The Winter Years

 It's like -

Standing inside a dark well

Walls on all sides

A patch of sky

Distantly above

But far too far, and far too high

It's like - 

A dark room

Inky black

You don't know where the walls end or begin

Blind, so blind, but I feel them 

Closing, closing in 

It's like -

Being asleep

Moving through treacle

My thoughts sticky slow

I'm static, brought standstill

Nowhere to run, nowhere to go

I'm trapped inside the loop of circadian life

I blink - it's gone, another day, wasted

Empty black abyss

How did it come to this?

Time Ticked Awake

 Time ticked awake

and marched on, heedless

-of yesterday's goodbyes

or tomorrow's welcome

Uncaring of ours stake

-in life, and needless 

of our cries

the course is run

Time of death, mourning

don't protest, cry or shout

regardless, a new day dawning

this clock, shall not run out.

All Words Die

 There's nothing sadder than a book unread 

Its pages never turned, the words are dead

There's nothing sadder than an empty library

The words, the words, that cannot come to be

No pen to page

the hand a cage

Mindless screams, silence gone awry 

And with the silence, all words die 

Food facts, tips and opinions I've picked up along the way (purely subjective of course)

1. Lentil and bacon is a match made in heaven
2. So is lentil and red wine (seriously add as much as you think you should, then a bit more. Best stew ever)
3. red onions are the best for caramelizing
4. caramelize them by frying at a medium/low heat, and halfway through adding soft brown sugar and butter until they have turned golden and soft
5. mustard and cream as pie filler
6. green lentils. seriously. GREEN LENTILS (I may have a lentil addiction)
7. cook mushrooms with lots of thyme, garlic and white wine (or prosecco, or rosé, really whatever alcohol is on hand) in the frying pan, with salt and pepper for heavenly mushrooms
8. If you want a change from traditional bruschetta, use the above method of mushrooms and put them on garlic rubbed toast, delicious alternative 
9. when a recipe calls for garlic cloves, use at least double the number asked for
10. tomato and cheese sandwiches are your friend
11. Polish spiced ketchup called Pudliszki Pikantny will be your best friend (Heinz will be demoted to that awkward acquaintance you don't really want to see, but have to hang out with sometimes out of politeness)
12. cook your chicken breasts in butter (frying pan lid on) for a better taste
13. buy better cooking wine. it can still be crap, but it should be drinkable, otherwise it has no business being in your food. And yes, cook with wine. It is excellent. 
14. pavlova. learn how to make it (very wow. much cool). 
15. stop flipping meat like a hot potato. flip it once each side only. The longer the meat has contact with the surface of the pan, the more it can caramelize and be delicious 
16. salt, butter, oil. They aren't healthy, but they are tasty in cooking
17. replace celery with leeks (in pies, stews, soups etc) its much tastier if you are a celery hater as I am
18. Don't burn the garlic! It turns bitter. And don't use the green shoots in cloves if garlic is old, it is also bitter
19. to get the skins off garlic, chop off the ends and crush lightly with flat of the blade, skin should remove easily. Alternatively, pop cloves of garlic in microwave for a few seconds, and the skin will fall away (but I find raw warm garlic slightly off-putting)
20. to get the most juice out of lemons/limes use a fork to squeeze it all out
21. If you're making nachos, tray bake them in the oven, it's a whole different ball game
22. Put smoked paprika in potato salad 

Thesis

The funny thing about starting my thesis is I thought I would have some idea what I was doing by now - but I don't. 

Does everyone else feel this mild sense of panic all the time? Is anyone else procrastinating by dabbling in new cooking (the Moroccan lamb was particularly good) or closing Facebook only to find you've somehow opened it back up again ten seconds later and are scrolling through the same shit, someone's sunny holiday making you jealous, stupid ads which you don't care about, but you stare at them anyway. 

A month ago I didn't know where to begin, and now I have almost finished collecting my data, does that mean in another month I will be deep in writing and actually know what I am doing? I hope so. 

Somehow I feel like I will be just as lost, writing words, unsure if they are what I meant to put down, or simply my fingers scrabbling uselessly for something, anything to say.

My head is above water, but I am slowly drowning. 

