Car city bitch

Clocked ten weeks back in car city. Within six hours I got my first speeding ticket, and after a hundred-odd hours since spent penitent on Sydney buses, doing the tedious commute from South Maroubra, I've moved to the relative sanctity of inner-city Redfern so I can walk everywhere and pretend the burbs don't exist. I maintain a daily mantra––a self-sell that it's the right time, bury the hatchet, make peace yaddayadda––which I hope will have an impact as it's exhausting not to mention boring to try so hard (and fail so dismally) in a city so revered for being shiny. I dare say both me and my long-suffering Sydney fan club would find it far less tedious if I could just enjoy myself. Full-time work is dispiriting, but I haven't quit yet, so there's hope that the system will have its way with me eventually. Come visit, it's great here and I'm a delight!

In the wake of the South Australia energy 'crisis', North Maroubra headland wind farm does its bit to prop up the national grid.

I, human

Luton airport as a last goodbye to London is a bit of a comedown... but the preceding week was high with a no-shoes-please party after which Jake went home wearing Nico's and Nico went home in nought but his patriotic, Aussie flag socks. Nico (aghast): 'where are my shoes', Jake (confused): 'why are my feet so sore'... and B and me waiting at Angel in the next day's drizzle, watching Jake sheepishly approach the 'shoe exchange' wearing his only other pair––some rather snazzy, but Sunday-strange dress shoes.

Fantastic friends and one last free philosophy lecture on existentialism, and I had to admit it had all been pretty great, if at times frustrating. Serendipitous then that the morning my leave to remain expired (and to where and what, who knew) I got news of a job offer from Carriageworks––a multi-arts centre in Sydney. Any creeping sense of failure at departing a demi-philosopher turned on its head, and despite leaving so many great things behind, I was suddenly excited about the future.

But immediately, there was the matter of the van der Lans clan initiation which is 'Winter sports' and which variously involved waking up at 3:30am for the 10 hour drive to Austria, flinging myself inelegantly down red runs, eating my body weight in bread and cheese, sharing naming rights with Amy-the-dog, and creatively but politely saying no to dessert (first dessert and second dessert), still recovering as it was from early-evening deep-fried sugar-encrusted treats.

Driving across Germany, we passed road signs for places like Bad Homburg and Bad Meinburg, and I'd shake my head, 'tut-tut-tut, Bad Homburg', and B would say 'THE WORST! It's true. Important people told me.' And we'd laugh until the next sign, and do it all again, and laugh some more. It was by now around 5am and doing a very respectable 140-150kmph, B would be overtaken by a flying VW or BMW, and I'd say 'see, real Germans, not like those FAKE GERMANS, the Dutch!' And like the rest of the world, we tried to keep our spirits up by laughing about it all, unsure how else to pass off the madness...

A week later I was in Hong Kong in positively double digit degrees, met by the wide smile of SG who whisked me away to his little Lamma Island paradise where he and AC maintain their perky physiques by living atop a dramatically steep hill. On these hilly isles, the civil engineering merit of retaining walls isn't matched by the unfortunate decision of the monitoring body to drill the plaque: ‘slope registration' into every cement reinforcement. Construction is rampant, life is vibing, the green is receding and the sky sags under the weight of pollution. You can feel the curve of the earth here...

I'm at the airport this very minute, waiting for my flight south to Sydney. A very different life awaits. For a start, I may be able to replace these hole-filled clothes and retire B's borrowed jeans (also at risk of splitting any moment now). I'm already booked in for a haircut, and as for the job, well it might do something to legitimise the self. Once again, poor long suffering and most excellent parentals will take me in til payday, so for anyone Sydney-side, you'll find me in Maroubra with the frogs et al. May the adventures continue.

The view from above––Mittleberg and the Mid-levels.

They'd say I had it coming

Nice sentiment, but not exactly. Illustration #2 the more accurate.

Somehow, despite an attitude problem and tendency for insubordination, I got through high school without a detention. The penalty point system, which in many ways was 'soft on crime' but also a precursor to mandatory sentencing, determined that the third penalty point would––only but always––result in detention. I was an expert at balancing two penalty points, avoiding a third until, at the end of each semester my sheet was wiped clean.

It was a shock then when flying into London from the Netherlands recently, I was detained at Her Majesty's pleasure by the enthusiastically rabid border police. Like all lengthy, tortured debates, we disagreed from the outset with differences of opinion on the basic definition of the terms: what it is to be a 'visitor', a 'student', a 'tourist', what is legal and illegal, what it is 'to live', to 'be living'––to be a human. Without a resolution in sight, I was asked to wait (locked) in a 'female holding room' (cell) after my belt, scarf, shoes, jacket, bags and phone were removed from my person, and searched. 'What's this?' 'a book on Rembrandt', 'What's this?' 'coffee beans', 'What's this?' 'dirty underwear', 'What's this?' 'my diary'. He looked more bored than I was worried.

Five hours later, spent of adrenaline, having somewhat enjoyed the telling of my life story for the small moments of clarity that surfaced, and with absolutely no interest in actually entering the country, they released me so I could enjoy Christmas in Dorset as I'd promised Al we would. Sure, I thought, Dorset is probably nice, but London––am I done here? The whole thing might just have cured me.

The next day on Holloway Road amid the grey, wails and body fluids, I saw this drawing on a hoarding. The system is abusing the gaping wound in our sides. But at least out here it's organic madness. Of course the madness of the security complex and detention system in the UK is better demonstrated by those with bigger issues than an administrative fuck-up by their sponsor university. To get an idea of the hypocrisy and infringement of human rights, I highly encourage watching this short film.

Working Illegally from Standoff Films on Vimeo.

Even clean hands cause damage

Los guantes. I'm pointing at them. Blue, latex, M-for-medium, stuttering 'g' 'g' 'g' imploring my brain for more, but again get only as far as 'g...'. The Spanish dishy puts me out of my misery and says 'los guantes'. Gloves, of course.

