Athens Reimagined [Part 3]

Most people would have made sure to visit the Acropolis on their travels to Athens. I was interested in something a little more off-beat, even though it would mean passing through the equally overtouristed heart of Plaka (the Old Town) to get there.

The Museum of Greek Folk Musical Instruments turned out to be a dark, cosy, cavernous space. Evoking not just the sounds but the ornamental patterns and textiles of wartime Greece, it was fun to explore its three storeys. My gaze sometimes rested on a traditional grey stone arch that was integrated into the wall as I listened to stirring musical tracks. Elsewhere on the walls were large photos, mostly of elderly men playing the eponymous instruments. I searched for and found the odd image of a woman, but the ratio was disproportionate enough to make me think that the Greek patriarchy was one of Europe's most persistent.   

Migrating to the uppermost floor, there was something cheery and comforting about the variety of wooden designs among the collection of instruments. They were decorated in ways both intricate and stark, mostly using white markings. Knowing they were made for emotional resonance and cultural enrichment made me more appreciative of their beauty. The quirkiest made my day.  

After much lingering it was time to plunge back into the maze of Plaka, and indulge my love for the islands by ascending to Anafiotika. This singular neighbourhood was a tiny collection of whitewashed buildings in the style of the residents' former lodgings on Anafi. While the architecture looked like it had seen fresher years, it had an ageing charm which sweeping views of Athens did nothing to diminish. I enjoyed the white and grey staircases, blue doors and generous distribution of potted plants gracing the micro-suburb. A small church and abundant greenery added atmosphere, as did a burst of graffiti, antifa and otherwise. (1312 in Athens, also.)

I noticed that the locals of Anafiotika had put up signs encouraging visitors to be mindful of their noise levels, and respectful of the fact that they were walking through real homes. A poster showcasing stunning views of Anafi suggested a yearning for the land long left behind. Those views had me making a mental note to return to the Greek islands. They could keep me busy for quite a while, when the time was right...     

Descending to Plaka, I gravitated towards a yoghurt dessert shop, treating myself to a cup of their creamy produce with figs on top. My mind wandered to the day before, when I had first set foot in the narrow streets of the Old Town and been enveloped by a dreamy, yellow glow emanating from the buildings. Being here in late September was not sufficiently off-season to escape the crowds, but I had enjoyed people watching over gyros, bargaining for shiny gifts, and marveling over various art galleries.   

After an assortment of pleasurable experiences in Athens, I would be leaving for Sofia, Bulgaria tomorrow.

Athens Reimagined [Part 2]

At the outset of my second full day in Athens I identified the Basil and Elise Goulandris Foundation as the place to be. They gave me free admission on account of my special status in Australia - unexpected, but welcome. A collection of modern art characterised by bold lines and dramatic colour combinations unfolded. I noticed some familiar styles, and indeed the labels read Kandinsky, Picasso and Braque. Video dedicated to Van Gogh refreshed my memory on the extent of his imagination, and the depths of his despair. At the topmost level, a number of the local Greeks showed off the red in their palette. I chatted with a security guard about women's solo travel, happy to share my enthusiasm for taking off (and not waiting for a travel partner to do so).

It was a shiny space housing dynamic works, but the Foundation was not as big as I imagined it to be. I was thankful for the Orthodox church next door which gave me something pretty to look at while I pondered the day ahead. Its edifice was the colour of lemon meringue cake, complete with white arches and pillars. Unfortunately there were renovations inside, but the exterior showed three large images of saintly men in red, pink, green and white robes, so I lingered with my camera. 

Still no idea what to do next, I fell back on Rolf Potts' time-tested advice: "Walk, until the day becomes interesting." Most of the traffic on the street was heading towards the main road, so I decided this was the direction for me. Once there I noticed signs for Syntagma Square and Plaka, and walked in that general direction until I came across an park-like area. A stylish grey building beckoned up some flights of stairs, so I ascended awhile and was rewarded with pleasant views of Athens. I couldn’t figure out what the building was for, but followed a sandy path around it, and eventually emerged into a courtyard. The single-storey Museum of Byzantine and Christian Art was now surrounding me on three sides. I considered going in, but speculated I could find something more interesting. (This was Athens, after all: history is around every corner.)