The Door

A door within a door
Who lives there anymore?
A home, a house, a castle on a hill
No walls, no words, all now still
And where once a kingdom stood
There remains a single piece of wood
No roof no floor, a home no more
Simply - a door within a door

The Illusion of Separateness

The illusion of separateness. A book I finished yesterday whilst lying in the grass in the sunshine,  marveling at how lucky I am.
Its still rattling around my head and I thought that made it worth talking about.

Its about the intersection of lives over time and through the war, and it's such a perfect mix of sadness and beauty that it left me feeling both lucky and devastated.  It left me with a perfect mixture of but what if...  and if only.

A mosaic of beauty and tragedy and emotion, of fervor and grief that left me reading over and over the same lines as they struck me so deeply.

It is perfectly encapsulated for me in this one paragraph:

He had never loved anyone so much. But it was something he could never admit to her. It was a truth anchored in his heart so that her pain might be less, so that she might find another, get married again, have children,  watch them grow,  make their lunches, see them off, visit them in college, get old herself, plan retirement, give away all her jewelry to grandchildren,  regret nothing - even forget, even forget the boy she was first married to, who took her picture at Coney Island, then was blown to bits in his B-24 by anti-aircraft guns over the French coast, escape impossible. 
The book of their love would be a chapter in her life. 
A digression that ends in a rain of metal over wet fields.  

..... behind her, the people on the Ferris wheel and the roller coasters were screaming too. You could hear them up and down the boardwalk,  lost forever in that last great afternoon of their lives.

Home

Home is  funny place, which I am simultaneously trying to escape from and return to. My heart longs for home, even as my feet wander farther still.
What am I searching for? 
And what will I do when I find it?

Homeless

Homeless
such a strong word
brings to mind images
of cardboard boxes, and dirty streets
drifting through the world
fitting in
but not belonging

Home was a room that's been sold to strangers
there's no space for me now
only memories.
I'm welcome back,
but not welcome home.

Home.
I think first of my childhood bedroom
and then the people I love
then nothing
blank spaces.

They say home is where the heart is
- but I just feel lost.

Night Sky

The thing I miss most about home is the stars.

People forget, in the cities. Life is so busy, so fast.
We forget to stop, to glance above, and even when we do, the world is hidden by a smog of industry, vaporous glimmers of our own making, so much lesser than the ones above.
I have been into the dark county, I have looked up and seen the lights above me, bright for the first time in so long. I have held my breath, struck by their beauty, but then filled with disappointment at the empty spaces, the aberration of their patterns.
This is a strange sky above me, and it only reminds me how far away I am from home.

Lying on the grass looking up at them fills me with a loneliness these people around me cannot fill. Nothing is familiar, in this strange world of mine.
There is no sense of belonging stronger than when I lay on that other dirt, and everything felt right.
I was home.

These are not my stars, I am alone.

Racisim

'I''m not racist but...'

I hear those words so often now, in my head I simply wait for their next sentence to betray them.
 Preceding your racism by professing not to be doesn't change or excuse the fact that you are.
Perhaps it's because I'm in the unique position of being welcomed into people's homes; within their their walls, sitting in their living rooms, it is their word, they rule.
They are safe in their castle, and perhaps it is due to this that they are so veracious. They are away from the public eye, even though they are admitting these things to a total stranger, and worse, an immigrant, one of the very people they are talking about.
But for some reason I don't count as one. I stand in the middle, not English (perish the thought!) but not a threat, not a true immigrant in their perspective. I hover in the in-between, belonging nowhere.
I speak English perfectly, my accent is fairly unobtrusive, I'm not from (and let's be honest, here is the real reason) the Middle East, and my skin doesn't mark me as different.

"I'm an immigrant here too" I point out, smiling awkwardly. "oh yes of course! But that's different." They say, laughing and brushing it away. Why? Because I'm educated? Because I'm white? Or because I'm not Muslim.
'Don't go to that area, it's full of immigrants now. Yes, but they take our jobs don't they! (but do they really?) Well, you have to worry about terrorism now don't you? Lucky we live away from the big cities, I wouldn't feel safe there anymore' (they cluck their tongues and shake their heads at the state of London nowadays)
It all comes back to this feeling, this righteousness tangible in its certainty - they really aren't racist, but... and then quite suddenly they are casual racists, even though they can't see it themselves.
These middle class, white people who profess to be so open-minded, so progressive, are in truth, anything but.
They are well-meaning, offering you cake and tea and smiling all the while, but their very perspective colors their actions, and in turn our society, subtly poisoning it against immigration, against change.