The exercise is part of my desperation to make more of a summer spent waiting tables. When I screw up my knee, I work harder still to compensate for my poor standing, interrogating the Bulgarian chef for a detailed history of a country I can't even place on a map. I will get something out of this. Anything!

Despite my collapsed knee-cap, the NHS-appointed physio is terribly polite about the state of my body. I wonder why until my hydro-therapy sessions where in my swimmers under fluoro lights I realise compared to the general hospital populace I'm in good shape. Getting around on crutches I'm suddenly struck by the sheer number of people similarly (and now I want to say crippled, but I think it might be wrong, yet it seems so right, it seems that's exactly what they are) crippled (by life, by London, by lower/fewer everything). I try to figure out why there are so many lame people in London, whether we've let our bodies go to waste, or the city's such a bitch it's broken us.

On the bright side, the chat is amazing. Guys trip over each other to give me their seat. I'm touched and more than a bit surprised. I persist with the cafe on reduced activity, a-grade painkillers and the novelty of saying no, we're out of sparkling mineral water and watching the unruffled unravel. I get my mate Jake a job. He's an out-of-work geophysicist, and it makes me feel like less of a loser to undertake menial tasks alongside a big brain like his.

I open up at 7 one morning, unaware the pest controller had been in the previous night. I barrel in proving to no-one I'm a morning person, and pull up stuck, shaking a sticky tile from my sneaker. The situation sinks in and as I kick my leg like mad to detach the damn thing I see mice––tiny, shivering lumpettes––dotting the floor. I scream and back-track outside into the path of the Bulgarian, who thinking I'm the inquisitive type describes how they die. We wait for the heavy-footed pest inspector to return and put us all out of our misery.

By the end of summer I was spent. I decide to take a 'time out' from study and subsequently lose what meagre 'work rights' I had. With the colder weather the buses have started smelling of hot babies and warm chips and I'm wondering what the hell I'm doing. Thank god for friends, because at nine pounds a margarita, tequila remains a temporary solution at best. In an attempt to rediscover the love, I went to the Tate yesterday, but it just made me sad. The usual: 'please don't touch the artwork' had been updated with an addendum 'even clean hands cause damage' and I couldn't (and can't) get the sentiment out of my mind.

Berlusconi's mani pulite trial comes to mind.

Mauvais, mal, misère...

I'm laying bare my hand. I have, no tricks. Something similar is happening in America: the Great. Trump is naked irony amassed while over here the press wets itself with concatenation (Brexit/Regrexit). Summer is happening and while summer's definitely nice, it does enhance the smell of piss in the Kingdom's capital. Persistent niggles, discomforts and disappointments amass into a shit-show. When I receive my pap smear results in the post I open the envelope to read 'all clear' and I'm flooded with joy. I've been so starved of good news that to be considered medically 'normal' is a shockingly positive assessment. Despite a love for London, it doesn't love me back. I settle for the nuzzling affection of a neighbour's cat. I've fallen for her bow-legged trot, downcast eyes and ageing greys. Kitty can do no wrong, and when I find a poo in the garden or a cat-shaped impression in one of our plants, it's always some other hoodish cat that's to blame. Black cat, crossed my path, I think everyday is gonna be my...

Mercy!

To care about voting nowadays

The minute you emerge from the home to the olfactory frenzy of the city, you’re on. Like it or not, this city of smells, few of them good, serves that small, but not unimportant purpose of letting you know you’re alive. And to be alive, is surely the first condition for creativity. Switched on, the senses embrace chaos and thrive on drawing it into tangible order. Your foot taps to his beat––the headphones hardly personal; you smile as she belts out a tune––cycling past too fast to be self-conscious. A sticker on that pimped out Macbook: THE FINE ARTS ARE NOT FINE. You wonder whether that’s because they’re base or vulgar or if the point is they’re underfunded and therefore not OK.

Now I’ve got my coffee and my breast pocket is pinging––it starts. A motley WhatsApp group is feeding a long-running joke about Slavoj Žižek, the wildly gesticulating Slovenian philosopher. Somewhat envious of his bona fide eccentric credentials (he has a lisp and a tic) he is the commentator we love to hate, with the balance landing on ‘love’ because in a city like London we have the opportunity to experience his particular brand of enthusiastic pessimism on a regular basis. It was the same crew who introduced me to existential poet Fernando Pessoa (the Portuguese), author and agitator Italo Calvino (the Italian) and defender of the Undercommons Fred Moten (the American). Yes, it is in London that I’m most exposed to the creativity of the world. These expats, (in this case Isabel, Patrick and Ashleigh respectively), adventure far from their home-lands and assemble in cities to continue the exchange of information, ideas and innovation that have propelled humanity and creativity for centuries. It’s this collision of dynamic forces that makes stuff happen.

I am the Australian. In return I tell them about Pauline Hanson (and the drag act Pauline Pantsdown whose comeback may be imminent as the former has inconceivably been returned to the senate), the ever-quotable film The Castle (‘how’s the serenity?’), our abhorrent record on detention, and a bit about Asian nations on which I’m better versed than them. I recommend an Indonesian writer, Pramoedya Ananta Toer, as his defiance of the Dutch colonisers (who imprisoned him) and of Suharto (who placed him under house arrest) is a story that should be heard; a prescient reminder the new establishment may be no better than the old establishment.

