Looking back on 2020

This year I've noticed that changing my thoughts - gradually - is possible. It would be nice to articulate my desire for a calmer mental state to a new psychologist, providing I feel safe and secure enough to do so. 

In the absence of the usual influx of travel-related stimuli, I turned inwards, drawing upon past emotional victories and am attempting to fuse new insights together. It's okay, Epiphanie!, I said. You've got this. 

Waleed Aly captured my imagination in the middle of the year with the concept of Australians enriching their interiority. In my dreams I travelled everywhere from Mongolia to the Mediterranean, and in waking hours I opened myself up to books I hadn't dared to before, like absurdist metafiction. 

There may have been some overeating, pandemic news bingeing, and dark times - these things are part of the life experience and I seek to accept them as they arise. 

I can say, however, that I didn't get too caught up in the narrative that 2020 was the year from hell. Instead I counted my blessings, snuggling into my comfortable furniture, focusing on the sensual delights of my apartment, immediate neighbourhood, and the cluster of hubs I frequented in the east(ern suburbs). In some ways, I was physically more comfortable than I would have been as a passenger on an international flight, or a newly arrived traveller attempting to shake off jetlag while still maintaining an active schedule. The existential angst of leaving a foreign country while longing to stay (a mainstay of the past globetrotting Epiphanie) was altogether avoided. 

Knowing that the longevity of my life was not a certainty made strolls around the neighbourhood saturated with appreciation. Yesterday I knelt down to remove a Snickers bar wrapper deeply pressed into the sculpted hedge gracing my street, and threw it away in the nearest bin. I enjoyed the knowledge that I had beautified my little corner of the world. And, making my way across a street or two, I could even clean my hands for free with the sanitiser machine set up by a thriving local eatery. Little things can instill a sense of purpose, creativity, pleasure. The tactile experience of dirtying my fingers for a good cause, and cleansing them again through the abundance of resources a stone's throw from where I live. Standing in proximity to the prosperous business, I felt grateful that my mini commercial hub was a lucrative place to set up shop. I also felt grateful that the sidewalk I began to walk down was indeed 'walkable', to use urbanist Richard Florida's terminology. 

I hope you have a peaceful end of year celebration, whatever that looks like for you.

Less Monaco, More Berlin

Yesterday I joined my mum in the lounge room, prepared to watch whatever she was watching. This happened to be a documentary on Monaco, a Mediterranean concentration of millionaires and billionaires. Over half an hour or more the camera pored over luxurious details and conservative ideals. At one point, an architect - about to be celebrated for a futuristic sculpture - admitted that it's not really possible to be radical in a place like this. Which is when I decided that I was less about Monaco, and more about Berlin. 

Once upon a time I donated $20 per month to a popular Australian charity called Save The Children. This year I re-entered the world of supporting meaningful businesses by becoming a Patreon of Nomadic Matt. Part of my membership includes access to dozens of fun presentations on various aspects of travel. I've vibed with a visual guide to Cuba, been encouraged to hike the Camino to Santiago de Compostela (because why not?), and been inspired to cultivate even more colour and creativity in the way I approach my journeys. 

I now have so many travel plans that it's hard to know which one stands out the most. I see Spain in my future when Covid recedes, but where and for how long are variables which are constantly changing. I find myself eager to return to Portugal, too - we got off on the wrong foot (with minimal sleep in a noisy guesthouse), but I caught glimpse of its charms and know there are more of them in wait. (Perhaps it's time to dig up Saramago's book on the place... I know I have it somewhere.)

Another country that excites me in its potential is Greece. I've only been there once, in 2003, for three days, but I do believe it deserves more. I may have overlooked it because it shares a border with Bulgaria, and feels 'close to home', but there will be time to build on past passions - for island architecture, natural beauty, and an atmosphere pulsating with history. 

To read The Guardian this week is to know that we are making financial decisions in a more risk averse state of mind, that the travel sector may take up to five years to return to 2019 levels, and that when Covid does recede there will probably be a 'golden era' of travel, partying and socialising at close quarters. Our impulses to travel will be indulged many times over. And yet, I can't help but wonder if I should be putting $ away for the future. And since there's no right answer, I can look forward to much in the way of happy deliberating.

