intimidating a priority. We'll see.

In the meantime, I'm struggling. 

Turning

Things haven't been alright for the longest time. Perhaps it's unrealistic to yearn for the kind of simple conviction in the integrity of the world I was only able to hold on to in my first decade and a half. I'm not clear on what I'm fighting, half the time. I've lost sight of a little, and upped the ante a lot. I've relaxed into my inbuilt resistance - the impulse to sabotage the very thing I aim towards.

I've lost my bearings today. I turned a corner in the hospital and warmed to old selves, new selves, old meets new. What the hell am I going to do?

Disturbed but still swinging

Perturbed with periods of relaxation

Investigating the core cause

Sizing up the inscrutability

Of my kaleidoscope of secrets

I find my fallibility lacking

And who are you? 

The unknown reader

A hazy image of you

Becomes my inspiration

They say to write for yourself, but I'm informed by every soul that has had my mind wandering in their direction

I'm unable to stall, diligently angling for the next question

So I reported to the police, and...

The process shook me up. I was asked about my history of being abused, my mental health diagnosis, what I was wearing (which I'm not sure how to interpret, because the officer was female, and she also asked what the perpetrator was wearing), the victim-blaming "Why does this keep happening to you?" and the dismissive "What do you expect us to do about it?"

When I came home I just wanted to curl into a ball and stay there for hours.

Here are some positive outcomes:

- They believed me
- They filed a report, which means they can, amongst other things, check to see if this woman's behaviour is a trend
- I assume the report will have consequences for official statistics on criminal activity
- I was offered a lift back home (I declined)

Lessons learned:

- If something like this happens again, go to the police immediately. They said they would have been able to collect evidence from my clothing.
- They don't have access to CCTV train footage from a month ago.
- Don't expect the police to share your feminist values, compassion for victims of sexual violence or keen sense of justice. But tell them anyway.

Towards binormativity

I have a saying about the small but virulent group of anti-GLBTIQ protesters who show up at the Sydney Mardi Gras Parade every year: "Those taking part in the parade are the happy queers, and those protesting are the unhappy queers." As homophobia fades in Western society, the unhappy queers become more self-accepting, and until such a point is reached that they're willing to come out to themselves (and others). One day, they will join the celebrations. While we wait for this cultural shift, we happy queers can enjoy our status as innovators of love.

The characters of the film I viewed today (Rabbit Without Ears) would not be protesting Pride parades. They're not that extreme. But they do constantly seek to differentiate themselves from gayness by making fun of people who represent this 'other'. In the final scene of this German film, the protagonist gets 'revenge' at a heartless taxi driver by making him look gay in front of his colleagues. The film then cuts to a shot of the happy heterosexual couple kissing triumphantly. But what is actually happening here? Gayness takes up so much space in the narrative, that it needs to be examined as inextricably complementary to the whole. For gay content to directly inform the 'fairytale ending', it must be associated with romance and sexuality.

We could say queerness is part of the shadow self in Rabbit Without Ears, as the male protagonist constantly accuses others of it (projection), but can never acknowledge the homoerotic undertones constantly present in his interactions with his close colleague, or even fleeting encounters based on antagonism.

As homophobia fades, we can expect to see gayness continue to take up ample space in public discourse, but in more and more favourable ways. The visibly out will only grow in number and influence, and I look forward to the disappearance of the currently ubiquitous 'gay jokes', and the conscious acknowledgement of desire.

Perhaps in fifty years time the West will have shifted enough so that very few identify as exclusively straight or gay. When there are so many options available out there, why limit yourself to any particular group? Binormativity (or pannormativity) would be a welcome change. 

So, it happened again (#MeToo)

You would think there would be a limitation on how many times your body can get violated. Wishful thinking.

I was on my way to my best friend's house, in relatively good spirits. A woman sat down next to me on the train. I wasn't paying a lot of attention to her, but noticed she carried herself around with a fatalistic self-stigma. It vaguely occurred to me she belonged to some kind of marginalised group when my gaze wandered over to my left. Instinctively I worked on looking anonymous, unremarkable, but when I couldn't see which station we had arrived at, I blurted out: "Excuse me, is this Town Hall?" She turned her head and her gaze landed on me. Her face had a haunted look, and I noticed she was trans. There was something else in her look, which my unconscious registered as entitled, but I had a script for trans women, and I wanted this interaction to be made happy with my apt response. I thanked her for her surly answer, and wondered why it came out a bit like "I'm sorry." 