The courtyard was home to several species of charming flowers, and while I was photographing a creeping vine with an offshoot of magenta blooms, a ginger-and-white cat wandered by. I gave it my attention and it seemed to like that, jumping up on an upturned map of the complex near me and meowing expectantly. My new muse twirled for the camera daintily before bouncing off. 

Crossing a busy road, my gaze fell on a pale, majestic-looking building which looked accessible to the public - a pedestrian had just walked through its gates. Drawn to the architecture, I discovered that this was the Museum of Cycladic Art, and felt a rush of gratitude and excitement. I felt like I had hit the jackpot because one of the most beautiful environments I had ever been in, Santorini, was located within the Cycladic islands. Not only was there a large collection of well-preserved artefacts (including vases) which would remind me of my time there, but they were curated in cutting-edge displays. 

I learned a lot about the Cycladic way of life over many dynasties, and marveled over pearlescent drinking vessels, charismatic sculptures and mysterious figurines. Rites of passage such as marriage and death were explored in some detail, including through video installation. Settlements, some thriving through trade, some not so prosperous, rose and fell. The museum had a steady flow of customers, but I often had displays to myself. 

I was lagging by the fourth floor, though, still sleep deprived and a little disoriented. As enjoyable as the experience was, I tumbled into the taxi ‘home’ with some relief, happy to call it a day.

[More Athenian adventures in the next post]

Athens Reimagined [Part 1]

When I first stepped into Athens in 2003 I was already on my way somewhere else - the islands. My first impression of the capital was an uncomfortable level of air pollution, and the suburb in which my hotel was located struck me as gritty and unloved. By the time I saw homophobic graffiti scrawled on a nearby wall, I was happy to leave.

Fast forward to 2022, and a few things saw me give the Greek city a second chance. Firstly, I knew that I would find an abundance of historic sights, good food, and a certain amount of familiarity in the locals (Australia has plenty of Greek immigrants, and Bulgaria is just to the north). Secondly, Scoot Airlines made it one of its two European entry-points from their Singaporean hub, along with Berlin. I'd already experienced two weeks of slow travel in the German capital, and while it was a fine place, I was ready for something new. Furthermore, Athens being tucked into the corner of Europe closest to Australia would make my flight shorter, thereby decreasing my carbon footprint (and increasing my travel comfort). 

The first thing that really struck me about Athens this time around was the friendliness of the staff in the Ibis hotel I was staying. One of them noticed my exhaustion and jetlag and decided to treat me to the Earl Grey tea I was interested in. I learned quickly that Greek hospitality was in a category of its own, perhaps comparable with Thai. 

Awaking to my second day of Athens, I found out from the reception that all public transport workers were striking for the day, and decided to walk to my destination, the National Archeological Museum. This turned out to be a fascinating journey, taking me from a commonplace suburban road to a hip neighbourhood of shops and cafes perched upon on a hill, upwards further through an oval park which housed a historic ruin, and onto a glitzy thoroughfare with tall buildings and an urban buzz. The sleek, shiny surroundings (think shops with floor-to-ceiling glass edifices) eventually culminated in a vivacious place called Syntagma Square, where many high-profile businesses, government agencies, shops, cafes and restaurants lived, and my museum made an appearance shortly after that. 

I stopped every so often to ask for directions, and most of the locals took their time in making sure I understood their advice. Observing images of the Greek gods incorporated into ads for everything from healthcare to coffee had me reaching for my camera. It was while pausing to hydrate in a chic emerald-and-black cafe that I was waited on by a fluorescent-haired woman who pointed out that there were in fact two archeological museums in the area. I asked her to direct me to the biggest of the two, but she seemed unsure as to how I could proceed. 

Back on my feet, a food vendor who looked in his fifties beamed at my inquisitive gaze, and a convenience store owner smiled as he helped me navigate Google Maps. Stylishly dressed women with dye jobs floated around on the pock-marked pavement. They carried their lips in a way that suggested resignation to sexual objectification. There were signs of other kinds of trouble too: every few hundred metres sat a human in some state of distress, extending a sign or container, waiting for infrequently given donations. My heart went out to a particular woman with a hijab - she and her toddler looked like they had been stuck on the streets for some time. I found a patisserie nearby where I tried a hazelnut torte and broke up my large notes, then gave her 5 euro. 