  

1.5 Generation Australian

 Reading 'All who live on islands' by Rose Lu, I was introduced to a new way of describing myself: as a 1.5 generation immigrant. I was young enough to adapt to Sydney really quickly, but old enough to have a firm relationship with Bulgaria. I also see it as a question of agency. No-one consulted my seven-year old self over the relocation. I was uprooted, and it was kind of traumatic, even though I was optimistic about leaving the Balkans. If I had a choice in the matter, I might have chosen to move to a different country. My dad told me that Canada was one of the few other nations accepting people like us back then. I could have just as easily been a Toronto native. 

In recent years I've developed a bit of an interest in getting to know other English-speaking cultures in-depth. Canada, New Zealand, Ireland, Scotland, the rest of Britain... Knowing that a common language binds us opens up opportunities for cultural immersion on a deeper scale than almost anywhere. I may have spent some time fantasising about zig-zagging through London in search of the most innovative cultural events. Or making fast friends in the melting pots of Vancouver, arranging French language exchanges in Montreal, Maori ones in Dunedin. Finally tackling 'Ulysses' in a Dublin café. 

So if I ever have the opportunity to do a gap year, I am in for a world of indecision. 

November reading (and pining)

Last night I confessed to a friend that I didn't feel listened to... because I rarely told anyone how I truly felt. I'm excellent at getting people to open up to me, but my closest confidante for years was my psychologist. And now I don't have one. 

That may be about to change, as I seek the help I daydream about. So far I've been too scared to seek such an intimate emotional encounter anew. But I know I will reach out... eventually. I can see that time coming. 

This evening I listened to the author of 'The Golden Maze', Richard Fidler, discuss various refrains and riddles that echo in his head as he reflects on the city of Prague. I may hunt down this volume and be transported to a place that is simultaneously familiar and not: Czech Republic, on the other side of Eastern Europe to where I grew up, a place I have been amazed at and repulsed (or should I say alienated) by. In other words, a place worth revisiting. 

About two years ago I listened to the 'Saga Land' audiobook, a previous project of Fidler's and I was impressed by his capacity for research, and powers of empathy - except, of course, in relation to the feminist project. Fidler may be the least feminist of the authors I've read in recent years. Nevertheless, it's an accomplished Australian who takes the leap over to the European continent and tells me something new about its soul. (Reading is not endorsement of every part of the writer's psyche, after all.)

I'm also waiting on 'All who live on islands' by Rose Lu, a queer New Zealander of Chinese heritage who I hope will shed light on the subcultures one might become acquainted with in Australia's most culturally similar neighbour. 

While I wait, there's Simone de Beauvoir's 'The Second Sex'. It's not the easiest read, but it's offered some existentially themed insights so far, and I hope it will again.

Options, Options, Options

Biden won, the Pfizer vaccine was announced, and I got a new laptop - all in the course of a week. 

Newly be-PC'ed, I recall many nights of searching the sky blue background on a Microsoft Word document for the words that would make it all OK. I remember not to limit my search for psychologists to Sydney, because, with Skype or Zoom, the world is my oyster. It's possible there is a Swedish or Nordic psychologist marketing herself as feminist, and I can absorb her unconscious values alongside her bold, conscious strides, as she shows me how to improve my self-care practices. 

The future is as 'up in the air' as always, though I have to be honest with myself and admit that moving to New Zealand doesn't elicit a 'Hell Yeah' response. (According to Derek Sivers, if something's worth prioritising, it comes with a strong positive response.) So I don't know what I'm going to do. And I'm going to live with that uncertainty for now. 

Thinking about existential burdens of freedom lately... the moment I consider committing to a long-term project, I eat away at my conviction until it collapses. Coach Xena Jones says 'Everything you want is on the other side of discomfort.' I have a feeling my insecurities will continue to be in the driver's seat until I pay for good help. 

Here are some ideas I have for possible long-term projects:

- Write a book

- Become fluent in a language (other than English or Bulgarian)

- Lose weight and keep it off by changing my diet permanently

Even writing more often on this blog would be grand. It would be a stepping stone to the discipline required to write a super long-form text. I could keep myself accountable through documenting my progress in language learning, and/or reaching a healthier diet. 

Here are some thoughts I have on each of those goals:

- I have a book idea (too nascent to share)

- I know I want to learn either Spanish OR Swedish OR Finnish OR French

- I know I can reduce my portions long-term (because I've done it in the past)

If I were advising myself I would say: Pick just one goal. Consider which would be the most beneficial, all things considered. Is the prospect of making money through a book more compelling than being able to move to Finland or Sweden? Is creating a healthier physicality a bigger boost than the above?