Though on the surface cities appear to favour the establishment, they actually depend on an organic undercurrent of creativity. The establishment is staid, whereas creatives are in perpetual movement and all that activity creates a need for community. People to perform, people to watch, people to paint, people to see, people to talk, people to listen, people who’ll make the coffee and always bring treats, someone, anyone! with a car––or a van––a van would be perfect… Instead it’s a bike on a fine day, on the rest––the majority––I descend into the depths of London, a rodent ferreting my way through the red oesophagus of the underground thinking endure. But I come to my senses and observe: as a writer, everything’s material, even these seemingly mundane moments. There is a steaming cold sore in close proximity, an old woman with a gummy smile and excess saliva, a preacher with blue rings around deep black irises. If I get off at Oxford St, I smile back at the looming Topshop model and think look at the size of those teeth! There is a shrunken man sitting at the foot of a grand stone edifice. He’s chewing slowly. I imagine him toothless. He fists a crumpled McDonalds bag, grubby fingers producing a few more limp chips which he mashes––a not-displeased look on his face. He has a sign that reads ‘please help’. Well, exactly.

If it’s early I’ll walk past people stretching and rubbing weathered faces after their slow wake from the night before. Blankets flung to one side––sad and crumpled––looking thin and not at all warm enough to fend off the weather. They are silent. I am silent. Later, they’ll be interrupted in their public bathroom ablutions by teens who amplify their obsession with image, leaning over basins to closely examine every perceived imperfection just an inch from the mirror.

I think of Deanna Roger's brilliantly proud face. The way it moves when she throws down words. Uncompromising. I saw the spoken word poet perform live last month (the timely, rhetorical, Who cares about voting nowadays? Indeed), with a raw energy I associate with anticipation. It’s in city streets that anticipation meets possibility; in the corners, lanes, nooks and crannies––in urban decay and renewal. It’s drinking beer at Freud’s in the middle of the a.m. talking shite about some creative or political or enterprising project, getting up the next day and doing something about it.

Commune of good cheer

My thighs have exploded, I fear permanently. Running is not an option, and the most taxing thing I've done since lending my bike to B all winter (I know, what sacrifice!) is a five hour stint in Harrods, styling our very own AB, on the same day as the London Marathon. Job done, she took off to NY with more letters after her name than any grad I know, Céline pumps in the bag. After my jeans suffered a gaping wound in the vicinity of the crotch (which, I sadly can't claim is 'bike related') AB gifted me two pairs of unworn Acne jeans, which don't fit me either, but will be quite the incentive to initiate a morning routine of leg raises and other low weight bearing contortions. 38 you see is a PHAT number. I mean, look at it!

It all started with breakfast cupcakes, there was of course pizza, and a detour down Sunset Boulevard (via the Tabacaria*). 'Sunset Boulevard, brutal boulevard, like you we'll end up in the ocean'... I love the darkness in this line from the ALW adaptation. It reminds me of Bill Hicks's 'Arizona bay'. I'd work both the title song and Tool's ænema into my post-modern interpretation of the classic, in which Isabel goes to LA to get Blair off drugs. Disappear here.

While I'm supposed to be getting a grasp on key philosophical concepts like 'judgement' and 'critique', I'm yet to understand why the word 'facticity' triggers disdain whereas 'thingliness' [Dinglichkeit] tickles. And so most of my study goes. There are serious writers and ideas on which I can find little more to say than 'useless', 'waste of space', then some that resonate so much I'm moved to impression (the undercommons) or depression (the new spirit of capitalism). It will be a measure of my maturity to what degree I let this devolve into an exercise in smart-arsery, or take from it those things that will necessitate a commitment to change/ing. I note down essay ideas like 'Art: it pisses me off too', 'Kanye: you conflict me', and 'Shit, I'm a communist, how the f*** did that happen' and wonder if I can make anything of it in this forum (the 21st century university) or whether I'm forever destined to fall in the gap between the academy and the people.

In football news, West Ham have played their final game at Upton Park (this is like the Rabbitohs playing at Redfern) in a typical performance that saw fans pitching tinnies at the Manchester United team bus (before the game) and the players steal victory late in the second half. Ah the Hammers, apparently Olympic Park will tame them (fascist infrastructure). It might not have snowed this winter but London spring has so far been a downpour of blossom petal confetti, with a handful of days suited to kerbside drinking late into the evening.

nb. *The poem, Tabacaria, by Fernando Pessoa was introduced to me by Isabel as part of my education on all things Portugal. It's not exactly cheery, but it's perfectly me and lovely all the same. Look it up.

Bill Hicks does stand-up while Glenn Close does standing ovation.

Counting beans

Spring, and the daffodil-laced strip-parks of this very nice, Corbynite, northern suburb stop abruptly when you step out onto Holloway Road––a dart of reality, that cuts from the permanently screwball Highbury and Islington squareabout, and deposits you on the A1 past Archway, where should you persist, you'd hit Edinburgh in around seven hours. Walk south where my street intersects instead, and in under ten minutes you reach the natty Nag's Head market where its all-weather, connected cabanas host micro-business operations like a single basin lavado and cortado, two table sushi bar, and empanaderia with 100% tatty, rattan interior.

Local supermarket Morrisons, dedicates shelf space, aisle by aisle, to cuisine of the ex-colonies with which, starting with Gungo peas, I plan to experiment. Hopes of becoming some kind of exotic, woman-of-the-people, bohemian Buddha of Suburbia, scuttled by the discovery Sea Isle Gungo peas are a product of Italy, owned by a UK company and could just as well be plain old lentils like I've, you've, we've all been eating for years. Inspired by the Panama Papers, I did a search on Sea Isle Limited and found, like any good English company, it's owned by an enterprising Indian guy. Well, was. It's been consumed by KTC Edibles, also owned by an Indian family, but in which the RBS is heavily invested. So like all of us, I guess they're 'owned' by the banks, and who the crap owns them? I know I'm talking Gungo peas (at 38p a tin!), and using layman's search skills, but still it's worth asking.

