Finding Ways (Travel Edition)

I don't know how my mum and I managed to be so lucky, but we took three small vacations during the as-yet-unfolding pandemic. 

In December 2020, we spent four nights in Hobart, Tasmania, coming back just before Tasmania shut its borders to would-be NSW travellers. If we had postponed the travel for a week or so, it would have been impossible. 

In May of 2021, mum was intent on taking in the Gold Coast, and I wasn't about to miss a domestic adventure, even though the uncertainty about border closures was still very much in the air. We spent four nights there too, and I updated my knowledge on Queensland - it may be lagging behind NSW and VIC in terms of progressive politics, but it has its fare share of rebels and counter-culture types. Walking around Surfer's Paradise, there was often a person with colourful hair or a piercing within sight. 

Again: QLD barred interstate travel very shortly after we left. 

Finally, after a lot of hesitation, we decided to be daredevils and fly to Melbourne this December, just as Omicron was gathering pace in both the nation's biggest cities. We stayed five nights in the CBD, enjoying the relatively relaxed pace, the user-friendly trams and urban design, good food and the coffee at Brunetti. 

Not even a week later, airline staff got sick with Covid en masse, and many flights were cancelled, particularly from Melbourne and Sydney. The notice given to passengers was less than 24 hours, and that could have been us if we'd tweaked our travel dates slightly. 

My pandemic experience has been softened, enlightened and made more manageable by these diverse Australian experiences... I can't deny that they were a risky undertaking, but hey - we only live once! 

I hope next year brings travel of the international variety. In the meantime, I'm grateful for what I've had. 

It's been a while...

Today I felt like picking up my virtual pencil and making a few proverbial strokes on this green canvas of mine. 

Something that I'm proud of lately is changing my mental health worker. I had been working with Mrs. X for some months, but it was uncomfortable, and I would feel low after our phone calls. Eventually I made up my mind to call up her supervisor and ask for a change. It's been wonderful being assigned an actual feminist, instead of someone who is ignorant and prejudiced about this important aspect of my life. Welcome, Mrs. Y. 

More recently, I discovered yet another quality life coach with a podcast - Victoria Albina, with Feminist Wellness. I have added her to my playlist, along with Xena Jones (Confidence Made Easy) and Kara Loewentheil (Unf*ck Your Brain). Originally from Argentina and living in the US, Victoria kind of glows. Her radiant voice informs her practical and nuanced feminist agenda. Her most recent episode explores ways we can learn to appreciate other people's love languages (e.g. touch, quality time, acts of service) even if we are disinclined to do so initially. It's interesting to think about how we can open up to a new mode of receiving affection, even if we weren't primed for it through our past experiences.

I spend a lot of time thinking about different languages, while languishing on systemic learning of Spanish or any other language. Mrs. Y and I set a goal: Pass the A1 Spanish test, and I am freaking out about practically applying it to my life. It's still not too late, but I fear I may have to delay by a week or so, because I also decided at this time to phase snacks out of my diet, and after years of relying on sweet treats for psychological relief, it's doing me in. 

Changing your eating habits requires a lot of energy. A doctor once told me that the first two weeks were the hardest. At the same time, I've already commenced searching for a special language teacher on ItalkI. Nothing concrete as yet, but at the same time I'm trying to keep Spanish in my life by liking facebook pages in the language, and occasionally reading El Pais (a popular newspaper). 

Does anyone know how Pedro Sanchez is doing in the polls? I've been trying to gauge the mood of the Spaniards, but my searches haven't yielded the results that must surely be out there. Maybe those results exist in Spanish only... es el momento de ser creativo. 

Self-love

Self-love is caring more what I think of me

Than caring about what others think of me

Self-love is interiority

Intuitively seeking out my opinion first

Taking responsibility for my worldviews

Checking in with my emotions many times a day

Trusting I continually find my way

Lessons learned from World Pride in Copenhagen

I just watched a very informative panel on asexuality, and I have an overdue apology to make to any asexual readers who have been around for a while... many years ago I wrote a post critical of the validity of asexuality. I'm sorry that I was ignorant and didn't develop empathy for what I now understand is a very valid community, which faces discrimination and stigma, just like bisexual or pansexual people do. 