Do I trust myself to be honest with a psychologist, so that they can help me organise all these random can-do impulses?

Can I be more honest with myself?

Pressure from close ones / New Zealand on the radar

You know how sometimes you just want to relax and not have to defend yourself to anybody?

Today my mum started with a theme she has started in the last two years (ever since I voiced my intention to remain childfree), which is that I will miss out on the "joys" of the standard route in life - that is, settling down with a man and having children. 

It just goes to show how out of touch my mum is. I've been pursuing a strategy of nonconformity wherever possible since my teenage years. It makes me happy to pursue relationships with women or non-binary people, and retain my childfree lifestyle. I may be friends with a few select heterosexual men, but the idea of being in any "standard" hetero arrangement is a non-starter. 

*

Early 2019 saw me spend a couple of nights in Wellington, where I was trying to investigate New Zealand's suitability for long-term dwelling. 

Given that I'm obsessed with the Nordics, you'd think it'd be a no-brainer: learn Swedish properly and move to Sverige or Suomi. 

But after years of learning Spanish on and off, I have language learning fatigue. That, and the likelihood of guaranteed Seasonal Affective Disorder 4-5 months every year has me rethinking that strategy. 

New Zealand, meanwhile, proved its remoteness and good governance in their Covid eradications. They say that future novel pandemics are very likely, meaning that NZ will be an even better place to be in the future. And the legal pathway to Kiwi citizenship is uncomplicated for Aussies. 

I've also noted that NZ has scored higher on the Global Gender Gap Index than Australia for years. I noticed a readiness to take women more seriously while I was there. 

So I have Dunedin within my sights... eventually. Unless something unexpected happens to make me re-evaluate. Which, well, anything can happen. 

Affirmations

Yesterday's post was a pity party of sorts. I had to get it off my chest, or perhaps clear the muck out of the way so I can appreciate what I have. 

I've been doing a lot of reading: I finished my fourth book this month, which I personally think is wonderful. I am brimming over with renewed faith in intellectual discourse. 

I'm trying hard to take my mind off all the travel I'm not doing. The Korean Film Festival opened today, and I was transported to another world for 100 minutes. 

The only kind of comparison I want to make is between present Epiphanies and past Epiphanies. I have grown in compassion in the last six years. I have become more tolerant of people of colour whose backgrounds I'm not as closely familiar with as those of Asian origin. I'm more clear on how I want to present in the world. 

A reviewer claimed that Susan Sontag's work, 'At the same time', is "excruciatingly white." I could see that coming. Sontag was of an older generation, but when you look at people like Gloria Steinem and the effort she puts in to showcase the achievements of women of colour, you realise that it can be done. And that many people, intentionally or out of ignorance, choose to opt out of a deeper understanding of what it means to be the descendant of colonisers (or simply the beneficiaries of white supremacy). 

It makes sense then, that my next book is 'Girl, Woman, Other' by Bernardine Evaristo. I'm already 10% through and it's a pleasure to be reminded of the antiracist truths I have to keep drumming into my head because so much of the background noise of life is all blaring white supremacist overtones. 

On Wednesday I wonder

I've spent much of the last few hours ingesting Susan Sontag's 'At the Same Time' - a title which seems to allude to the multiplicity of the truths she insisted on. At this point I'm tired of her headstrong presence, but perhaps it's also the medication change of yesterday that is colouring my world lacklustre. 

I've identified within myself a dissatisfaction with my occupational status. The sensible parts of me that conjure up my steady learning, and point out the pointlessness of interpersonal comparison, seem weak. Voracious is the voice that claims I haven't achieved my potential. 

Despite my knowing very well deep down that a university pathway will just introduce me to stress, frustration and anger, I long for the symbolic 'piece of paper' which offers the most straightforward route to employment in the literary world. Rejoice I might at people like Glen James of the top podcast 'My Millenial Money' who has reached affluence despite the odds, my lack of drive seems to condemn me to a lifetime of living with my parents and suffering the emotional and mental consequences. 