Thinking about race relations in Greece takes me back to the taxi driver I encountered at the airport. He explained that going to a restaurant or cafe was a social affair - the idea was to make a new friend with the person at the table next to you. That was all very well, but he went on to express prejudice against Chinese people, whom he claimed were too materialistic. I offered an alternate viewpoint which he wasn't sympathetic to, got disappointed, then lost interest in the conversation. But I had already given him the details of my background, so he spent the next ten minutes describing his incredulity over the prices in Bulgaria being a fraction of those in Greece. This racist and ethnocentric welcome to Greece is, sadly, an attitude I consider predictable in Europe. 

Anyway, by the time I made it to the National Archeological Museum I was thanking the striking workers for the chance to watch the neighbourhoods morph into each other. And the attraction itself was an eye-opening experience, with artefacts in all forms, shapes and sizes. My favourite section was the stunningly well-preserved ancient vases. I loved the ones depicting women, animals, fruit and musical instruments in particular. I took photos, then spent a bit of time with each vase that stood out to me, trying to appreciate them from different perspectives and get caught up in their narratives.

Many hours later I started to walk back to the Ibis, but here a problem presented itself: a cool September rain. By the time I decided that I was too soaked not to catch a taxi the remainder of the way, I had met with a throat infection. Still, I was happy at how the day was going, and, as my new taxi driver spoke in soulful, melodic tones to a friend, I learned that the Greek language could be quite beautiful. 

[More on Athens in the next post...] 

The Little Things

Did you know that some of the buildings in the suburb of Hannover I’m staying have double doors? Keeping out the winter elements (such as snow) is built into the architecture. Looking closer, the units in each building don’t have numbers, but are differentiated by the names of their inhabitants, which are clearly marked at the street level. 

Once we get inside, recycling is divided into four or five categories, including food scraps, packaging, paper and glass. Ar least one of the Germans I have met has waxed lyrical about this system, which is an improvement on the methods most nations are using. 

Back outside, there is a regularity with which I meet graffiti with antifascist themes that is worth remarking upon. It almost feels like wherever the good old ‘street art’ can be found, a portion of it will be dedicated to antifa expression!

If I should decide I need a taxi, there is a sheet of plastic separating the front and back seats, with the passenger encouraged to ride in the back. I almost always rely on the well-organised tram system, where I could hypothetically make use of a ‘multi-purpose area’ if I had a bike, baby carriage, wheelchair or some other reason to take up more space than the average passenger. 

If I should emerge on a typically spacious sidewalk, significant parts of it will be reserved for bicycle lanes, demarcated by red lines and a slightly different colour on the ground. I am told they are too close to the cars that park on the side of the street, which can sometimes result in casualties when their doors are flung open without warning. Nevertheless, the extensive network of lanes has been successful in encouraging the residents to use this green form of transport. It can’t hurt that this part of northern Germany is topographically quite flat. 

While it’s the done thing to wear a neutral expression in public, I can’t help but smile when I notice a Hannoveraner*innen grinning into their ‘handy’ (mobile phone), or when my gaze meets groups of friends basking in each other’s company. There are many things to enjoy about this city, and I’m so glad I can be here.

Savouring Sofia

If I go outside my apartment, I see Cyrillic: With a little bit of concentration, it starts to make sense, and I’m transported to another worldview, another frequency. 

Today I asked my taxi driver if he thought Bulgarians had grown happier over the last few years (as the World Happiness Index claimed they had done). He declined to agree with this assessment, stating that ‘we’ are a warm and happy nation at heart, something that has stood the test of time. 

I consider this warmth of the average Bulgarian and wonder where I fit into this picture. Is it something that has been partially diluted? Is it, like playing an instrument, something I can get a hang of again? Perhaps this is too hypothetical. I need to look at my specific interactions. There is an emotional ease of being here which is unexpectedly welcome, when I talk to my neighbours or even random people on the sidewalk. It might even be someplace I can stay for a while. But it may be too soon to say. 