The best I can do from hereon out is to listen and engage with aces who are brave enough to tell me how they identify. And amplify activist voices, as well. 

The Traveller's Imagination

I've never been to the Great Wall of China - perhaps someday I will - but in 2003 I spent a month in a snowy Shanghai where I was awestruck by the architectural diversity on display. The high rises here didn't behave like their counterparts in much of the rest of the world - they had grown new forms, developed new shapes. There were deviant angles and curves where I had expected rectangular prisms to be. Okay, so there were many typical skyscrapers too, but to my delight the irregular ones seemed to be in abundance. And at night, successions of bright colours sauntered on and off their glass canvases, alerting me to the dynamism and creativity that informed this (post)modern cityscape. 

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I always know I'm in Hong Kong because people will keep bumping into me. I think it was Pico Iyer who compared Bangkok's de-centred neighbourhoods to that of Los Angeles, and Hong Kong's verticality to that of New York City. Now I've been to LA a couple of times, and its geography is brought to life in many a Hollywood film, so I can appreciate Pico's comparison... but I'm yet to make time for New York in my hypothetical post-pandemic travels, in part due to the lack of human scale I perceived in the HK environment. NYC is also famous for its own American brand of rudeness, especially to visitors, not unlike the abrupt social stylings of some Hong Kongers. I live in hope that I will be shown better sides of both cities. I'm aware I'll need to actually visit New York City first to challenge my preconceptions!

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Speaking of Hollywood... When watching 'The Cider House Rules' I couldn't help but notice how drawn I was to New England's autumnal landscapes. I daydream of walking around delicate trees slowly shedding their leaves in subtle variations on red, orange and yellow. I wonder what the whole scene would smell like. Would it remind me of the Bay Area, in a different time zone? I can distinguish between what is North American and what is distinctly Maine, Massachussetts or Vermont. 

...I may have to wait to board a plane for now, but there are plenty of wonders congregating inside my mind, and I can't wait to see what new psychological states my journeys will unearth. 

Post-pandemic Travels

I recently realised that the Australian government only permits me to spend 17 weeks per year outside the country. That’s if I want to stay on my pension, which I do. 

I had been planning to spend a year living like a local someplace like Granada, Spain, but I can see that 3-4 months will have to do. The condensed time period may mean that I can live like a local in higher income countries, like Finland. 

In the past decade that I have been exploring Europe, I took many inter-continental flights. In 2018 alone I flew seven times once there. In 2021, with the increasing awareness of how much our carbon emissions are contributing to Earth’s suffering, I am disinterested in repeating that pattern. 

I will think back to 2016, when I spent all my time in Germany: 2 weeks in Berlin, with a short train journey onwards to a smaller town in East Germany to visit a close one, day trips to two other East German towns by train, and then finally a longer train ride to Frankfurt, my departure point. 

I felt a strong connection to Germany because I was seeing off-the-beaten-path destinations with the help of someone I cared about. I had more time to walk the streets, connect one block and suburb to the next, come up with theories about why Germans thrusted themselves forwards under the name of walking, muse on multiculturalism, speculate about GLBTIQ inclusion, and so on. More time meant more connection. 

With this in mind I’m eager to immerse myself in a new place (or even an old place ;) ), and learn something new.

Challenging some black and white thinking

This month I applied to do a Bachelor of Arts at the University of Sydney, received the offer, and accepted it. Less than a week after gearing myself up to take on a new challenge, I realised that, deep down, I didn't want to do it. This same cycle of action has gone on at least four times. Today I'm thinking of exploring some of my black and white thinking about what it means to be at university, and how I can be more secure in my autodidact mode. 