Having done things my way for so long, I am ill-equipped to meet the needs of the higher education maw, which quite a few ppl other than me believe educates people out of the highest degree of nonconformity. The current academic disciplinary divisions also leave me high and dry, for it's at the very intersections of literature and politics that I like to live. 

Lately I've downloaded an Anthropology podcast where interviews with authors take place, and I've been transported from an initial attempt to transform South Korean immigration policy into something befitting a newly multicultural state, a movement which hasn't made much headway, to how practitioners of an ancient form of dance in Sri Lanka use the movement to resist the harshness of armed conflict. 

I don't really want to be interviewed so much as I want to be closely co-conspired with. I want a friend who respects me, whom I respect, and have fun with. Not just around the world - in Sydney. 

Crinkled Leaves

Like rediscovering an old book

Freshly fluent in the language of your mind

It reads, as you 

Tune in to its frequency

Somebody said they regretted

Not learning a foreign language

And I found myself smiling

At opportunities lying in wait

The book is a translation

Of a language quickly fading

From your memory, yet

Echoes of it animate your dreams

You'll probably never recover

Knowledge previously gained

But there's variety to savour

No two syllables the same

The richness of your interiority

Only multiplies anew

With every fresh, new day

You make a better you

To Stay Sane & Grow

The Greek-Australian Christos Tsiolkas said something that resonated with me on an ABC podcast - whatever his connection to Greece (and the EU project), when the shit hit the fan, it was Australia that called him back and had a place for him. Likewise, I too felt comforted and soothed by the protections in place in this country of which I am a citizen. I felt lucky that I hadn't followed up on my impulse to travel to Taiwan in March/April. Somehow I felt safe by virtue of being randomly stuck in a remote corner of the universe where the infections failed to proliferate. This counting of my blessings has stayed with me. 

Still, I found it hard to be unaffected by the sheer scale of the suffering. I don't know anyone personally who has died or is deeply ill, but as I watch the people around me move their strides speak of grief, loss, even trauma. No-one is unscathed by the as-yet-unfolding tragedy. 

Long ago, no one had space to hold my trauma. So I feigned lightness. It was a survival mechanism, but I want to reconnect with my deeper sense of self after all these years. Feel the feelings. Work through them. 

*

Finding ways: It's my specialty. 

I am interested in adding more variety to my life, though I don't know how to do it. Maybe going back to karaoke rooms in the city would be a good idea? Sydney recorded zero cases today. Reinforce my Spanish knowledge on Duolingo (maybe finally master the 'personal a')? Hire a language tutor on italki?

The last piece of the puzzle

You could say that I've done a lot of research on childfree women. In addition to the articles and books I read on the subject, I joined various groups on social media. There's a spectrum of attitudes women cultivate towards kids, that they often iterate when amongst themselves. The polar extremes are 'I love kids and am close with a few, but when it comes to personally rearing them, I've decided to opt out' to 'I hate kids and their loud, messy failure to be well-behaved adults'. The latter category sometimes shamed mothers, particularly mothers who had more than two kids. 

It was fairly easy to decide I was happy childfree. The hard work I had to do was treat mothers with the same respect I reserve for my tribe (of childfree women). Seeing women who chose differently than me as equal to me, and worthy of sympathy, compassion and non-judgement. My reasoning is like this: if I'm deeply content with myself, then I can be deeply content with another person who isn't harming anybody, and is acting in her personal best interests. 

I've removed the animosity factor. We are all working towards the same hopes and dreams: living a good life. Let mothers enjoy their life path, since that is what they wanted. People don't have to be a carbon copy of me. 

Speaking of animosity, I'm finding myself opting out of the outrage parade where US politics is involved. A slightly different issue, but it's tiring to hurl insults at the so-called enemy. We're all in the global community together, and I don't want to hate anybody. Socially sanctioned hatred is overrated. Building trust across the global community, reminding us that we have common interests at heart, inspiring us to gravitate towards peace and co-operation? That's hard. In fact, I don't remember the last time I heard the word co-operation in The Guardian or BBC or any of the media I consume. It took me a while to locate it in my inner word-scape. 

Maybe I've mellowed in my old age. I do turn 37 in a few months. Whatever the inspiration, I feel more wholesome. 

Rekindling appreciation

For a long time, Haruki Murakami books were my main in-depth connection to Japan. I had started to feel that my feminism was pushing me away from this country. But recently I feel hopeful again that I can find inspiration within its borders. I started reading women authors - most notably Sayaka Murata - and started watching NHK World. It's comforting to recognise aspects of the culture whose language I studied for four years, particularly as the soothing tones of the syllables float into my ears. 