Soundscapes for September

The world needs more feel-good vibes, so Enjoy!

a) My Universe - Coldplay and BTS

b) I Like - by Keri Hilson

 

c) Hold My Hand - Lady Gaga

d) Moth to a Flame - The Weeknd (featuring Swedish House Mafia) - 

This comes with a Content Warning: The Weeknd has expressed misogynistic views elsewhere. Feel free to skip this one if you don't want to be subconsciously influenced by his toxicity. If you're feeling strong enough, though, the combination of his mellifluous vocals and vibrant (yet haunting) electro music is quite a vibe. 

e) Remedy - Leony

Review of 'A Sentimental Education' by Hannah McGregor

It is a brave academic who can abandon the prestige associated with being regarded an objective theorist, and represent her emotional involvement in a text, all the while analysing it deeply. This book of essays is a loving interrogation, with recurring themes such as feminism, white supremacy, queerness, fatness and sentimentality woven throughout. It stands on its own as an academic text but it’s obvious that the non-academic reader is welcomed.

Hannah McGregor begins by acknowledging the Indigenous people of Vancouver, and exploring what it means to have a history of cross- (and inter-) continental migration. What does it mean to be a white settler who is informed by Indigenous multi-generational claims to land? Does being rootless contribute to white people’s invasiveness to the Indigenous? “I read once that settlers fetishize* relocation as an ideal because so many of us have lost the connection to our home places. It’s a pathology to disdain staying put, a pathology of whiteness.”

Another remarkable insight into the affect associated with white privilege comes in a later essay, where she writes of  'my own limitations as a white woman, grappling with the recognition that, even in my most intimate relationships, I cannot assume that I understand the experiences of my friends who are Black, Indigenous, or people of colour—indeed, that my desire to hold everything, to empathize with every experience, is an extension of the logic of whiteness and its desire for universality.’ As a white woman with anti-racist intentions, this made me think about letting go of my need to make all the cultural practices of people of colour legible to me, and prioritise a culture of respect – for myself, and for others – first.

Hannah traces her interest in elevating the rights of marginalised groups of people back to her feminist mother, who also modelled many admirable qualities, including abrasiveness. This stood out to me because if we are to do away with tone policing, being an abrasive feminist subverts expectations of people-pleasing and respectability politics, and becomes a subversive strategy of empowerment. More people should read their mothers as texts, embracing the specifics of their upbringing and thus problematising 'the view from nowhere'. 

In an academic world where podcasts are still regularly seen as 'low culture', it's refreshing to find that 'A Sentimental Education' positions them as instrumental to self-discovery. I have never listened to the popular ‘This American Life’ one, but the essay ‘Getting to know you’ made me curious about the episode ‘Tell Me I’m Fat’. According to Hannah, the spoken narratives of Roxane Gay, Lindy West and Elna Baker here are only offered as valuable to a certain extent – the host positions them as worthy of empathy, but an empathy which has its limits, and some subtle fat-shaming undermines it. Furthermore, the podcast is more geared towards providing the listener with infotainment, than it is to calling people to political action. Through engaging with ‘Tell Me I’m Fat’ at different times in her life, Hannah goes from feeling seen to being disappointed, but is able to recontextualise her initial enthusiasm for it as an important step towards activism.

Fans of the author's own podcasts, ‘Witch, Please’ (which is both a fan’s and a critical scholar’s engagement with Harry Potter) and ‘Secret Feminist Agenda’ (in which she explores the meeting point between theory and practice, otherwise known as praxis), will find insights into the processes behind them. Podcasting is represented as a gateway to different affective worlds and collaborative relationships, a welcome departure from the limitations of academia, while also reinvigorating the academic practice. One of the concepts associated with podcasts is that of relatability - something which we encounter every day in our consumption of popular culture, but rarely look at self-consciously.  

Perhaps the most notable aspect of the essay on #Relatability was the description of the knowing subversion of it in Carmen Maria Machado’s memoir ‘In the Dream House’. In a heteronormative world where there is little space held for healing from abusive queer relationships, ‘In the Dream House’ is preoccupied with reliving a traumatic event while being only able to show fragments of it at any given point. To draw Machado’s text out from this complex essay which moves seamlessly between many texts and a myriad of attendant themes is perhaps to do it a disservice, but I must start somewhere.

And I must end somewhere: I recommend ‘A Sentimental Education’ for its fascinating treatment of subjects close to the author’s heart. It’s not just the #Relatability essay that is rich, complex and expertly woven: the same can be said for all of them. If something I’ve written about here captured your attention, you will find much more like it within this fabulous and thought-provoking book.

*The negative view of fetishisation could unfortunately be seen as kink-shaming.