Some thoughts I have that aren't serving me:

• I don’t want to give up my history of proud nonconformity
• A refusal to participate could hold me back from achieving my goals for self-improvement

And, let's take a look at the facts: 

I could, if I chose to, study Spanish or another language all on my own, using online or other free resources. I could also get a tutor if I decide it's worth it. (That tutor could be once a month, or twice a week. (It doesn't have to be overwhelming or very expensive.)) I could set myself goals, such as achieve 10/10 on the A1 exam by six months' time. Then take the A2 exam in another six months, and so on, until I reach C2. 

The above 'plan' shows that I have options to achieve the same goal (Fluent in Spanish, up to C2 level) on my own. So why the hysteria about joining academia?

I guess I believe that I will be more respected and taken seriously if I go through an undergraduate journey. But that shows me that I need to work on respecting *myself* and taking *myself* more seriously. Completing a Bachelor of Arts has no moral value. It is an option, and for many ongoing reasons, is proving not the be the best option for me. 

The role of experts

I consume a lot of media, everything from The Guardian to professional academic publications, to blogs and articles. They are almost always written by people who have gone through the university system. I feel left out. There is some resonance to my thought that 'bright and upwardly mobile people are expected to attend university'. 

These thoughts are there despite my parents having completely accepted that I won't be following the tertiary path. "You are educated already," they say. "If you want to take on a bit of work [as congruent with your abilities], talk to a career adviser." And it's true that I could just start submitting articles to publications.

But the other part of me is completely withdrawn from Australian society, and regards participation with suspicion. "Why would you want to take part in a society that systematically excludes and stifles you?" It feels like too big an assumption to make that the things that are most meaningful to me will be meaningful to others.

But could I try? I could try to position myself as an expert, and find solid backing. I know how to present myself in a clear and convincing way. When I do make an effort to participate, people often get behind me. I move them. 

I can find reasons against participating - it's easy. But actually showing up for a worthy cause might just be worth the discomfort and ego sacrifice. Perhaps I can find a way to contribute in my own, meaningful way.  

Names, Cultures and Affinities

Late last evening, I had reason to look up the ethnic background of the host of SBS News, Ricardo Goncalves. I got more than I bargained for when I found an article he had written on the subject of reclaiming his Portuguese name, Ricardo, after many formative years of being referred to as Richard by his teachers and community. 

The article brought foremost to my mind the debate I've been having silently in my head for a while now - whether to change my name legally back to Maria, or keep going with Epiphanie. 

When I was presenting as Maria, inbuilt into the architecture of my name was the assumption, shared and recreated between my Slavic self and my Anglo-Saxon counterpart, that I did not quite share the same paradigm. 'Epiphanie' helped break down some of the walls people had built - or at least disoriented them long enough for me to assert belonging along with them. 

But this has also led to a sort of identity loss for me. Nothing is black and white, and what I gained in terms of opportunity and access to different kinds of Australians, I lost in terms of strengthening my cultural identity. 

I come from an old and proud culture, and its foundations give me strength, and a kind of multiplicity of belongings and semi-belongings that is unique to my immigrant experience. Yes, my history is sometimes a site of pain. There is often disrespect levelled by Anglo-Saxon Australia towards people from developing countries. But even as Maria, I would represent myself as novel, open, fresh. There is no reason to think changing my name back would have significant negative consequences.

But changing my name would allow other Bulgarians, Eastern Europeans, and immigrants, to find me. I crave the community of people with similar experiences, and my current name does not invite such conviviality. 

Faced with two good options, there is no right answer. Just a lot of questions. 

Will I change my name back to Maria?  

The Embodiment of Child-free

It's not often that the absence of activity makes you stand out, but to be child-free is to occupy some controversial ground. No matter what I do after my fertility disappears, I'm going to be a child-free woman whilst doing it. While I'm enjoying the results of decisions well-made, and surround myself with people who affirm my values, I'm aware that the future Epiphanie can expect to face discrimination from those who resent her freedom. 