Thank god there's someone on the important stuff with investigative mettle (go direct to the International Consortium of Investigative Journalists for less BS – https://panamapapers.icij.org/). While watching their words incredibly carefully, it's pretty clear once you start reading, that obfuscating financial offshoring activity is either criminal or grossly greedy, and to my mind, in this day and age, neither are defensible. Unfortunately, they're also utterly unsurprising. What's at stake here isn't whether what's exposed is ultimately deemed legal or illegal (by a system inevitably playing catch-up), but whether irrespective of legality, there's any change, recompense, redistribution, or other action taken on what is and isn't ethical. If not, minor embarrassment for the mega-rich will abate in days, and another layer of apathy inducing impotence will be cast over the general populace as another episode of leaks simply affirms what we know, while life goes on. And by life, unfortunately I mean growing disparity and continued arms production. What do you think's going to happen... seriously?

While you think about it, I'll correct the record on my previous assertion re: the uniformity in dick and ball doodling. It seems not all men are created equal after all, this beautiful gold rendition is for me, in the lead by a long shot.

Golden dick and balls by the N19 'highline', London, and Sea Isle Gungo peas.

Hetero-queery juvenalia

There's a pressing need for intellectual thought to be de-institutionalised before an irreversible rigor mortis takes hold. My lecture notes are mainly asides to stop me screaming. I scrawl instead: 'shut the f- up'. Still, I, no-one acts. I scratch: 'we are all prostitutes' on the page; and on account of our passive agreeing that it's remarkable, 'yeah, remarkable only for being shit' (underline underline), I'm afraid we're all complicit. Fantasies arise: 'Atomic bacteria eat the earth!' We're watching it happen, and all the 'words, words, words' have no meaning, no active praxis. False words are the new pollution, a post-'enlightenment' problem that like war, men inflict with such regularity you may wonder how they get anything done, and what for that matter the women might be doing. Laundry? Well, at least that's something. And no, I can't be blaming men for everything, but give a man a pen, soon enough he'll draw a dick and balls. And no matter the diversity in dexterity and drawing skill among men, each iteration of dick and balls will be the same.

Meanwhile my doodling skills come along in leaps and bounds. Stick figures depict castration theory, the Lacanian 'wall', the 'crisis in archiving', a deconstruction of what was once 'concrete', and my fantasy face-off: Rimbaud v. Rambo. I'm coursing closer to the definition of schizophrenia, but the world may beat me to it. Trump is possibly the president America (and we all) deserve. It's perfect. It fits the pure farce of our time. And Brexit? Care factor..? I don't trust the debate is anything more than the replacement of one set of rules with another, of one set of interests with another, and I doubt those interests are those that interest the 'people'. Vale Marx. I am but a word machine. I've been thinking about humans and how we rebel now. Who it is we can respect. And where it is we can go. Then I read this: http://www.lrb.co.uk/v38/n05/frances-stonorsaunders/where-on-earth-are-you and it didn't exactly cheer me up... but I urge you to read it.

Next week: Daffodils!

Dickheads and doodles.

A little bit of Devon, a whole lot of baloney

Ufff, February. Where were we? Oh yeah - we were back in 2015, heading for Devon, where brown with mud to the rim, my mid-shin gumboots almost went under on more than one occasion––a fine line I won't risk again–– upgrading to knee-highs before I next venture to England's soggy lowlands. While we were all seriously enjoying our holiday––wine and cheese in front of the fire––occasional bracing walks into the wilds of the moors, I got seriously started on the reading for my first two essays. Nico proved a good sport, answering questions concerning castration and the phallus while he made the morning's coffee. There were days Al stayed in bed for fear I'd ambush her with gender identity questions like, what is a woman? for which she has no time, and on which once finally pressed, I was availed of comic relief from the pyschoanalytic, her comments making their way into my final drafts (which may or may not go down well with my professor as 'legitimate' research).

Those two essays have now been submitted, with one featuring a cheeky critique of Lacan, the other a celebration of the 'tomboy' or all things 'periphery' in a reclamation of territory available to 'woman'. If anyone's interested I may try and post them at some stage. I haven't solved anything yet (world peace?), but I think I made some small points worth making. Baby steps.

Celebrities. A topic on which I usually say little. But, in the space of a week, I found myself taking coffee alongside, first––Kiera Knightley, and second––Sienna Miller. Where? A girl doesn't tell... Also in the last week, I've acquired a live-in boyfriend (rather KR has acquired a temporary live-in couple) having left my place in Dalston to commence the hunt for a small square-metreage with very high ceilings as B and I take on cohabitation. No more share-housing for me. Quelle surprise!

Ah, the French...

So, this is Christmas

It was midway through December when I realised we'd arrived in this most latterly month of the year, the one that throws up Christmas with its tinsel, baubles and epileptic lighting, and your therapist asks with extra intensity: are you ok? I walk past Her Majesty's newly privatised* Royal Mail service and Dalston is dribbling all over the footpath and I instantly decide not to 'do cards' this year. Like roads in Beijing, schools in Malaysia and apartments on the Costa del Sol, I think we need to trial a time-share arrangement for major holidays. This being the most major, it may gain more traction than the baby-share scheme I floated with Miriam a few years back.

I'm escaping the city for a spot in Devon promised to be remote, with an open fire and cows. I picked up a hire car today and jerked my way around London for a couple of hours picking up supplies so I can go off the grid in a somewhat posh way over the next ten days in my new, sort-of-posh Aigle gumboots. It's wet due west, but in the city it's still mild and most of the ice rinks have closed because they've melted.