All the people I could be

A couple of years ago my dad gave me a lecture on how I should learn to be a better liar from the perspective of self-preservation. I found this intervention unnecessary and offensive. In addition to being a bad liar I have a pretty good bullshit detector, and it's precisely because I'm looking for genuine responses that I can sense the gaps and silences in someone intending to deceive. In other words, I've made peace with wearing my heart on my sleeve. 

But I never could have arrived at such an understanding of myself if I still believed in astrology. Why? My personality archetype was supposed to be able to keep their emotions well-hidden. It seemed a tendency towards secrecy was written in my stars. I would have to navigate a world in which I was one of the most closed off people, which would inspire more open types to be suspicious of me. I would be misunderstood for wanting to be beneath the radar. 

It was with huge relief (that I was at first afraid to examine too closely) that I let the fixed personality system dissolve from my consciousness. I became more of this (conspicuously open and vulnerable), and less of that (certain about who I was, or who other people were). I now believe that personality changes over time - introverts can become extraverts or vice versa, people can go from being extremely open to experience to being more on the cautious side of the spectrum, and so on. The world is as complex as I dare imagine. 

I wouldn't change my past addiction to categorising people into those twelve boxes, because it offered me some beautiful tools. In my first semester of university, I painted my room according to how different elements interacted with each other in my chart, and for a long time afterward my personal space was like a music video backdrop. I wouldn't want to take the fun of that back.

But is it ever so sweet to realise that I can be wildly creative outside the system! And yes, I can hold a space of compassion and non-judgement for the young person who was looking for guidance, certainty and belonging through the best tools they could find at the time. It becomes easier to do this as I go. 

When I think about the sort of person who's compatible with me now, I think: Are they highly intelligent and deeply kind? Are they sympathetic to people who struggle with mental health problems? Do they understand that gender is in the mind, not the body? Are they willing to re-evaluate long-held beliefs? I feel empowered to appreciate people of all kinds of personality configurations now! 

Girls' souls and patriarchy

In the Finnish coming-of-age film 'Girl Picture', a girl, Ronkko, feels uniquely deficient. No matter how she approaches lovemaking, real pleasure remains elusive. She has tried communicating her wishes through moans alone, and when her friend advises her to speak her mind about what she wants and she acts on that, her one night stand complains that it's unsexy to follow 'a manual for the genitals'. 

It's clear to us that the boy putting her down simply has no clue how to pleasure her and feels insecure, but Ronkko can't help but feel depressed. "There must be something uniquely wrong with me," she confesses to her friend. 

I was immediately reminded of the feminist podcast 'Unfuck your brain', where Kara Loewentheil describes a phenomenon of women from all walks of life coming to the conclusion that there is something fundamentally lacking deep within, because they keep getting pushed about by patriarchy. Whether our ideas are ignored, interrupted, plagiarised, or our self esteem is subject to everyday crushing slights and degradations, girls and women have a raw deal. It takes access to the right information and people to stay ahead of the game and radically re-evaluate your self-worth. 

'Girl Picture' represents the poison that society shells out to teens, and has a glorious depiction of an antidote, too: Ronkko's friend, Mimmi, enthuses that Ronkko is a 'goddess! A curly[-haired] goddess!' I forget the exact words used, but Mimmi sees her as wonderful, attractive and worthy. It's in turn wonderful to see this representation of female friendship, and I hope I will watch more films like it in the near future. It makes it easier to vocally appreciate the women I am friendly with when I see love-ins like this. :)

Childfree and psychologically self-aware

It is common knowledge in childfree women's circles that those of us who opt out of reproduction come by our choice through lots of introspection. In this post I'm going to articulate why my insight into my mental health has been yet another reason to be childfree. 

I've been anxious for as long as I can remember. Perhaps it's inter-generational trauma. Perhaps it's the trauma of being brought up in a strict Communist state. It could be both of these. I always feel like I'm on edge, and this shows up physically in my feet, when I'm seated - I elevate the soles so that I'm on tippy toes. 

In high school I began seeing the school counsellor for depression, which I have been fighting on and off for most of my life. In 2007 I was prescribed a drug which had an anti-depressant component, and after years of displeasure at the social pressure to take it, I finally realised that it was doing more good than harm.