They are afraid, and when people are afraid they look for someone to hate.

The Internet

Today I was thinking about social media, and the power it plays in our lives.

Within the internet we often create an alternate personality, and in so doing, we can feel dissociated from reality - or our actions online. In itself, perhaps this isn't so bad. People - like me - can vent or speak about issues they don't dare talk about in real life, and we can only do so through the feeling that our identity is protected.
However, this disassociation can also have negative connotations. I would like to compare it - in the extreme - to the infamous 'Milgram Experiment' which occurred in 1961,  the scientist Stanley Milgram conducted a series of tests when one test subject would administer electric shocks to another test subject in another room. Each time the second test subject got their answer wrong, the shock voltage went up. The test subject being shocked would begin to complain, scream, then bang on the wall in protest, then finally, go silent. Although the test subject administering the test would begin to question the experiment, with assurance from the one administering the test, they would continue to what would be fatal or at least very worrying levels. Of course, the shocks were not actually occurring at all, but they didn't know that. Although this experiment was to ascertain the power of authority  (a reaction to the question of guilt in the Nazi trials that were occurring at this time) I also believe that it was in part due to the powder of dissociation. They could not see their 'victim' only hear him. In a way, the internet is the same -it allows you to see only certain reactions, certain parts of a person. You do not see the reality, and thus you can ignore it, continue past the breaking point because you don't actually see the direct consequences of your actions.

Perhaps the link is too tenuous.

What about isolation due to the internet?
We are so often so busy talking to our friends online, we ignore those right in front of us, or miss opportunities completely. I think most of us have had the incredibly annoying experience of visiting friends and them having them distracted, too busy checking their phones to properly talk to you.

I think I see it most when travelling. When I first started off, full of my parents stories of the people they met on their travels, the conversations struck up in youth hostels, buses and coffee shops, I was full of hope for the travel companions I would meet.
But on my travels I was met by an almost imperceptible wall of silence, broken by the clicking of technology, the invisible messages sent to and fro, the communications taking place across countries and continents. And surrounded by all these people, I was alone, facing a wall I didn't know how to break.
How sad that we are surrounded by humankind, yet so alone. What experiences are we missing, simply because we don't look up?

No-one can argue that this isn't the way of the future, and to shy from it is to fall behind, but I don't think we fully realise the power in this invisible world, nor the impact it has on those who grow up surrounded by it.

Technology is a beautiful thing, it offers us opportunities we couldn't have dreamed about thirty years ago, and it is growing exponentially, like a living thing. I can't imagine life without it, nor I suppose, would I want to. But I think it's important to realise that everything, even the most beautiful of things casts a shadow, and the internet is no exception.

Destruction

Why is a child's first instinct to destroy?
They see a bubble and want to pop it, their big sister does a drawing and they want to scribble on it, they see a tower of blocks and want to push it over, they see a bird and want to chase it.

How far does this extend then? Is it inherent within all of us? Society teaches us to build, but beneath it all are our baser instincts, and perhaps it is those that drive us time and time again to war and death.
We want to be the master of all, to conquer what can be conquered, and destroy what cannot.

Is it humanity's nature to destroy?  

Snowflakes

Where do they go
These creatures of snow
On their whimsical dance
Falling by chance
Like fireflies
On a path only they can see

God

If  I was to believe in God, I would find him in the falling snow.

In the storm and the deep thunder booming low  

In the mountains and their unyielding sight

In the taste of rain on my face, and the oceans might 

In the sound of the waves,and the rustle of wind in the trees

His words just out of reach, God is in the breeze 

He is in the candle flame and its shadows, dark and deep

The nighttime whispers, dreaming of what you sleep

And I would find him in our heartbeats, steady and slow 

If I was to believe in God, I would find him in the falling snow 

Human rights and Immigration

Where does the line between what is 'right' and people's rights, overlap?
To put it another way, when what we - the western world - have defined as wrong: cruelty, oppression, sexism, racism etc, occurs, do we interfere?
And how does this change depending on where these 'wrongs' take place? Do we have more right to interfere when it takes place within our own countries? There is a strange and terrible line between what we think is right, and allowing everyone freedom as is their human right. What do we do when these two qualities collide?
It's a question we must all ask ourselves, as it is become a more and more prevalent issue in today's world.