A trans woman! Surely all trans women are loveable, deep down! That was what part of me was thinking. The other part recognised that I might not be entirely safe as I passed by her on the way out. I visualised myself shuffling past, facing her disconcerting presence, hands over my crotch. I dismissed this. I didn't want to seem like I was afraid. Besides, what were the chances that a woman would assault me in a carriage full of people, where there would be dozens of witnesses? It seemed like the situation called for a kind of self-assurance I hadn't had to exercise for a long time. I couldn't summon it. I didn't want to believe that I was in this situation. I wanted to think about happy things. 

As we arrived in Central I turned my back to her and turned into the aisle, and just when I thought everything was alright I felt my pad pressing up into my nether regions. It lasted maybe 5-10 seconds,  until I walked away, and I couldn't believe that a *woman* would molest me in plain view of all the people on that train, so I started imagining it was something unlikely: my pad had scrunched up uncomfortably while I was sitting, and had temporarily caused me discomfort. The other option was to look back, look at her, witness her extended limb, witness her face. What could I do? Stop in my tracks and yell at her, humiliating her in public? "How dare you violate me, you fucking asshole?" But I would miss my stop (which would further ruin my day). Should I head directly for the closest police station? I knew that I would not. Even though there was probably camera footage of the event. (Hmm.) At the time I thought the odds of her getting caught were very slim. I have already reported a rape to the police, and they weren't able to help me. More recently, I had written to a police department in the US, trying to give them enough information to do a raid on my pedophile ex-boyfriend's computer. It didn't work. I didn't want to have to think of my history of dealing with the police. I didn't want to have to think of my #MeToo history. I had the right to be safe from malicious practices, after all I've been through. My weight should be enough to deter those who prey on women (or people who can pass for them). But I wasn't, and it wasn't. So, here we are. 

So maybe I *will* go to the police. Next time I get up the nerve. 

*

Writing this out has helped me clarify some things. I deserve to fight for my right to access justice. If you're reading this and have your own #MeToo story, you deserve justice too. You deserve to live without anyone crossing your boundaries. So if they won't let you live in peace, give 'em hell. Speak up. You will encourage the rest of us to do speak up in turn. Together, we can overthrow the power imbalances that lead to sexual assault. Anything is possible in this world. We would do well to awaken the possibilities within. <3

Finally, just because my abuser was a trans woman, doesn't say anything about trans women in general. Most of the trans women I know are loveable. My generalisation (about their lovability) was the thing that kept me from processing the full weight of my perception of her as predatory. If there's something to be learnt from this, it's to refrain from generalisation. (Not that her behaviour is in any way my fault.) But anyway, I will continue to fight for trans rights, because one bad apple doesn't speak for the rest. Trans people are a disadvantaged group that are worthy of our empathy, inclusion and protection - just like anybody else in this world. 

Beyond the echo chamber

I'm part of a Facebook group on postmodernism, the creator and admin of which is an American conservative. This initially puzzled me, but by now I'm used to his fearful political stances. I spent some time feeling despondent over one practice of his in particular: posting up misogynistic portrayals of women in cartoon or meme form. A number of his loyal contributors bonded with him and each other over these images. I felt like the group wasn't a safe space, and for a long time I regarded it with high ambivalence. 

Then, one day, I realised that I had to say something, even if it was just screaming into the void that I would effectively be doing. My comment was simple: under the latest creepy video, I wrote 'Stop hating on women!' A complex discussion followed. Not many people supported me. I was accused of playing the victim. A non-binary feminist de-lurked to tell me to 'choose my battles'. They didn't realise that that's exactly what I was doing: I wanted badly to participate in an active, thought-provoking discussion on postmodernism. But I could only hold the space for it, if it made some effort to nurture me. 

The creator posted exactly one more pic in the mean-spirited tradition of past. From then on the discussion shifted from ridiculing women to more palatable topics, and at one point he and I agreed to disagree on the subject of racism, keeping the tone respectful. Later he would thank 'everybody' who responded to his prompt on abortion, myself included, for their contribution. We continue to move along, exploring ideas and deconstructing our assumptions. 