While I haven't sought information about how this medication would affect a foetus, I imagine that the best results for any hypothetical offspring would be to cease taking it for those 9 months. Such a decision would have serious repercussions for my mental health, to the extent that I can't see myself doing that. My commitment to my safety and stability is far more important than giving myself a mini-me. 

On a more personal level, I doubt my ability to meet *all* the emotional needs of a child. As an adult, long-term consumer of psychotherapy, I know that my ability to connect with other people on the deepest, most meaningful levels, is not always 100%. I am not as self-compassionate as I would like to be, and you can't pour from an empty cup. I don't doubt that I would be a good mother in some ways, but I wouldn't be able to provide my child with the emotional security that I would like to. Taking care of myself is hard enough... I can't imagine the pressure that would be placed on my back should I have a child. Those things are highly vulnerable and dependent - they need your full-time attention - attention which I would not be able to offer my own calloused soul. Attention which I want to reserve for the most special and worthwhile person I know: Me. 

I don't want to resent my kid for swallowing up my identity, either - something I've seen often enough in mothers who claim their brains have turned to mush, and are time-poor when it comes to pursuing meaningful pursuits and hobbies. Kids have a way of picking up on their parents' emotions, even when the parents don't intentionally emote resentment. And those kids are likely to have psychological problems of their own down the track. 

I'm a big proponent of a carefully considered decision over reproductive choices. There may be another version of me in a parallel universe who decides to reproduce, and makes the most of the gifts she has to bring a child. But in this reality, I know my limits. I know that I'm a traveller at heart, and when the world becomes safer to travel in, I'll be flying off into the sunset for far-flung destinations. I love travelling solo, or perhaps with an equally kind and caring partner - a personality I choose. A kid doesn't fit the equation. 

Which brings me to: I wouldn't have a say in my kid's personality or character. I once met online someone who was a free spirit like me, full of unconventional wisdom and artsy inclinations, whose kid had rebelled against those very qualities. She had come to describe him as a "rule-follower." I don't know if I could respect such a quality in a tiny human I was responsible for. I feel sorry for her. She's stuck providing for this conformist child until he turns eighteen - at least. Something in me would break if someone I poured all my love and resources into embodied right-wing values, for example. 

Those with the intention to reproduce often turn to the idea that they want someone to care for them when they reach old age. First of all, there's no guarantee your kid will be there. They might move cities, countries, continents, and not be physically available. Some people also decide that they don't like their parents all that much, and might turn them into nursing homes at the first opportunity. It's not that uncommon. In other words, having a child is no guarantee of safety and security down the line. 

Along the course of psychotherapy I was asked to visualise an earlier version of me - the child version. I was instructed to embrace her, talk to her, and honour her unmet needs. To offer her the love she was missing. It's a healing exercise - it's also the closest I want to get to having a child of my own. Children have a way of conjuring messy emotions in me. 

I write all this in full knowledge of a simple fact: I shouldn't have to convince anyone that I am in the right. I know deep inside that being childfree is the best choice I could make. I want to be the best version of myself, and this is one of my strategies for doing exactly that. I do, however, feel there is a dearth of literature on the topic of women choosing to be childfree, and I hope that in sharing my thoughts I might be able to help people make their own choices. 

Childfree and conscious of my privilege

It occurs to me that my ongoing practice of living a childfree life is the product of many intersecting forms of privilege. If I had been an immigrant from an African country such as Nigeria, where it is virtually unheard of to choose to forego reproduction, I would have faced immense pressure from my family and the Nigerian community in Australia to adhere to the social norm. Similarly, if I were originally from China, not only would it have been culturally ingrained to pass on your genes, but I would have had to get heterosexually married at a set time (before 27 years old) to avoid being seen as a "left-over woman." My white European background shelters me from the harshest of the stigma.  

Another thing which has dramatically reduced my tendency to be swayed by heterosexual social norms, is that I identified as gay, and then bisexual, from the teenage years, and assumed that this automatically excluded me from baby-making. I was aware that Rainbow Families existed, but I never felt the urge to gravitate towards them, and so I have largely escaped pressure from either straight or GLBTIQ communities. The straights assumed that I was on a different life trajectory and would do my own thing, and the non-straights didn't have much incentive to pressure me into mirroring their life decisions - even when I did come across people desperate for parenthood. 