I’m aware that while ‘childfree’ resonates with me, other women my age think of themselves as ‘childless’. There have been reluctant considerations of single motherhood, mollification over perceived dwindling options, and outside Five Eyes Oceania, dismay at the pandemic disrupting dating and medical services (like IVF). 

I believe I will navigate life well despite any stigma. I have a proud history of eccentricity to draw upon. My grandmother doesn’t know this. In our last conversation she advised me to “think up what you really, really want in your life - and ask God for it.” Turning to mum, she implored her when I might have some kind of announcement. I assume she means marriage and/or a baby. 

Can I muster up enough broken Bulgarian to explain that my first marriage was such a disaster that I have no desire to enter another? Do I situate myself as a part of a generational shift away from marriage? I am careful with my words, but there is no guarantee that my orientation towards women won’t become patently obvious to family members who elect to wonder ‘why’. 

Perhaps I should say ‘I like being single’. It may not be the whole truth, but it’s truthful enough. 

It continues to interest me that a hypothetical climate change fuelled apocalypse has seen women reconsidering children also. As distressing as it is to think about future generations locked out of the natural stability and abundance once enjoyed, with possibilities for grim realities of war and scarcity emerging, engaging with reality means being aware of it all.

A friend of mine once demonstrated passive sadism in watching the human race exploit its way out of existence, and I can’t help but feel some of the same, sometimes. Then I look at the reality of innocent people suffering, and mostly snap out of it. I want future generations to have peace of mind. I just don’t think it’s very likely to be the case. And that’s another reason why I feel like I’ve dodged a bullet by avoiding pregnancy.

Progress Made

Let's start with a tale of personal progress: I've now reached the point where I'm waking up at 8:30am every day - no exceptions. Even if I don't get enough sleep the night before, I am grateful for the opportunity to start my day at this time. It maximises my exposure to the life-affirming hours of sunshine our sweet earth provides. 

If you work during the night (or spend winters in Nordic countries) you might not have access to much sunshine. I am aware how privileged I am to be able to organise my circadian rhythm to coincide with the brightest time of day, and I am seizing this opportunity. I hope this will be the beginning of a new lease on health.  

And, moving to some sort of bigger picture: I finished reading 'Notes from a Small Island' yesterday, a much-celebrated book from the 1990s, which is indeed witty, charming, entertaining and even inventive, but is scattered throughout with sexism that I remember as depressingly regular for that decade. The fact that Bill Bryson gives himself a license to be 'daringly sexist' (his words, not mine), shows how much verbal abuse towards women was normalised and anticipated at the time. 

To give you an idea of the kind of sexism in this book, Bryson seemingly has cutting insults for every single member of the royal family who is a woman (even Princess Diana, in a round-about, passive-aggressive kind of way), refers to women as 'crones', and frequently resorts to gendered stereotypes. Homophobia, that old friend of sexism, can also be found here. 

It can be a sad or even kind of maddening exercise for a modern feminist to make their way through this book, savouring certain turns of eloquence, but repelled by the aforementioned prejudice. The only good thing that can be said about the latter is that at least it's not nearly as popular anymore. 2021 brings a feminist (and racial) consciousness to its publishing projects, and when I read books written in the last ten years I can negotiate a greater level of comfort with them. 

When I first started my journey of tertiary education, and continued as an independent intellectual, I was overwhelmingly fixated on texts from the 1960s onwards, preferably as close to the present moment as possible. Some of my friends would attempt to interest me in older works, but I was stubborn in my thirst for narratives in which I could find the most hospitable attitudes towards GLBTI people, multiculturalism and women's rights. 

It's now from this base of understanding of postmodern realities that I look to past texts with a spirit of curiosity and enthusiasm. There is, indeed, much to be learnt from historical precedent. But I think it's important to note that people who weren't part of the same minorities as me (e.g. white, heterosexual men) would have had access to the emotional reality of the past - in which they were seen as the rightful heirs of logic, wisdom, authority and power - much more than I, and I approach this 'shared' history with a disadvantage. These traditional custodians of 'evolving wisdoms' move through 2021 with rather more ease as well, but I really feel the difference when I delve into a time before the coining of the terms 'compulsory heterosexuality' and 'people of colour'. 