If I hadn't spoken up I would still be gritting my teeth, paralysed with fear, doubting myself at too many turns. This experience has emboldened me to share my views to whatever extent I dare, always mindful of the need to create a safe space within myself first. 

An exercise in hope

You can be my new Obama

Be the things he never was to me

Softly assembling new sense unspoken

Abolishing much hierarchy

Meanwhile I'm moving through theme parks

In a [fun/scary]scape of my own making

Recollecting vital pieces of information

Summoning avenues not yet taken

And so I think you're lovely
You keep inspiring me
Thank you for the things you share
They've got me reinventing me

The power of permitting discussion

Once upon a time, back in the early days of Sydney Girls High, I decided to 'enlighten' one of my classmates on the topic of homosexuality. She emitted silent disapproval and kept her distance from me (until a few years later, when I came out as queer). I was pretty surprised at the time that this Anglo-Saxon Australian didn't agree with my homophobic views, but being exposed to a stance different than mine made me curious as to what in the world she was thinking.
It was through a process of continual engagement with the people and texts around me that I decided to change my mind. It was through empathising with a black American lesbian fictional character at fifteen, that I realised I could relate to her romantic and sexual experiences. Empathising with a black person wouldn't have happened without a sensitive and curious response to the study of slavery and the Civil Rights Movement, and having peer groups predominantly made up of Asian girls. Australian liberal democracy took me on, and we won together. Now it's my job to keep the dialogue ongoing. There are people who are full of fear like I used to be, who are struggling to make sense of this multi-faceted world. They lash out, they speak with greater certainty than they feel, they perform hate, because they don't know any different. And yet, we democracy fans make a space for them. At first ensuring our own safety, we then open up a space for their views to be debated, discussed. We engage with as much respect as possible. We allow for difference of opinion. Not because we are weak, but because we can be role models in our open-mindedness. We can help others learn from us.
Homophobic views are intolerant, but intolerance isn't going away. The only way to change someone is to engage with their views, and give them the freedom to come around to your way of thinking in their own time. You'd be surprised how many people change their mind when they realise that there's little incentive to be a hate-monger, and you can live a happier and more peaceful life by opening your mind. But for that to happen, we have to be open to a public sphere where we may at any moment encounter something which hurts our feelings, or undermines our values. There is no easy solution for this, but self-love/self-care practices go a long way. :)

The previously exotic became relatable

Did you know that I'm more likely to be bitten by a poisonous creature in my native Australia than in Thailand? The lush greens of the latter seem relatively tame and innocuous by comparison. It was only through extensive travel through the Kingdom of Smiles, followed by various Google searches, that I discovered this for myself. However as early as several months into my travels, I noticed that I moved through the environment with such a high degree of comfort that I started second-guessing myself. Eventually I felt so at home that I tried relocate to Chiang Mai.

It's been a while since I've written about Thailand. This post began as an exercise in demonstrating why people only relegate to 'exotic' that which they haven't taken the time to understand. But that's pretty easy to sum up. You might find it humorous to note that I have a lingering fear of visiting Ireland on account of Bram Stoker introducing the creation of the vampire for a popular Western audience. I do not wish to be found scary yet sexy. (There are times I want to be viewed as sexy, but, in the words of Robyn Carlsson, "I'm only sexy when I say it's okay.") Yet I'll probably make it over to Dublin sometime soon. I look forward to understanding (as much as I can within a certain time frame). I'm sure that I will get a lot out of it. 

I intend to keep travelling. Much of my 'top destinations' already visited, I can now delve into underrated delights I don't even yet know dwell where they do. I can promote 'peace, love and understanding' through each journey, and enrich my inner world by learning how to emote in a different cultural environment. 

Searching for something, hard to define

Every day I emote with people
Who would will my destruction
If I were just a little weaker

Who do I dare become
In this stultifying emotional landscape?
Hard to gather
Pieces

It's an uneasy truce
Resentment bubbling
Under the surface
Need to push back
At all costs

*

I shy away from controversy
More than you know
Where once I revelled in its transmission
I've built up some resistance

Envisaging a smooth ride
Perhaps unrealistic, for this life
All I know is I
Can't fight them all the time

*

Every fearful eyeful
Take it step by step
Verve long hidden
Resilience long denied
Independence, to my chagrin
All the backbone I can find

All the people
I have been
Their ghosts now
Swirl around me
And in the shadow
Of the quake
There's little left
But to alter