Now is a time for rediscovery. Making peace with the past. Finding the inner glow that has stayed with me through my various incarnations. Having a sturdy sense of reality - or letting nebulously connected fragments of reality dance around, seeking new relationships to each other. 

Now is a time to be alone. Companionably, I share a living room with my parents for a part of the day. When they clear out, I touch base with my feelings and find a strategy that will keep me happily engaged in the late hours. Sometimes I chat with friends online. Sometimes I enjoy being alone. Because we always return to the alone state - it is a constant. 

... Observe the dance of particles that is the body, whether in stillness or movement. 

Post-astrology

 It’s unclear to me how to consciously direct my personality’s development. Would I do well to study different personality types to the one I emulated, attempt to compensate for decades of conformity to an (arche)type by an artificial rebalance? Or am I just better off randomly discovering lost avenues of the soul?

Maybe I should start a support group for those that have been harmed/limited by astrology.

Casting off my constructed shell of a personality is freeing - and terrifying. My existential identity crisis persists all these years. Perhaps active world sculpting is crucial to restoring social know-how. I got a taste of that in the coaching group I joined in March/April. 

An important discovery made thereabouts was that you have to know what your thoughts are in order to change them. Get in tune with those mental grooves, know their specifics. 

At times I’m tempted to muse on astrological knowledge I previously found comfort in, and it can be disappointing to withhold that space from myself. I find myself floating in space, no patterns (or constellations) to latch onto. I think about the many feminists I know who look to astrology for meaning. I think about whether I could date anyone who has a more-than-casual belief in astrology. Probably not, just like I couldn’t envision myself dating a Christian. 

At the same time, there’s a lot to be said for tolerance and open mindedness. Maybe my next partner will have a deep seated belief in aliens, or the absolute centrality of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, or something kooky I will have to humour. 

But who really knows what will emerge - all I can do is stay open to the endless possibilities in the universe.

"I could be you,"

I mutter as I pass the moon-faced teenager, cocking her head at the world while slightly aloof. No doubt she's built up a library of interesting experiences, and adds to them every day, as she traverses the sidewalk or steps into an alternate spatial realm.

I found the world bland and lacking sensuality, as a teen. Today, I'm just thankful to get by unscathed.

But that girl in the white jumper is right: what matters most is not how you can cajole people to regard you highly through status signals, but how you feel about your everyday moments. Can you keep mentally enriched even as you reach for your bus card, wave it over the electronic equipment, and step out of the robust rectangular prism, only to be fleetingly surrounded by its smoke for the short period of time it takes for it to pass you by?

Alive to experience: mindful of a pain that goes as deep as your pleasure.

Stream of Consciousness #4

I enjoy myself as best I can. My subconscious is a happy land.

The leaf-dappled branches pile high. Brushing my face, a contented sigh.

Spring's one step closer - walk into the night.

Never yield to disruptive demands.

I set the pace. I bide my time.

Return to the breath and the goodwill, entwined.

Accept your disinterest. And honour the host.

She is me, I am her - we matter the most.

Señorita. She maintains that name like it's going out of fashion.
I tiptoe around titles. I don't want to vex her.
But if she were me, a long ago version
I'd hold her close and let her be one more 'person'
Mx is unhappy that she's in that culture war
But he'll take the option that dares to be more

Reality shifting, lowering nooses
Deep down they know the pain has its uses
Hoping they'll move past the pain at some point
Switching back to momentum of preferable sorts

Scarcity Thinking or Realism?

I've been around groups of single women long enough to be familiar with the following complaint: There aren't enough quality men out there for all the quality women who are looking for quality men.

Kara Loewentheil is aware of it too, and uses it as an example of how not to approach dating. According to Kara, this is scarcity thinking, and will impact you negatively, as you make the dating experience a drag. And then, when you do get into a relationship, you would be so afraid of not losing that relationship (cause, where are you going to find another?), that you're willing to tolerate behaviour that doesn't correspond to how you think you deserve to be treated. 

In a sense, I can see how abundance thinking would give you an advantage in dating. It might motivate you to search for matches more often. Having an optimistic, or even just curious and experimental approach to dating, sends far more attractive vibes than believing your efforts are doomed to failure. But is it not possible to believe that there is an unbalance in the dating scene, yet still remain open-minded about finding a partner?