Today I am happy to note the fictional trio of the film 'Futur Drei' (literal translation: We are the future), whose combination of PoC and queer identities make a welcome addition to the German filmic landscape. These youths of Iranian descent assert their right to feel at home in Europe, and assume their place in its communities - communities in which they find a deep and abiding sense of home. The future is indeed theirs/ours!

So then I might find Edward Said's 'Orientalism' relevant to my sense of multiculturalism, or I might read one of Zadie Smith's books for a queer black woman's perspective on being European. Alternatively, I might read something by Jacques Derrida, himself an Algerian immigrant to France, or 'The Second Sex' by Simone de Beauvoir (I'm still 18% through this one). Then there's Kazuo Ishiguro's 'The Remains of the Day' snug in my virtual library, or... the list goes on. 

I look forward to integrating all kinds of texts into my reading practice in the future, as I enjoy learning about how historic texts have paved the way for modern innovation. Histories of innovation can sometimes emerge in my mind. And, of course, I look forward to expanding my mental parameters through pioneers who look and sound different to me, and who can offer the comfort of new ideas to approach 2021 with. 

Immigration, Tall Poppy Syndrome and Exceptionality

Once, when I was small, I looked for an opportunity to show off to my Australian friends. I imagined them co-conspiring with my narrative of success, so that, for a brief moment, I would have my time in the sun. I was accustomed to the elation of these socially sanctioned tributes to greatness amongst Bulgarian communities, and, despite what I knew about Tall Poppy Syndrome, thought I could magically evade its censure if I willed it so. 

You can guess what happened next: social disapproval and being 'taken down' - the opposite of the self esteem boost I had been after. I would go on to have a conflicted relationship with the philosophy of social levelling, until the moment when I secretly embraced it. Much later, I would probably over-empathise with my sense of mediocrity, because a psychologist tried to nudge me in the direction of acknowledging my greatness. 

Let's backtrack a bit... it was 2001 and I had just received my Universities Admission Index of 88.2. You would think that I would have been happy with a very high mark which allowed me to enter any university of my choosing. Instead I was relieved that I received notice of it in Vancouver, which meant that fewer people from high school would ask about it directly. If I am honest, I am still ashamed of not having broken through the 90 threshold, even as I remember the tedium of exam training and my psychological problems at the time. 

Perhaps now is the time to reframe my achievements: Being in a school of exceptional students made me no less exceptional. Again: I was exceptional. And: I am still exceptional. 

I can derive value from acknowledging my exceptionality, even though I wouldn't say I was exceptional out loud. For me, exceptional means: producing brilliance where none was expected or required. Exceptional means: Knowing my strengths, reinforcing that knowledge, and making that reinforcement habitual. Exceptional means: Trusting myself to have my own and other people's interests at heart. Exceptional means: Returning to my sense of resonance and lyricism. 

If you're reading this, I have a feeling you would do well to tell yourself you are exceptional too. 

The Conundrum

 'It's been a while since I watched CNN,' I thought to myself. Tuning into a live speech of Biden, the following thought process commenced: "This is mostly a throwback to Obama times... except that we're stuck with an old, white, heterosexual man... I bet GLBTIs will have their own section in the White House website soon... but Biden has been accused of rape... oh good, more aggressive on China... wait, am I endorsing American foreign policy aggression?"

Fast forward to an hour ago, I was ready to make a statement on facebook about withdrawing from political activism. I even proposed everyone join me in celebrating calm, promoting peace, and imbibing tranquility. But while I'm ready for a more harmonious headspace, it's hard to tell the people you know, the majority of whom you befriended explicitly for their politics, that you are no longer in the mood. 

But I have to be honest: I want to be more like Zadie Smith, breathing in beauty whenever possible, not entering yet another toxic online discussion. My conflict avoidant ways are having a comeback. But more than that, I've been through more than my fair share of hardship in this life, and, having reaching a semi-stable environment, I just want to let down my guard, relax, and connect over art and stuff. 