Etched into my being

Desire to express lagging
Is it because I feel out of control?
Or that I keep hearing
My mother's voice in my head
Saying poems should rhyme
And shouldn't carry socially
Unacceptable residue of depression

Come now, I felt so free
I felt something release
When I wrote about that street
You will kill not only my writing
But my soul in the process
But you can't unspool the repressive coil
That has you captive so far

I just want to scream out
Be heard
Sing into the void
Put tinsel up in hard to reach places

Transform, catapult, recover, heal

With the nagging sense of urgency
Of a landmine on the radar
Clasped within my curled fingers
The embodiment of agency

Post-Hobart

When bell hooks, who is influenced by both Christian and Buddhist teachings, promotes forgiveness in her 'All About Love,' I am inclined to take on the challenge.

You seemed to be ill-aware of all the ways I'd changed.
The anger bubbles up within me. Why do I need it?
But then I can't expect you to have noticed: gradations of change over time
I want you to understand
I want you to love me
I want you to join me: as a feminist activist
I want you to be the soul mate you never were, that I pretended you were at times

You were tired of opening up and being hurt
It doesn't seem worth it to dive back in
In the world of the social
Waiting for a friend to cross your path
Waiting and longing are never enough

I hardly know what to do with myself

"So I took the path less travelled by/
And I barely made it out alive"

- 'Rebel Heart,' Madonna

37 countries. 2 universities, no degree. Incredibly bright, no official occupation. 3 extended periods of living across 3 different continents. 4, if you count those 5 weeks in Thailand. Hospitalisations in China and Australia. Exalted volunteering. New friends. Lack of financial independence or mobility beyond Australia.

I don't know what to do with myself. I've lived an extraordinary life, and it's probably time to take the plunge and write my first book, but it's scary. Until I learn to earn my own money, I will invariably feel trapped by circumstance. I've been planning to write a book for a very long time.

With every innovative book I read, I feel I can follow in these authors' footsteps. But then that feeling quickly fades and is replaced with self-loathing and a sense of worthlessness.

They say, 'one step at a time.' Build your self-compassion. Keep reading. Yes, keep reading. Books are artificial narratives of meaning to consume, but hey - why not. There's much to be gained in their comprehensive tours around the writerly soul. They help me.

I am facing an existential crisis of sorts. A flight from Sydney to Hobart next week will include me as a passenger. I have concluded that it's almost sort of affordable to move out in Hobart, providing I like it enough. My parents will supplement my income by a small amount. I will be free!

But I fear loneliness. I fear being isolated in a city where attitudes are provincial and I am even more of an eccentric than I am now.

Moving beyond fear is where I'm trying to be at - but first things first: What will my week in Hobart bring into my life, and will I wish it were reproduced for the foreseeable future?

*

Oh, and I really don't want Gary Oldman to win the Best Actor Oscar. I was instinctively repulsed by him long before I learned of his defence of Mel Gibson, or calling Nancy Pelosi a c*nt.

Too many horrible things floating around in my consciousness. You'll forgive the purge. 

Non-Judgemental

It's one of the principles of (Buddhist) meditation: non-judgemental observation of whatever happens to be in your headspace in any given moment. I welcome this into my life. I flourish the more with every instance of non-judgementalness.

My mother told me a story recently about my early years. She was interested in me starting to walk. One day she placed something that would be of interest to me to obtain (an item) some distance away, and waited to see what would happen. I eyed the object longingly. For a long time. I was willing for me and it to meet. And then, finally, I began to move in a new way, towards the target, and managed to reach it.

I felt like what my mother had done was cruel. Instead of helping me physically in getting to my feet, she watched with detachment as I had to figure out how to get up all on my own. She frames the story as proof of my tenacity to get what I want - even if it's eventual. But I feel the force of maternal abandonment.

Reading bell hooks' 'All About Love,' she uses a definition of love to guide her journeys past and present: [Love] “as the will to extend one’s self for the purpose of nurturing one’s own or another’s spiritual growth.” bell notes that this definition of love excludes abuse, neglect or cruelty. Like her, I must acknowledge that while I was given care and affection when I was little, I was not given this kind of love.