I tried to get festive by engaging with a homeless man hawking for money in a cafe. I knew the cafe had nice, substantial sandwiches and I asked if he'd like one. They're ridiculously expensive, but I wanted to get in the giving spirit. He told me he'd really rather go to McDonalds and buy a burger and a cup of tea. But why, I spluttered––pointing and appealing to the nice looking sandwiches, freshly made, laid out on the counter. He rubbed his hands together and said but the burgers at McDonalds are delicious and I love them. Then he said, I'm Jamaican, Jamaicans love burgers... And I thought aren't Jamaicans supposed to love chicken, which is a hugely stereotypical thing to think... Finding no suitable counter argument, I asked again - are you sure you wouldn't like a sandwich, while reaching for my wallet and wondering why I was acting so constipated all of a sudden. Could I be such a snob I couldn't accept the idea of my money––what a few pounds––being spent at McDonalds? What was it I was giving him and why? There I was judging a sandwich superior to a burger, when surely the superiority lay with the gift of self-determination, so I deferred to his better judgement and gave him the means to do what he will... I hope you too do what you want this Christmas! It's not like being good is getting us far. Merry, merry!

*this month's recommended reading––James Meek, Private Island. Who owns England?? And it's not who you think.

I borrowed this bit for ten days, but I've since given it back.

The week*, in feelings...

Sean G rolled into town, down the escalator at Shoreditch High Street, well-cut navy suit, louche––no tie. His laugh singed with an infectious Aussie twang, he brought the last of the balmy evenings and an easy familiarity. The following week, in front of an open fire, Caitlin, here from New York indulged my whinging about modernity, identity, and control (in the face of my Linkedin stare-down**), allowing Al, (poor, long-suffering) to deal quite rightly with my repeated and infantile 'but I haaaate it', with 'do you hate money!'

Well no. As it turns out, money is super useful when you do stupid shit like lose your keys when your housemate's away in Finland and you need to pay some burly Israeli guy to break down your door and replace the locks with shiny new expensive ones. Watching the drill spray metal shards onto the footpath, you think about the manicures you don't get and then you think: I bet Slavoj Zizek isn't on Linkedin. Then you call your lover and cry, unsure whether this is about your status as a philosophical nobody, the 200 pounds, the rain, the state of the world, or the fact you simply miss him.

Amid the cacophony of crap that is 'the state of the world', I've been properly and surprisingly struck with the revelation that there are more nice things happening than not... This is huge; I haven't been inclined to glass half full for a very long time. Unfortunately, it was the jolt of another day's 'dramatic events' that caused this involuntary shift in gears. Here's a summation of the thoughts that followed: The world is peppered with dramatic events that don't impact me but make an impact; events echoed by further events that may or may not impact me, that maybe should do, but can't, because of my inability to bear being so impacted by events upon which I can't possibly bring any bearing.

Egocentric since we each saw our reflection for the first time––at an age too young to produce anything other than a deranged sense of 'self'––we conjure guilt as if the self-reflexive remonstration will in some way substitute for the real thing. But guilt is an utterly impotent emotion, an illusion of feeling something in the absence of having felt anything at all. Despair leads nowhere but depression, and anger, whose bedfellow is violence, perpetuates idiocy and thuggery. Action––seeking justice, reconciliation and dialogue––starts with a committed practice of peace, and one can't practice a long and lasting peace without adopting a modicum of optimism. And so it is in choosing to practice peace, that I'm compelled to be more optimistic.

Two days after my epiphany I'm at Royal Festival Hall for a lecture with rock'n'roll billing: Zizek, Varoufakis, Horvat and Assange. They're discussing the democracy deficit, an absence of aspirational ideology, class conflict and borders (and they're discussing Europe!). When the steadfastly pessimistic Zizek, concedes conceptual ground to the more optimistic Varoufakis, I think––maybe there's some momentum in this thing. Assange took it a step too far suggesting some kind of 'third-way' like a new Christianity that's a combination of Christianity and Islam (as if there were only two ways to begin with or that the 'original' ways––which as it turns out are not so 'original'––are worthy of replication in any way shape or form). The discomfort grew as he rambled on, missing the point entirely, and Horvat finally cut him off, no doubt thinking the guy's clearly gone mad holed up in the Ecuadorian embassy for all this time.

Anyway, I'll put my mind to the ideology thing, and if I come up with anything semi-decent, I'll run it by you. In the meantime. Be good.

*Which week? That week Paris happened and the 'one minute silence' fell victim to supersizing.

**in the Amy Rudder v Linkedin staredown, Linkedin won. If you're so inclined, note, I am not the chiropractor.

Zizek, lost on stage as Assange looms large, and as for linkedin, well?

You say potato, I say atopotatos

Not a philosophical joke (that may end up being me), but there you have it, my very first philosophy joke. Once I dream of Nietzsche (please let it be Nietzsche and not the horse*) I’ll don a black skivvy and officially launch my London Philosophy Club. Some contrast given the first club I joined O-week of '96, was the Sydney University Ski Club. nb. 1. I did not, nor have I ever attended Sydney University, and 2. I had never ever then seen snow. I thought as a student of Central Saint Martins––best renowned as a fashion school: Chalayan/McQueen/Katrantzou––I’d be inspired to up my game, but so far I’ve been either too cold, too wet, or in too much a hurry to do better than jeans and a jumper. Now my bike’s back in one bit and resigned to riding in ‘sensible cycling gear’ I’ve finally cast off any hope of becoming ‘muse’ to one of the fabulous court-shoed, be-skirted boys on the MA Fashion, as well as any pretension that this time around, university might be sartorially different to the first. But it’s definitely different.

Yesterday. The Professor: What kind of text is this?The students silent, avert their gaze. Professor: When you read this, what type of text do you think you’re reading? The students fidget, shift in their chair. Unable to bear the awkwardness brewing in the room, I come up with the most ridiculous sounding thing I can based on the essay title, which begins: 'After criticism, new responses to blah blah blah...' Me: Uh, post-critical? Prof: Interesting. So what do you think that means? Me: Do you want to ask someone less cynical? A beat. And because I realise it won’t kill me to say it… Me: The author blends theory with analogy to create an accessible, more personal entry to the text’s thesis. Give me a bucket.