Because the statistics seem to bear the "scarcity thinking" out. From one angle at least: more women than men attend university. Those women then go on to pursue a man who has a similar level of education. The theory goes, not all of them will be successful. From a point of view slightly more relevant to me (as a homoflexible, polyamorous autodidact), there seem to be more women who are feminists than men who are feminists/allies. These opposite-sex attracted women then have two choices: remain single, or settle for second best. 

A realist might say that, sure there are few desirable matches out there, but there's no reason I can't be in the game. I am worthy of a relationship with someone who seeks a certain level of mutuality. I've been in a relationship before, and it's possible I will find myself in one again. Not to mention, I will be fine with or without a relationship, because it's proven that a relationship doesn't make you any happier in the long term. 

For me personally, being conflict-averse means that I often suffer in silence in a relationship. Unless I change my firm habits of concealing my feelings and thoughts if I think they will not be met with approval (sounds like the sort of thing requiring years of therapy!), being in a relationship may actually make me feel worse. 

But the cool thing is that I can be happy with my single state. It's a special talent I have, to appreciate my inner world and the gifts I am giving to myself all the time. To be content with being alive is something I can always come back to. I believe I am living in abundance.

Curiosity holds the space (Poem)

Looked down, looked away
But curiosity holds the space
What was forgotten, neglected
Now asks to be re-respected

Shooting sparks
I host their glee
Floating past
Like reveries
I'm in control
And when I stop
I'll keep awake
And stay on top

The Feminist Client (First published on September 11, 2017)

The Feminist Client 

September 11, 2017

Something was awry. And not just the fact that I was being hospitalised for my levels of emotional distress. This new psychiatrist was altogether too interested in me. He started stroking one hand with the other, a suggestive movement which recalled to me the letter I’d sent the mental health staff which included a reference to an orgasm-free masturbation session I’d had which had gotten me thinking about the deeper reasons behind me being hospitalised.

No stranger to sexual predators, I offered him my complete silence, and a defiant stare. I let him know, nonverbally, that I knew what he was up to, and I was not going to fall for his trap. It worked. He was fuming by the time he ended the session with me.

I relaxed a bit, but not much. For a mentally vulnerable 22 year old woman, the ward was a place full of menace. Some of that was from the patients (like the man who addressed all the females of the ward by the c word, volubly, and who made to harm one of the female nurses; like the man whose advances I resisted who would punch the wall immediately above my head), but mostly it was from the mental health staff.

It was the nurses I had the most contact with, and I was disgusted by their dehumanising attitudes towards me. I convinced myself that I would keep record of every injustice, every slight. In the end it proved all too much: it was all day, every day. It was the way of life of a system that is beginning to die out, but persists in reproducing itself to this day.

Psychiatry seems to me all about distrusting lived emotional experiences. I have spoken to client after client, and there isn’t a single one without a horrible story of abuse and/or neglect to tell. Instead of providing clients with immediate access to intensive psychotherapy, they are immediately drugged with powerful, usually sedative, neuroleptics, and enclosed within a small space with fifty-odd others who are similarly going through some of the worst experiences of their lives. Here’s the fun part: to get out of there you are forced to demonstrate “compliance” to this abusive system, and show that you are sufficiently social by opening up to the other clients, some of whom might lash out to you if you inadvertently trigger them. (In my time at Kiloh, I had a piece of wood thrown at me, and generic hospital dessert smeared across my back.)  

But let’s go back to the realm of emotions, that part of human experience which is so deeply distrusted by psychiatry. There is a long-standing tradition within Western philosophy to associate mental processes with masculine energy, and the emotions with feminine energy. Just as the dominant class of men detests women and treats them as an underclass, the psychiatric class loathes people who express socially unacceptable emotion. Instead of treating deep emotional distress as a symptom of a flawed society, psychiatrists use their power to obliterate the unique, organic emotional journeys of those who have been harmed by unequal power structures and the abuse inherent in such structures. Instead of honouring our emotions and validating our experiences, we are treated as abominations at worst and inconveniences at best.