The United Nations' universal declaration of human rights argues for a world where humans can
'enjoy freedom of speech and belief and freedom from fear', which indicates that everyone should be able to believe in what they wish. However it also unequivocally states the importance for 'equal rights of men and women'. Already this is problematic, as well we know that not everywhere in the world are men and women treated equally, and indeed in many cultures women have very few rights at all - patriarchal societies are not uncommon, even today.
When something is occurring that we deem wrong, is it our duty to step in? Or are we dancing too dangerously with the old concept of ourselves as the civilized people 'saving' the noble savage?
This question of course extends to many cultures around the world. As anthropologists, we are taught that we have no right to step in, only the right to observe. This becomes difficult for cases of ritualistic violence, systematic oppression or -something I have always found personally upsetting - female genital mutilation. Are we wrong to put our own values above others?

These are all difficult questions, however they are not the main issue I am wanting to talk about today. Today my attention was brought to the problem of Muslim immigration in Europe, and especially within France. This is an issue that graces the dinner tables of many in France, a discussion rife with contention and anger.
Are they being racist in that they want these people - who have a religion and set of beliefs they find offensive - out of their country or to change those beliefs?

On one hand, they have a point. What right do these people from foreign countries have, to settle in this homeland and not accept the French way of life? To cover their women and preach their own beliefs? But surely if their beliefs are not harmful, then they have this freedom, as the universal declaration of human rights clearly states 'Everyone has the right to freedom of thought, conscience and religion; this right includes freedom to change his religion or belief, and freedom, either alone or in community with others and in public or private, to manifest his religion or belief in teaching, practice, worship and observance.'
However, when we go to Muslim countries, we cover up and adhere to their customs, out of respect. Therefore should this not be a two way road? Is it not insulting that they believe our dress to be indecent, that their way is the only right and good way? Is this oppression of women? Can it be if the women themselves believe in it? But what about those that don't, surely they should have the freedom within France to choose - a freedom they perhaps would not have had in their own country. 
One could argue they choose to move here, and thus must choose to accept our rules, and integrate into our society. 

But many of them are a displaced people, are immigrants with no home to go back to. Therefore do they really have any choice either?
Should we really be so offended simply because they have different beliefs from us?
This of course comes with its own problems today, the war on terror and the terror attacks that occur due to a tiny minority of the people accepted into Europe. Yet how dare we consider closing our doors to these people in need, how can we fight to not give them safety? How can condemn the many, for the crimes of a few? Should we turn our backs on those who need help?
Terrorism is a new and terrifying issue which is sweeping Europe. What is the answer to it?

There is fear here; this war is subtle, its soldiers invisible, and how can we fight what we cannot see? Best to not take the risk at all, many say. But will stopping immigrants from coming really stop the jihadists too? Or merely the innocents?
But surely if Muslims would integrate into our society, uncover themselves and embrace our culture, we would only have the extremists to deal with, and these would be far fewer. Would this be better for everyone? Or is it just what we want because it's easy for us - we aren't the ones being asked to give up our way of life.

Honestly, I don't know the answer. There is no easy way to solve this problem, I only know that not accepting these people is like turning the Jews away, back to Nazi Europe and the concentration camps - in many ways we would be sending them to their deaths. Perhaps a more intensive vetting system for who is allowed in? But it takes too long, it's too expensive, and it still doesn't solve the problem that the French people see before them - their country being moved in on by an entire people who refuse to accept the French culture, way of life, and everything they take pride in of their country. They fear they are losing their culture, the old ways and what makes their country french.

 I don't have the answers, but we shouldn't be afraid to talk about it, to express our opinions, and whatever they may be, they should be listened to. One side or the other should not be more or less politically correct as so often seems to be the case. For surely it is only by talking about it that we can understand others opinions and  hopefully, reach compromises. 

But Words are Things

It is only in books that one can lose themselves so completely that just for a little while, all else ceases to exist.