So why philosophy? Good question. This time it was the mini-cab driver asking. He wasn’t the first. He was interested because he thought he sensed a return to the popularity of studies in the discipline. Astute! Though we had time and we were enjoying a healthy banter, I went with a shockingly (to me at least) simple answer. 'Well,' I said, 'the old ways of solving problems aren’t working, it may be worth thinking up some new ones.' He seemed happy with that. And I felt in that moment like there’s potential for something entirely valid in what I’m doing. And that I can still bridge both worlds if I keep my wits.

For now though, my world revolves around Dalston, where British-Caribbean culture meets East End geezer meets um, how else can I put it? art school hipster. There was nothing intentional about how I wound up here, but I love it. My place has all the modcons, like a kebabery on the corner, coffeeshop across the road and a local pub where, I have it on good authority Jarvis Cocker likes to hang out, and they play Premier League on the big screen. A few of the older warehouses in my street have been converted to artist and film studios; even Bombay Munch, my local curry house quips it’s a 'creative Indian eatery'.

*apparently Nietzsche had a bad dream that involved a horse and subsequently went mad.

In pursuit of substance, or at least, subsistence...

Stop, science time

Yes boys and girls, MC Science, a.k.a Ma Rudder is in town, so it's science week––except it's three weeks––and let me tell you, it's been said, and I can verify, science is everywhere. We're talking orreries, astrolabes, theodolites, miniatures, models and moulds, faience, glass and porcelain; the temperature at which things burst, the method by which things are made, the squabbles surrounding patents, and all the ethical issues in between.
But who's complaining? Moi? Mais non, for while Ma Rudder's in town, dining is strictly a matter of desserts, which makes all the talk of the industrial revolution more doable.

From the sports desk, JC reports West Ham is in an unsustainable equal third position in the Premier League, and when he tells me why, for a minute I think we're fielding this 40-something, mid-90s Croat national that he's so excited about, but he corrects me––Bilic is the now manager––that person in Aus, we less pretentiously call/once called the 'coach'. JC, a one time Norwich resident, regaled us with stories of beautiful cliff walks and beaches in county Norfolk, so Mum and I hired a teeny tiny Fiat and set off from Cambridge (more science) for the faded grandeur of coastal villages and cathedrals.

Back in London and with induction events at Central Saint Martins this week, I've finally done away with my Australian number (I've been warned it will be reassigned so make sure you delete it) for a +44. But today's extra exciting news is that UAL has awarded me a small grant, a not untidy sum given the aforementioned dive in the dollar (did it rally behind Malcolm at all?), so don't mind my poking fun in my application: 'I plan to use my 20 hours' 'right-to-work' to save for the second year while undertaking the first. I fear this means more corporate copywriting - alas, what's a girl to do! I'll have my studies to stimulate the grey-matter, so one more year of less-than-inspiring work won't kill me. My situation would be helped if the Aussie dollar hadn't gone from buying 60p (when I hatched this hair-brained idea) to 42p (today). If only our government had been a little more creative during 'the boom' my bank balance might look a bit better. Having said this, I'm aware my 'hardship' may pale in comparison to another's, so I trust your discretion and judgement in accepting or overlooking my application.'

Judged equally on one's financial situation as well as academic merit, it was a little cheeky. But honest! Anyway, you can give me a bollocking any time on the new +44, which is still on iOS for all you apple fans out there.

The English seaside. They have sun too.

To rage against…

There I was in London one minute distilling my very essence into online forms and financial data, when I was told definitively that despite all advances in modern technology, the bifurcations, hooks, whorls and spurs of my fingerprints must be measured in Melbourne and only Melbourne and the 16,900km that stood between me and a particular biometric recording device counted for nothing.

One laboured chapter of Wuthering Heights, a weighty September Vogue, and countless hours later, I was in Abu Dhabi, then Melbourne, then across town––patted down, I was ushered into a small room, where delirious I was scanned, photographed and registered, before being packed back to London to marry up my measurements with the real thing and collect my micro-chipped residence permit (is it always on? Can I turn it off?).

There was time enough for D to beat me by six points in scrabble and retain the title for the conceivable future and to tete a tete with O, with whom I’d been to see Gypsy on the West End just days earlier. I don’t know if this is all fabulous or a bit yucky.

I trimmed an hour off the edge of my jetlag travelling backwards to Amsterdam to meet up with WB and attend a VDLs family function where I was easily the shortest person not sitting at the kids’ table. Ah the Dutch. There was an experiment in cycling selfies and mass consumption of cheese, stroopwafels and apple pie/tart/crumble, which we offset with long forest walks and canal-side rambling (true).

After a week together in London I’ve now said goodbye to my tall friend in preparation for Mum’s arrival. I know I know––I said something about doing my Masters. It kicks off in under two weeks now, so the pressure’s on to find a house and a job and make like I’m not precious/picky and/nor on permanent holiday. Hm, nothing like some new stationery to make me realise shit's about to get real.

And I thought I’d said goodbye to these two for good.

Expensive bosh

Leafing through Philosophy Now in the Swiss Cottage library. Someone has added comments in biro; a spindly hand I associate with an elder member of society. Derrida is ‘clownish’. An article on ‘Ecstasy Through Self-Destruction’, is ‘bosh’ and Noam Chomsky ‘pillock’ has his name defaced so it reads Chimpsky, which frankly, I thought a bit childish. I looked at the shocking state of the seven older men with whom I now shared the room. One with a bulbous nose, asleep. Another obsessively rearranging chairs, noisily shifting them from one side of the 'quiet' reading room to the other. One absently flicked through Dancing Times, the rest read newspapers with screamy headlines that appeared satirical, but weren't.