The way the mental health system treats its clients is inhumane, and is an open secret that needs rectifying. Pioneer communities within countries such as Finland and Norway have implemented a much more humane system called Open Dialogue, which treats a person who presents with deep emotional distress as the biggest authority on themselves. They are asked about their experiences and listened to, within the context of their family, friends and community helpers, who are also present for the sessions. The focus is not on the individual as a biological error, but how their interaction with wider society has led them to a crisis point. Medication is a last resort.

Open Dialogue is a bright point in my experience in this world. It convinces me that somewhere, out there, my emotions matter. My experiences with deep emotional distress are meaningful and I am valuable to society. 

The good news is that there are the beginnings of Open Dialogue taking hold in Australia. While it is not available to anyone who presents with deep emotional distress, if things keep moving in the right direction, it very well might be. But we cannot rest idle and wait for “the inevitable” to happen. Nothing is inevitable. We have to make it happen, by educating our friends, colleagues and people around us. To let them know about the deep perversion of justice current psychiatric practices enact. To make them aware that everybody has the right to be treated as though their emotions are based on something real – because they are. 

Some things that happened to me in Iceland:

- a Disgruntled Citizen saw my Free Walking Tour guide's sign (for us travellers) held high, and wrested it from her hands so she could carry it up the street. She only gave it back when our tour guide explained she wasn't protesting anything. (I then joked to a nearby American couple that we could perhaps rally around a cry of 'More rights for tourists!')

- Getting to Harpa, the beautiful glass opera house, was bracing. The wind by the ocean was out in full force, so that I had to walk at an incline towards the beckoning hexagons. I must admit I felt so enacted upon by the weather that I had second thoughts about persevering through to my destination. The streets were clean and relatively free of foot traffic, so the only thing that made this rain-free day unpleasant was the constant needling of the wind into my flesh. Once I got there I was swallowed up into a warm, translucent cavity which offered a glitzy facet of the city - one a budget traveller like me had little other opportunity to see.

- pleased to have been guided by Nomadic Matt's travel guide to Iceland, I found myself in a charismatic cafe with eclectic furniture which offered pretty views of the colourful houses across the street. Hipsters attuned to the content of their laptops representing scarce sightings of locals as tourists were all but taking over. It didn't matter because the food was good. But there was something unsettling about Reykjavik Roasters, which ultimately led to not lingering: it was the offensive signature misogyny of the new Eminem cd. I was dismayed at the majority male staff, assaulting our ears with the most unfeminist Icelandinc soundscape I could think of. Grr.

- Trying to get closer to an insider's experience, I took a 3-hour 'Elf School' run by a religious guy called Magnus. The content of Magnus' lecture was interesting, but he became verbally sexually invasive to one of the German women he would exchange banter with, and I received an unwanted touch on the upper part of my breast when I requested a photo. Inwardly angry, but, like so many, feeling like I had to carry on as normal, I came to the conclusion that between the café incident and this now groping, it was safe to say that Iceland was still very much a patriarchy

- I should have remembered my short-lived friendship with an Icelander called Árni over the internet. We were both part of the facebook group for 'film-philosophy' and he seemed imaginative and clever. Little did I know that Árni would prove ignorant and hostile when I attempted to discuss Larsson's Millenium Trilogy. *Sigh*

- Anyway, there are signs that Iceland is being given new life by enterprising immigrants who've newly settled on its shores. The first cafe/restaurant I really took to was run by a former Brooklyn native, decked out with maritime themes in its paintings, and a loveably oddball eclectic style. I loved it so much, I almost didn't make it to the Free Walking Tour in time.

- back to that tour, the woman in charge (Dīsa for short) entertained us by sharing that she took showers for as long as it takes to listen to a Beyoncé's cd, demonstrating scrubbing her underarms while wrapped up in the emotions of the songs.

- my second official tour happened on the second-last day of my trip, a Golden Circle exploration of some natural highlights just outside the city. The tour guide was fond of making jokes, and two stuck with me:
a) If you want to get a job where you lie all the time, become a politician or a weatherperson.
b) Iceland's water is the source of that unpleasant sulfuric smell, so don't ask if she* farted.
(*Imagine 'she' being pronounced in a tone that represents higher status for women than in non-Nordic countries - almost with the playful affection one might have for a brother.)

Would I go to Iceland again? Absolutely. 