Through my romantic relationships I have achieved loving connections, which I long to find again in this present instant. I'm so afraid that my doubts and insecurities keep me stuck in the prelude to love.  I'm afraid of taking action. All the same, the search for love drives me, and when I'm motivated by the pursuit of something that's good for me, I have confidence in my knowhow. I will find a way - disabling judgement, enabling enthusiasm; facilitating sharing, reciprocity and openness. 

Coherent Narrative

I'm struggling to make meaning out of my life. No, I'm not suicidal. Just very disoriented. I don't have a strong motivation to do anything. I find conviction cultivation ludicrous to maintain.

When you live with soulless and sadistic people, you get used to people taking their issues out on you, and survival takes up all of your mental space.

I'm in despair.

I can't even decide how to spend my money. Do I travel around Australia, thereby saving a lot of money and travelling longer? Or do I continue with one of numerous plans to travel to Europe? Japan? Mexico? Does it really matter if I keep having to come back to the same golden cage?

Grrr.

Milestones

I'm happy to announce that I'm almost at the end of my DuoLingo Spanish course!

It's been an on again, off again journey of two and a half years, and it looks like I will only need about a month or so to complete the entire tree! Congratulations are in order...

Soon I will need to make some decisions about where to take my language learning in the future. I know that I want to maintain my knowledge and build on it in both active and passive ways. (Active might be taking on a mew systematic learning journey, while passive might mean reading El País or listening to music and looking up anything I don't know.)

I also know that I've been bitten by the language learning bug, and want to add a new one to my repertoire.

But which? -- Danish? French? German? Dutch? Swedish? Norwegian? Catalan?

From a practical point of view, French or German is probably the best. In fact, I've been thinking of taking up French again with pleasure. For some reason I think of it as a difficult language. I'm not sure why. Perhaps I need a tutor to help me weave an intuitive journey through things already processed on a more cerebral level.

You know what? I've decided to take up French next. I'm capable, and it will be a delightful achievement.

Onwards!

Changes (Poem)

It's a far cry
From the intended aims
It seems I need to
Learn how to deal with
A world rapidly
Spiralling out of control
Accept my complicity
And dedicate my resistance

There's nothing good about this
But there may be suitable alternatives
Swayed by the onslaught of neurotoxins
I ponder my escape

I still believe
The world is a shambles
A dangerous shambles
Pulling itself apart

If you notice my audacity
I'll be around to celebrate yours
I'm in the process of
Retrieving my instincts

World colliding with itself
It needs no foreign enemy
All the potent tools for self-destruction
Are simmering to a boil within

And since there is no god
Only waking up will save us
But the tipping point has not been reached
The code of greed laced with ignorance
Cannot be breached
And I can see how
It would get too late
I can see how
We can't reach the gate
And still it's necessary to detach
My survival hinges on recurring calm
We've many days to go until
It's impossible to deny the harm
But the time is now
For anyone with power
Find the courage to protest
While I endeavour to inspire

Learning to appreciate classical music (Poem)

Listening to classical music
Once upon a time
It struck me as wordless
At a time when
I needed to constantly
Verbalise my spirit
When I needed to
Make myself heard above
The perpetual rage
Of competing hegemonies

Revisiting symphonies
Once scorned
I found a different angle
Perhaps it was the tilt of the arm
Of the violinist or
The sensitivity and charm
Of the face next to her
Beauty is the intention
I enjoy it while I can
Now that I'm awake
To multiple ways
Of creating meaning

A pride of lions

What is pride? Is tapping in to popular notions of socially shared pride a good thing, considering it's so heavily influenced by nationalism? Where does socially sanctioned patriotism end, and the pride that means most to me swell up? I mask my pride deficit somewhat.

My psychologist suggested to me that I could be proud of having left the abusive relationship of 2005 - walking (no, flying) away in high style, selling something which didn't matter (a wedding band) for something that did (bus fare to the next Vietnamese town), and all the processes of letting go I've developed over time. Without the white gold reminder on my finger, there was that much less distance between me and the heady green of the Southeast Asian landscape. One less reminder of the arrogant, entitled American I had temporarily become. I savoured the experiences more. I talked less. So much of what happened after has been so good.

Is it fair to bolster my spirits with music? I'm withdrawing (from one dose of medication to a slightly lower one) now. Deserving of this, I am. I'll try to remember that music intoxicates in healthier ways.

I have a photo of a lion on the shoulder of my armchair. May it remind me to be proud.