Back to race, white people like Lionel Shriver insist that white people adding more of their number to the global population is a good thing. I, thankfully, do not. It's totally fine with me if people of colour increase in proportion in the future. It may just make society more antiracist, and therefore kinder, more charitable and compassionate. This argument has no bearing on my uterus whatsoever.  

I am also privileged by my educational reality. Although I dropped out of university, I have been and remain a life-long learner, devouring books and newspapers like The Guardian. I have read various books on being childfree, and I'm familiar with the discourse about it on the web. I know that while stigma very much exists, society is slowly becoming more accepting. I know there is a place for me in Australian and international society as someone who advocates for women to have as many choices as possible in how they live their lives. I make my opinions known in blog posts like these. 

In short, I am lucky. I am also alive at the right time and the right place. If I had been born before the time of contraception and the Civil Rights Movement, it might had felt socially impossible to be who I am today, even in Western society. I am thankful to all the feminist, lesbian, bisexual and childfree women who came before me and made my current liberation possible. I hope I, too, am paving the way for younger generations' greater freedom by my contributions to the public discourse. Let's liberate ourselves even further! 

Thoughts on 'Burning Questions' so far

In recent weeks I've busied myself working through 'Burning Questions' by Margaret Atwood. I love writers with a political consciousness, and Atwood's collections of essays and speeches demanded my attention. I haven't yet read her feminist masterpiece, The Handmaid's Tale (nor the Booker-winning The Testaments), but so far BQ has inspired me to look into Alice Munro, another renowned Canadian woman with feminist credentials, one who has won the Nobel Prize. 

And so it is with non-fiction books - writers tend to wear their literary influences on their sleeves, and so you can't, for example, read Pico Iyer without going back and (re)discovering Graham Greene or Jan Morris. Atwood's treatment, with its good humour and tendency to imagine the horrific, illuminates a wide range of literary players, from Kafka to Karen Blixen (as I shall call her). It's a rich body of work, and the author is generous with insight. At times I have found the gravity of subject matter (read: climate change) hard to wade through, but in retrospect I'm glad I made the effort to persevere. 

Thanks to Margaret Atwood I have discovered that I am timorous - nervous or lacking confidence. Every once in a while I have to look a word up, which is a good sign. Speaking of signs, astrology makes its presence known here, and this has led me to think more upon this system as a pathway to inspiration. Wasn't it a New Zealand author (Diane Catton, I think) who structured her entire prize-winning book around the twelve star signs? I hung up my astrologist's hat a long time ago in favour of evidence-based spirituality, but my previous deep dives into its world makes me well placed to appreciate what drives Margaret to strongly identify as a Scorpio. I suppose this is the advantage of being around for a while: you have various types of experience. 

Poem (Untitled)

A glance

At an actress playing a mother

Tenderness enveloping her figure

Even as the baby only brushes against

A fraction of her length

A reservation for

A special kind of affection

One society encourages me to seek

But I can't locate such desires

Deep within me

Sometimes I contemplate

The intricacies of choosing

After-school activities

Like learning languages

And playing instruments

But it's mostly me

Who wants to learn Mandarin

And plant my feet knowingly

At the lower parts of pianos

Mostly I, who wants to know

The joys of being Australian-born

In a world that subtly tells me

I came too old for belonging

I will take these musings in stride

Busy myself arranging my feet

Like flowers on the path, each one

In conversation with the dewy grass

And the thrumming life forms that I pass

Adapting (and Dreaming)

I asked my German friend how long she expected the pandemic to last. It was a bewildered Xmas holiday musing, and the reply was that it would still be around for Xmas 2022. While nobody knows anything, I find some comfort in her prediction. A year is a manageable span of time - hopefully short enough not to be overwhelming, yet long enough to cover at least a substantial chunk of the rest of the time we will be irritated by this malaise. 

Sometimes I dream of overseas destinations. The last place I visited in my subconscious was NYC - a brightly lit place having its last heyday as the sun set, and the skyscrapers rose out of waterways. Now that I think about it, I think I was both saying Hello and Goodbye to this much-vaulted place that looks set to be engulfed by rising authoritarianism. 

I have travelled widely across Western Europe and East Asia, but my familiarity with North America pales in comparison in terms of both number of places visited and the last time I was there. It's all very well dreaming up A Farwell Tour While Biden Remains, but there may be more factors drawing me away than pulling me in... to this day. 