The language of love

Seared into my gaze, yet fading
Wrought into my step, shaking it off
Searching for the comfort that's unending
Accumulating confidence previously cast off

How could you have seen me
But been so wound up in fears
Unable to reach out, you were
Though I gathered you near

Reinvesting in the notion of affection
Somehow I've done so long without
Friendly ministrations recall past soothings
An antithesis to sweet nothings

I'll crave warmth from the people around me
I'm allowed to grow through endearments
Given and received, an atmosphere of generosity
Looking forward to the love generating velocity

Living through something disruptive

For a week now I've been mainly going outside after the hours of 8pm. Even so, this Saturday night, I chose to skip a sojourn around my suburb. I needed the avoidance of stressful touching of door handles, lift buttons and other such surfaces. I'm sure I'll resume tomorrow.

So far, as far as I know, I don't have the coronavirus, but a part of me expects to contract it despite the precautions I'm taking.

I dived deep into a heady tale yesterday, the vividly drawn Eastern European setting disturbing me. I hope I sleep better this morning. For morning is a better descriptor than night.

Dua Lipa plays on Channel V and it's slightly disconcerting, possibly too heteronormative.

I maintain my innocence, and my immersion in the world of post-traumatic growth.

A book by Sophie Hardcastle. Article in The Guardian. A downloaded chapter. An exquisite fear of another woman's hellscape. A decision to disengage.

The offensive doctor brought something to my attention (before I left his office forever). I wanted to bring my whole self along to the next man's office. Let him be discomforted. Let me bring all of my tricky, hard-won knowledge. Let the full canopy of my well-tended psyche wrench his certainty far from where he'd hoped. 

South Korea shows Hollywood how it’s done

I’m inordinately pleased to witness ‘Parasite’ win the Best Picture award at the Oscars. This film did not miss a single beat in creating a tonally immersive experience. Despite the violence contained within, I was transformed enough to see it twice.

In ‘1917’ we had the filmmaking community revisit its fetish for war, something I’m just not up for.

If we are to promote peace, we need to depict scenes upon scenes depicting peace. Building peace, one kind gesture at a time, takes a willingness to focus on the more palatable parts of humanity - the capacity for people to be sweet to each other, our ability to give our time, attention and sympathy where we didn’t even know we could, the frequent instinct to soothe, reassure and encourage.

‘Parasite’ had some scenes where siblings bond, the father demonstrates his pride for his son, and the closely knit nature of the poor family is implied by their filling of the screen together, a coherent unit.  I’ll take it. Give me more of the same. Let it grow, multiply, flourish. Let it be the main theme of the narrative. Let it touch those hard to reach places in my soul, the ones crying out for more representations for love and affection - so that I can mirror what I see on the big screen. I want to learn by osmosis. Picture me, directors. Picture me. 

Flow

She wondered if she'd look up more often if she wore contacts, because glasses meant that her line of sight was limited to the frames. Lenses had a way of getting her in trouble, though. And she enjoyed the impression of intellectualism that her glasses imparted. Glasses it was. 

She swept her gaze up and down the harbour-side shops, as if painting them enchanting. The First Nations art shop was shut, but the artistic display of gourmet chocolate experiences would tickle her imagination. 

In the back of her mind she had a vision of rapid co-mingling of disparate concepts, or intuitive fusion of previously mismatched notions. It looked likely that she would reach such a state of honouring her curiosity. 

Patriarchy, again: the warm lashes of rain upon two glowing Asian figures. Not quite as phallic as the oblongs of the cityscape they overlooked, they mustered up an unmistakably male energy, twins of blue and red, lotuses and stripes entangled in a merry symphony within. Look, how those yellows accentuate the integrity of the whole - and that lower bit looks like Korean royal mint, but how can it be? She's pretty sure this tribute is Chinese. 

In a nutshell

*

I don't need those 15 minutes of fame. My anonymity in a public place is a luxury. I don't want the hate mail that stardom would bring, and while it would be nice to reach some more rare and beautiful souls along the way, I'm making do with my private, peaceful life.

*

Poem

I have ambitions, goals and dreams
I take no action
I subsist on others’ texts
Creating none myself

A strong sense of identity
Strongly muted, held back, lost
Engraving poems on the ocean
Watching them float off

Churlish on the inside
But forced to act all smooth
It feels like self-betrayal
Like two faced plenitude

The resources bloom abundant
But the encroaching facade restrains
In the dark and broken quiet
I recollect my name