Hometown Glory.

I’ve been a bit of a state the last week or so. If the growing collection of home ware in my old room at my mum’s house is to be believed, if the open suitcases and the new bank account and the goodbye dinners are to be taken seriously; I will be moving in a couple of weeks. Really, I’m in a ridiculous way.

People do move, however glorious their hometown’s might be. People do move away and they do have full and happy lives, long distance relationships can work, every other weekend does come every other weekend; I know all this to be true, and yet I can’t help but feel the truth is, in this case, particularly unsatisfying. I read a beautiful sentence a couple of days ago, ‘knowing that your longing is insignificant in the scheme of things doesn’t make it lose it’s bite’- hits my nail right on the head that one.

I think placement plays a big part in most of our happiness. Where we place ourselves, the place around us; we asses our progress on this basis. When people ask me what I’m doing right now, where I am, what my placement is, I’m not sure what I should say; I don’t really have one, anymore. Yet. Here are the things that have made me happy: night time arguments over stolen covers, after-work car journeys discussing mutual hatred for Radio 1 DJ’s, the feeling of that hand rested on my lower back to know that I’m safe and loved and out of harm’s way and will always be if I hold on to it’s owner. Here are the things that I want: language and people and experience and knowledge and independence. So I have two places to tell people about, two lists. My trouble is trying to amalgamate the two.

I know a lot of people who write lists. Words on paper are achievable and much, much smaller than they are in our heads. Here’s hoping that it won’t be long before I can look at my lists and laugh at how small they once were.

newnew

Take a peek at my new project with the wonderful Miss Diplock

http://plagueofdoves.blogspot.com/

Bella Bella

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=arve5_dTO1g

Lads.

Marrakech

This time last week I was stepping out of a taxi in Marrakech, being absconded by market sellers and speaking a ridiculously unsuitable amalgamation of French, English and Arabic. It. Was. BRILLIANT. Turns out shopping in Morocco is not far different from shopping with my Granny at any Yorkshire market; A bit of haggling, a smidge of acting, a few cheeky smiles and bosh, quarter the price. The trouble with Marrakech is the same trouble in any main city anywhere, everyone has a horror story to tell and few have much to back it with. And so when we did step out onto the night time streets it felt strange not to be met with bogeymen ready to bargain me for a camel and steal our camera as they left. In fact, Marrakech at night is hypnotising. Loud, yes. Busy, oh yes. But my was it pretty. A couple of days in and what had been described as a frightening place became evidently wholesome. Weaving through the mopeds, donkeys and men with monkeys chained to their shoulders you realise how generally the same humans are. Most of us just looking to make a dirham, dollar or pound, the rest of us looking to hold on to it, and a few of us just walking scared from silly horror stories.

Dessa

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J2_aY9gYTF0

Have you seen what my clan can do

Of all the things that we might ever become a part of, a family is the most strange. The most confusing, most transient and most consistent. A shabby collection, a crucible of ideas, a mismatch of personalities. Characters that might jar under natural circumstances find themselves closer than lovers ; the binds that hold us to our siblings and parents are extraordinary mechanisms.

A few years ago my Mum and I visited my brothers in Hong Kong, we took a boat trip to a lagoon and spent the day jumping from the roof and lying in the sun. My big brothers still exert a strange force over their little sister; for the whole trip I had been eating man size dinner portions and stopped wearing any decent kind of make-up, all for fear of their hilarious girl taunts. This resulted in a stunning collection of photo’s from said boat trip of yours truly in a bikini; chubby, shiny-faced, with a bright red belly courtesy of my conceding to my brothers’ belly-flop dare. The question worth asking is why? And I know I’m not the only one. There have been numerous times when I’ve witnessed my sweetly spoken better half transform quite unexpectedly into some kind of cockney cheeky chappy around his older brother.

Younger siblings will probably always be checking for acceptance, but i don't think that's really what family is for. It’s what you’re growing from, it’s mistakes you might make, it’s obligation and it’s guilt. It’s the first people you meet, and just as survivors of any great disaster, you’re united through what you have experienced together. To feel part of a family is to be part of a powerful machine, and nobody cares if you’re rusty as long as you’re ticking.

Worn and Torn

Go peek at my articles written for WornandTorn

http://www.blog.wornandtornmag.com/2011/07/bon-iver.html

Been spending much too much time carrying coffee and not enough reading and writing.

More to come.

An Old Flame.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lLIuzSss_Jw&feature=related

Women.

Some situations are solely possible because of the ridiculous nature of women. Occasionally one might be fooled into thinking they are grown up enough, masculine enough, wise enough, to not unwittingly fall into one of these situations. But one would almost certainly be wrong. Make no mistake, women are ludicrous creatures.

A few days ago I found myself encapsulated in one of these solely female situations, I felt hurt by my fellow female, I felt irate, but I wasn’t hugely surprised. Take a look at any playground, failing that, take a look at twitter, it is how we work. It’s no big news that women have rules and regulations which if broken give way to unfortunate repercussions; confusing and elusive not only to men, but to many of us too. Yes, unnecessary, absolutely counterproductive, but apparently unavoidable.

I recently read an article about a couple in America who have decided to raise their third child, Storm, without a gender. The preferred subjective pronoun for the baby is Z (as in Zee), as opposed to ‘he’ or ‘she’, and the only people who know the real sex are the parents, siblings, a family friend, and the midwife who delivered the child. The parents say it is “a tribute to freedom and choice in place of limitation, a stand up to what the world could become in Storm’s lifetime”. I hope it is a short-term tribute. Gender equality is a good thing; we should be equal, but we should never be the same.

And why on earth would we want to be? Certain female behaviour is without question, baffling, but my goodness is it scary. There have been too many times in my experience when anger has given way to tears, when I have sworn at myself for being a girl. These times are frustrating beyond belief, but for every time I’ve wept with frustration, it has been followed by letters, by game plans and calm, concentrated discussion. If I had been a man, I might have fought my way right out of those opportunities.

In our moments of weakness, we might wish ourselves something that we’re not, I think we forget what we can be. I might occasionally curse womanhood, but it is with concealed pride. I really hope that Storm is allowed a gender, it will be missing out on a lot more than action men and high heels if it isn’t.

100 Days

Mims played me this a couple of nights ago, absolutely love it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ouI5KcyHfE

Brilliant.

Wisdom.

Sometimes toilet doors have very sound advice. When I was 16 I worked a few sample sales in Brick Lane, and whilst weeing in one of the ridiculously fashionable bars i noticed a beaut of a sentence; “Don’t sweat the petty things, Don’t pet the sweaty things”. Sometimes things hit you at just the right time. Troubling myself over little things, and the troubles surrounding heavy petting, were two things featuring a lot in my mind as a 16 year old. Scribbled on the back of that door I had a mantra, something to repeat and recite every time either one of those things became a little overwhelming.

I was having a wee in a similar Brighton establishment on Saturday night, and a couple more sentences struck me. “Be yourself; because those who matter don’t mind, and those who mind don’t matter”, again, really nice timing Mr Door. Nestled underneath were a few more words of wisdom “Do everything you said you’d do whilst drunk. This will teach you to keep your mouth shut”.

Basically all these things are true. For however many nice well balanced moments of certainty we might have in our lives, there should rightfully be a few moments of absolute panic. There should be moments when who we are, or were, or want to be might feel like it’s slipping through our fingers. Moments of complete fear at the realisation of our abject insignificance, when the prospect of any other being understanding where we might currently be seems painfully unlikely. It’s at these moments that we should keep our eyes wide open, faith can be found in the most surprising places.