So sue me. *sticks out tongue*

Saying Goodbye to Online Dating

I deactivated my OkCupid account a few days ago, and am already thinking about how to create the conditions to make both friends and potential partners offline. This is an almost 180 degree turn from how I’ve approached socialising and dating in the last six years, so I thought you might like to know how I got here.

The waning of my enthusiasm for the online dating experience started a year or two ago, with an article that revealed that it was not in the companies’ interests to matchmake successfully. Rather, the longer you were a customer on their service, the more money they could make off you, should you stop browsing long enough to click on their advertising.

The article went on: The impression that there was ‘always someone better’ around the corner, especially on sites like OkC that almost never run out of potential profiles for you to consume, can make you pass by matches with whom you are compatible, because they don’t correspond to some pre-conceived concept of perfection.

The seeds of doubt were set. 

Along came Jon Birger, who spoke and wrote of the significantly longer period of time relationships begun in real life lasted, as opposed to online ones. 

Crucially, he articulated the intangible aspects of compatibility which were impossible to tell from text alone, like how you respond physically to a person, whether their level of dynamism is a good energetic match, and if you enter a natural flow of conversation.

The final blow came when I realised that while my three relationships since 2015 had all lasted a year or two, my longest relationship by far was with OkCupid itself - here I was in 2021, still believing it was serving me. I had become that gullible repeat customer.

And so, I quit!

Poem (Untitled)

Trudging after alternating renditions of the blues

Hoping to nail down an impressive collection

Anticipating moments when I can fly into the blue

Soar, to be amongst the fruits of contemplation 

I lurk outside in daylight hours

Basking in the Sydney vibe

I search their fleeting gazes

For the tell-tale remains

Of a person asking 

'Why?'

On finding safety

I don't feel that I live in a world that can be described as safe. All my adult life I have classed myself as non-conforming, but it must be said there are limits to the resistant strategies I can deploy in terms of self-actualisation. Certain forms of rebellion, such as embodying radical sexual agency as a woman, or claiming uncommon amounts of dignity and certitude for my bisexuality, or negating white supremacy, can land me in hot water. If I get 'too angry', I will be discredited. If I indulge my eccentricities, I may be thought of as too mad. It doesn't take much for me to envision a space where I am outcast, abused or even confined to a psychiatric ward. 

It's true I have privilege in Australia that, say, an atheist living in Nigeria would not. But while expressing atheist views to deeply religious people isn't going to land me in an institution (unlike this poor person), I can still expect to feel shunned by them. To have my voice muted, or text written out of the bigger narrative.

And then there are those that question the inner workings of the Washington DC elite. Julian Assange, Chelsea Manning and Edward Snowden, to name a few. Heck, I can't even question American exceptionalism without killing someone's sacred cow. 

For a long time I have been against American exceptionalism, imperialist and patriarchal white supremacist foreign policy, but it's rare the person I divulge it all to. Too much of it is 'the air we breathe' in Australia and abroad. Europeans are more understanding than Australians, but I still feel quite disinclined to share my inner expressions. Sometimes I even mute those expressions to avoid the anger or discordance they would necessitate. 

Things are not alright, in too many ways which remain hidden to the majority. My safety is dependent on being vigilant - a vigilance which is at best not encouraged, and at worst threatened by right wingers. I sometimes feel I must, too, smile, pretend all is alright. I long to return to the private sphere where I can be in the company of my unrestricted thoughts. Perhaps, in my own company, I can finally uncover the safety that informs me and gives me the platform I need to keep up the non-conformity. 

Looking for a way in

Turning the gaze in -

What a revelation!

Dislodging a grouping

Of long-held expectations

In absence of confusion

Back into my arms

A realigned agenda

Falsifying external motivations

Will you be the friend along the journey

Who can boost my flagging will

Or remind me of the story

More inspired, I used to tell?