Recently I have been building enthusiasm for Japan, dreaming of spending time taking in my surroundings in themed cafes and near-inscrutable libraries (or bookshops), or getting away into the countryside some autumn afternoon to inhale the foliage. Forest bathing, except in a garden attached to a temple, where the likeness of the Buddha is sculpted out of stone, subtle but inviting as a stepping stone to enjoying the rest of the expanse.

On another note, I want to experience for myself the immigrant country with the Angel Complex, our Commonwealth cousin, Canada. I want to start in Vancouver and take public transport East, stopping at various points along the way, until I reach Quebec City (or Montreal, if that's too ambitious). I want to visit scenic sites as well as big cities like Toronto, which has long fascinated me due to its immigrant and PoC numbers. 

And then there's the continent I keep returning to out of sheer admiration, Europe. It's hard to balance other continents with Europe, because for me, it remains a stubborn mainstay of my dreams. But we'll see. There's a lot of world to cover. 

What I've learned from months of listening to German radio

During my attempts to live like a local in the former eastern Germany, I came across advertising for MDR JUMP, one of the hit radio stations out of Leipzig. Much later, I downloaded an app called Radio Germany, and decided to listen to it there. Close to the MDR Jump button was 'RTL', which enticed me with its red logo. This station is out of Berlin. Before long, I was alternating between the two to get my fix of European soundscapes, changing the station when I wasn't in the mood for misogynistic male pop stars. 

I've made some interesting musical discoveries such as 'Faded Love' by Leony (below):

There have been a few German language songs I never caught the names of. Also of interest was the music of Zoe Wees, a black German youth whose raw, piercing voice is unique and memorable. Then there's entirely instrumental pieces like this:

RTL is the more energetic of the two, with deep pop roots. MDR Jump is more likely to feature songs from the past. RTL seems to have more women presenters, and MDR Jump is more likely to play Imagine Dragons. Indeed, the latest US, Canadian and British hits often find their way into the playlist. Germany seems to love Ed Sheeran and The Weeknd. (What do I think of them? I find Sheeran objectifies his love interests, which makes his catchy tunes annoying. As for The Weeknd, misogyny was never more mellifluous. I spent many months hate-listening to 'Save Your Tears' and 'Blinding Lights', wishing that the fabulous instrumental stylings were propping up a feminist act. Finally I realised that my only choice was to accept the shittiness of the situation. 

But enough about artists I don't like.) What I love about RTL in particular is that the music has progressive credentials. Some of those hip kids in the Berlin party scene are going to be dancing to these tunes, or at least, letting them perk up their day. This makes me feel like I can relax.  

Have I picked up any German? Sadly, no - though I've recognised ads for KaDeWe, Berlin's only shopping mall, and pick up the odd word like 'lecker' (delicious). It doesn't matter - music is the universal language. 

Hanging in there

The pandemic might end during the course of the year. Or it might not. It pays to be prepared for the worst.

A couple of days ago I read an evocative travel book which made me long to leave my well-worn surroundings in search of the new. Except that, with Omicron surging in Sydney, and probably at all the destinations I want to visit, the risk of infection has never been higher. So, I'm unfortunately forced to conclude that leaving Australia is a non-starter. 

Maybe I should stop reading travel books? It seems sensible. Spend more time outside in fresh air? Maybe, except that I can't rely on my fellow citizens to wear masks when they approach me... today a woman came up to me and asked me about bus routes. I quickly pulled my mask up over my nose, hoping she would follow suit. She did, but with a delay. Grrr!

I can't help but think that the longer this goes on, the more we are all suffering. If the pandemic ended tomorrow, it couldn't come soon enough. But it won't. I think of all the women who are trapped in abusive relationships, or people of any gender facing violence of any kind. It is documented that men with violent tendencies tend to take it out on their partners when faced with the extra stress of a lockdown or having to spend more time indoors. I also feel for the teenagers who have difficult relationships with their parents and can’t retreat to the relative safety of school, libraries or malls, where they can seek out healthy interaction with their friends. 

The world turns, and those of us who have survived are looking worse for wear every day. As global heating slowly takes its toll, the environment will be increasingly harsh and hostile. How many kinds of trauma will we live through?