This, after my morning coffee in an NW6 cafe, where Lyn introduces herself to me over the LRB and assuming I’m a ‘reader’ tells me about the funding cuts planned for the city’s libraries. I just must go up to Swiss Cottage and sign the petition. I do/did. Today, in the National Portrait Gallery, I run into the same Lyn who, astounded by the coincidence, asks me for my email address and is my first new London friend. I remember London being like this back in '01, but even I thought that perhaps times had changed. My latest intel has it that the guest list of the minute is that of the US Ambassador. Apparently his parties are fantastically caj-fab, so I ponder how in the next two years I might come to score an invite. I also learn the embassy is shifting from Mayfair to Battersea, which I assume is a coup for the developers of the new Thames-fronted site, but it’s more pragmatic than that – a security issue foremost, for they can’t be building bomb-proof bunkers amid the rarefied streets and five star hotels of Hyde Park East. Ah, America.

As for Iraq, that corner plot in Colombo said it all. Prime real estate with an artisan sandstone perimeter and intricate wrought iron gates. Beyond that, scraggle. Wild vegetative scraggle. And refuse. Rubble and refuse. A vine partially obscuring the oxidised plaque, I finally figured out what it was I was looking at, or more to the point, not looking at when I lifted the veil of weeds to one side: ‘The Embassy of the Republic of Iraq’.

Not yet a philosopher (nowhere near it), but prone to thinking, my sensitivities needed some fresh air, so on the weekend, AB and I struck out into the sunshine for a vigorous walk from Dover to St Margaret’s along the White Cliffs. Enjoyable as it was, the contrast is stark and sobering given you can’t unknow what’s happening just over there, on the French side of the channel. A clear day, we could see the opposing cliffs at Calais, our lunch stop so close to France I was welcomed to the country by French Vodafone informing me ‘global roaming’ had been activated. Capital slips with such ease between borders.

A first visit of what will be many to the LRB Bookshop threw up this eye-catching question of the front of the TLS 'Why so few women philosophers?'. Passing over the temptation to be drawn in, I left it on the rack, but the question (which annoyed me) stuck, my retort growing larger and uglier as the days passed... Until one of the weekend supplements threw up a doozy re: Joey Barton's philosophical efforts. I had to laugh. Who am I to pass judgement on whether Joey Barton is a philosopher or not? In fact, I found the piece enjoyable, pitched perfectly at a weekend readership, but if we're to apply the same bar...? Well - women philosophers? I know a few...

Plain old bosh

The foreign lady with yellow hair

But if thongs are called ‘slippers’ then what do you call slippers? Slippers? You know, shoes you wear at night, inside, when it’s cold... On average 33 degrees, I didn’t once stop sweating, so RR suggested a facial––booking me in, not for the relaxing kind mind, rather one where they attack your face in what’s known as a ‘clean-up’.

After a month of trailing her around and steering Ari Kujo’s chariot, I’ve become a mythical character in Colombo social circles, a point of discussion among car park attendants and baristas. ADSW would hear it from some alert G-Pa––his wife was seen today with ‘the foreign lady with yellow hair’ or with ‘Australia lady’.

One morning, preferring anonymity, RR and I went to the port area of Pettah where traders own the streets, where the frenzy is indifferent to me, the barbers of the Oriental Saloon cut hair, and mosques bow proud under pre-Eid sprucing.

With the general election set for August, campaigning commenced with the nearby soccer-field transforming into a platform for rallies where––after some speech or other, Sri Lankan baila played into the night. Opposition attack ads picture lines of cocaine, shout: ‘A drug free country needs a drug free parliament’ and RR confirms, some electoral candidates do have drug convictions, but yes, still manage to find or buy loopholes through which to throw their hat.

Said goodbye to my little Ari Kujo and after two heavy films (Leviathan and Two Days, One Night), and a grilling from border control, I waited tired and heavy-hearted for my luggage alongside other lethargic passengers. Amid the bulky, black cases a lone pair of women’s knickers scroll past, once, twice around on the conveyer belt. Then they’re gone. Everyone giggles, this will end.

Then suddenly you’re in AB’s Queens Park flat watching the Wimbledon final with ADSW’s seven spice Colombo Gin and manioc crisps and you’re not sweating and you smile because you think of Maya saying ‘very taste madam’. And you couldn’t agree more. I haven’t achieved much since I arrived in London, which I’m reminded is fine. The gang have had their work cut out just assuring me I haven’t made a monumentally big mistake. But come on, can you lot back in Oz dig some more stuff out of the ground or something? The dollar’s tanking and given I’m about to pay the bulk of my Masters course fees the timing couldn’t be worse!

What to do? Baila baby...

Lunghi prints loom large in Pettah.

One metre above sea level

So if it’s an orange––it looks like an orange, it tastes like an orange––but it’s green... is it an orange? Dodunduwa, the small town on the South West coast, which translates in a way to orange-island, or green-orange-island, gave us plenty of time to debate the terms with its 97-year-old procession creating a three hour tail of trucks, buses, tuks and tractors. Stuck on the single lane old Galle Road we were witness to the snaking parade of feverish dancing, drumming and whipping; children, adults, ceremonial transvestism; ghouls, fairies, butterflies.

Then, at a point along the coast came a clearing with a gleaming, looming likeness of Buddha––a young, lean, gender non-specific representation, arm poised in something between a stop sign and scout’s honour. ADSW tells me its impressive height is to mark the crest of the 2004 Tsunami. It’s so damn tall it's difficult to fathom and I question what the metre-high sea walls built along parts of the coast could have done to stop it. Strange. I’ve always hoped nature will win. But not like this. Here my fantasy was pitted against the wrong people. The sea now is rough on shore, but there’s little swell. The land lies flat. The humidity is heavy. Out near the horizon the ocean looks to be levitating. I’m hot and the sweating might be making me crazy.

Back in the city, it’s a head-spin of a different kind. Every second person in Silk is smoking. The DJ plays bad EDM. A bottle of Moet comes in a bucket with a live firework. I shuffle away from the Russian prostitutes for fear of being blonde by association. We’ve come from ‘ladies night’ at Café Francais to find positive discrimination also in effect at Silk. Men’s entry: 2000 rupees. ‘Ladies enter free.’