Isn't it funny how getting sucked into a book can change your mood and play with your emotions?

Do other people get so lost in books they take on the main character's feelings? If they are sick I feel I am suffering, if they are sad I feel distraught without knowing why. If they are angry, my mood is black.

Worse still is when that book is over, and there are no longer any pages left to turn. It's like an entire world died, even though it's still right there, in your hands. I call them book hangovers, because you can't bring yourself to start a new one, when the last is still fresh in your mind, and the world feels useless and grey without that book to read, like suddenly everything has become pointless. 

How can I be angry over a world that isn't even real?
But that's the magic of writing I suppose, to have such a way with words that the author can communicate these people from their heads, their triumphs and losses, their laughter and deaths. We grieve with them, their words alive, even though their creators may be long dead.
In many ways I believe that authors are the ones who have transcended death, because their souls are still right here, within those pages. We hold them in our hands, innumerable treasures, and it is for this that the greatest sadness a book can have is to never be read.

Literature is a funny thing. A powerful thing.

Lord Byron himself words it better than me:

“But words are things, and a small drop of ink,      

Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces

 That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think;     

 ’T is strange, the shortest letter which man uses 

Instead of speech, may form a lasting link   

   Of ages; to what straits old Time reduces Frail man, 

when paper — even a rag like this, 

Survives himself, his tomb, and all that’s his.”

Myself

How things can change in a year. It's not long, a year. 365 days. Yet every year now, I look back and everything is different.

Last year it was my 21st birthday coming up, I had a party planned with all my family and friends, I was about to graduate, I lived at home. Things were hard, I was full of uncertainty, but also hope. Sadness was just beginning to lose its hold on me, and I felt ready for this new adventure.

Now look at me. Its my 22nd in nine days, and I will be completely alone. I am adrift in Europe, with no direction. I'm braver now, more certain of myself.
It's an adventure, but a lonely one.

Perhaps that's what I need. I need this time to grow into myself, into the adult I want to be. Leave that child behind, her broken hopes, her naivety. She didn't know what the world would hold for her, and she was trapped because of it.

When you are free from expectations, you can do all the things you only dared to think about long into the night, and never voice. Who can judge you now, when no-one knows who you are?

I can be anyone, and maybe, just maybe I can finally be myself.

Romance is Dead

Not mine, someone who writes far more eloquently than I could ever hope to do. But reading her lines (and in my mind, it is a her, I wonder why) makes me wonder what bitterness she has gone through, to speak of romance so coldly. And yet the harshness of the words resonate with me, telling me there's no use pretending: this is real life.

 Tell me a story before it all ends

 Something that’s wonderful, something pretend 

Give it a moral and maybe a lie 

Fill me with laughter, then make me cry. 

You know how it starts; “once” and then “time”

 And don’t worry much if it doesn’t all rhyme 

Throw in some danger, then throw a rope

 Lace it with irony, dose it with hope. 

But don’t get caught up love, and don’t start to feel

 Remember, my darling, that none of it’s real

 The dragons and damsels are all in your head

 Real life hails no heroes and romance is dead.

                                                                         -Violet Matter

Europe

Europe, the beating drum within my chest, shuttered like wild thing within this cage of flesh. It thrums it's beat against my own heart beat, building within expectation.
One week. One more week. Am I running away? Or running towards opportunity? I still haven't worked it out. Regardless, with trembling timid steps, I'll board that plane, the one that will fly me to Europe, that mysterious continent that calls to me like a Siren, willing me home.

Will Europe be my place? The one that quells this wanderlust of mine?
I'm feeling so poetic today, on edge with excitement and fear the words are flowing from me with little thought or regard. I'm going, really going.

I'm leaving all my problems behind, the depressing job, the cold winter, my broken heart. It stays in New Zealand as I fly away to become a new person. Is this cowardice or bravery?
I could  be whoever I want to be, collect my best qualities in a jar and display them proudly at the forefront, saying 'yes, this is me!' A new name, a new attitude, a new person. Intoxicating ideas.

She will always be a part of me, that sad solemn timid girl who's heart is lying smashed at her feet. She still is me in many (too many) ways. But I don't only want to be her anymore.

 I want to be someone more. I want to be something more.