Less than a week left in SL and somehow the list is still long, though revolves mainly around cake. Thankfully my chauffeur has an extensive knowledge of Colombo's cakeries, so provided I can keep Ari Kujo entertained in the backseat, she will oblige and take on the insanity of the traffic in pursuit of our sugar hit. Tuk-Tuks spar and constantly set off all four-corner sensors of this European car, mahoots hang from open bus doors directing their maddening drivers to disregard police instruction, despite their incredibly funky oversized white vinyl gloves with large red 'stop' circle in the palm. I mutter Hey-Zeus under my breath a thousand times a day and desperately try and avoid being the person who teaches our cutey Kujo the 'F' word.

In what is a sign of the times, we picked from the 'posh' options, ending up at Silk.

A type of hyphen

There have been other departures, but none probably quite like this. There have been other arrivals too, but here, squinting at 8ish in the a.m. alighting directly onto sunbaked tarmac, it was amazing how quickly ridiculous my all black everything seemed.

Sweating, stripping, juggling luggage, my taxi man––holding ‘that’ sign synonymous with celebrity and sophistication (of which I was neither)––says ‘very hot madam’. I am a puddle. It was then out onto the freeway where there was ‘very traffic madam’. And into Colombo proper where the very traffic continued/s; except for a window after around 11pm each night where there’s mass animal anarchy, the dogs (strays), the cows (liberated), haunting the strangely empty streets.

It was some time after this one night, hopping between Colombo nightspots, that our Tuk is pulled over by the police, a torch shone in our faces. The examination––to ascertain whether we’re prostitutes or not. The assessment––so brief I was almost offended.

Other than dinners, cake, coffee, drinks... the usual punctuation of holiday life, it’s been mainly Ari K S, with his big adorable eyes, an exact replica of R’s, and his chubby comestible cheeks. I’ve excelled myself at ‘playpen time’ arranging all the animals (plastic and stuffed) in evolutionary order and upturning everything to create an enviable percussion section, which Amma might well rue later on.

Having first visited Sri Lanka while the civil war dragged on, conversation has been centred on comparisons––political/societal/economic. Fundamentally, the new chaos seems backed by a positive energy and is far more heartening than the tumbleweed and trepidation of six years ago. But corruption and economic disparity are still key issues for the country. ‘What to do?’ needs a work over, and Sirisena––the newly elected President has built optimistic anticipation in the people that he's the person to stamp out the fait accompli in that very rhetorical question. But as we know, politicians have promised less and failed.

This weekend we’re getting away from the Colombo Street Hustle and pushing off early down to Galle on the South Coast. So there’ll no doubt be more reporting from SL before the holiday morphs into the next life chapter in olde London town.

Colombo street hustle

Up a ladder, buzzed, with a stanley knife

Think of something you could do or make or sell in Asia, now. Hong Kong is hardly Asia proper, and I'm certainly no analyst, but I know enough to know that this is the future, and if you're prone to surprise––say you were shocked by anything leaked à la Assange and Snowden––or you've an underdeveloped sense for conspiracy, then perhaps you should see it for yourself. We may *just* get away with ignoring it for now, but for those busy populating our own little corner of the world, it may be prescient to get thou sprog to Mandarin lessons asap... because trust me, they're not gonna be happy making our crap, and rubbing our feet forever.

The 'rise of Asia' could go right and it could go wrong. It will go wrong. History tells us that much. But in the meantime, hot damn it's gonna be exciting. Why? Currency. Definition #1. The hyper-now. We've caught up with the future, society is schizophrenic and it's gonna explode. We're living so now and so fast, and we're splitting time into fragments so small and packing them so full that our small brains can't keep up. But we're human, so we adapt, it's what we do and who knows, somewhere in amongst it all we may just revolt. Definition #2. Money. Buckets of the stuff. I don't know where it's coming from, but there's so much it must be spent. And spend they will. On art, on fashion. Proenza Schouler, Prada, Balenciaga, Saint Laurent, Valentino, people are wearing this stuff. Perhaps they'll be the last people alive to afford it and fit into it, because the fat Asian is also on the rise, obesity will no longer be the reserve of the west.

Of course if it were all to go right, then we'd see Asia leading the charge, much to our embarrassment, in the sciences, health, renewables, environmental symbiosis, and measured, mindful living. But after a week in Hong Kong with the gigantic LED screen on the Kowloon harbour front shouting "FOG" from any angle, I dare say an opportunity has been lost. I'm no expert on where fog technically begins and ends, but I think a better descriptor would be "SMOG" if only to serve as a daily reminder to do something about it.

Waaa, what a tough week and what a great experience. There's nothing glamourous about travelling for work or working at one of the 'world's biggest art fairs'. I'm the pack animal, lugging three bags everywhere, packed with power drill, spirit level and other essential install tools, computer, art mags and camera equipment. I'm sure I've put my back out and seen the signs of a new varicose vein. I've talked about and been talked-to about art and 'the market' in both encouraging and depressing terms. At the post-fair champagne nobbery which was pretty darn fabulous but, I thought, strangely scheduled prior to the de-install, Luigi invited Luce and I to kick on, to which we exclaimed we had better stop boozing and go and pack up our stand. ‘But don't you have slaves?’ Luigi asked.

And so it was that we were made well aware of our position in proceedings with a kind of Australian shrug of the shoulders, because frankly I'm in my element up a ladder. Luce and I changed into our sports gear (a change of clothes another thing we carried everywhere), plugged in, and tuned out. There's something satisfying about labour, and though 'tuning out' has previously had negative connotations, I think it's going to be the next vital state.

Flying back to Melbourne today then it's two months 'til I finally pack-up for real. Heading first for Sri Lanka, then to London for an indeterminate amount of time. I'm semi-freaking, semi-figure this is the thing I've been waiting for.

'We are the slaves...'