erosdiscordia/aidrocsidsore

So I’ve been reading over my own weblog, and I’m unnerved at how many posts are pretty pissed-off. Not that I take anything back. But do I only write when I have something to criticize?

This blog was called “erosdiscordia” with an eye towards reporting both the “eros” and the “discord”, the creative thrust and the critical insight. I feel I’ve focused pretty heavily on the latter. Sure, there’s a lot to criticize right now, and some things are unjustly underrepresented on our collective shit-list. I try to fix that. But I also wanted to write about other things, things I know in my head and heart are more important. Eros, and everything I mean when I type that word. Sex, creativity, desire, lust for life and adventure, what the Frenchies call “joie de vivre”. The God found in movement and striving, the something one can make out of nothing. Our gift as human beings.

And it’s nothing so simple as “focusing more on the positive”. I think it’s idiotic to divide the world into “positive” and “negative”, especially when referring to viewpoints or states of mind. Any artist knows, there are those secret times when you smack the clay head off your unfinished sculpture, or delete whole paragraphs. Is that “negative”, even if done in frustration? Or does it clear space for something truer?

But one must put the sword away sooner or later; as useful as anger may be in pruning away the unhelpful or unnecessary, nobody’s ever built anything with it, and never will. I know what I want to build, have always known. I know what I can see, and what I love most. The heart of everything. The generative force. Maybe I got lucky, and my lifelong creativity just kept me close to this energy, where most people grow out of it after adolescent hormones subside. Maybe I’ve taken too much acid, I don’t know. Whatever it really is, and however I perceive it, it’s my favorite thing, and I’ll try to represent it more in this blog.

It will be interesting to figure out how to do that. There’s a whole language of judgment, and a time-honored tradition of journalistic criticism. But the other side of the coin? What do we have besides religious texts, self-help books, and The Joy of Sex? What do I have to add? And the language–how do I talk about Spirit without sounding like a woo-woo, or joy without sounding like a life coach, or sex without sounding like a self-absorbed erotic neurotic or an amateur-porn website wannabe? Landmines, landmines everywhere…

Decline And Fall

Went to a party with A and P on Saturday. My heart told me to beg off and stay home, but I didn’t want to be rude to the hostess, whom I’d promised to come. Should have stayed at the flat. There was a terribly anti-American cokehead Englishman neighbor at the party, who picked relentlessly  at me. I’m ashamed to admit that I wasted time arguing with him. Ladies, you know the type—the skinny, twitchy, balding loudmouth who begins every sentence with “Well, women blah blah blah…”, and then shouts down his girlfriend when she tries to argue. Even though he’d never heard of William Blake (an English poet), he still told me he’d “tried to challenge me on my level, but was afraid I’d failed”, apparently because I haven’t yet read Milton. When I got irritable with him, he said in a chiding tone of voice, “now you’re acting a bit American”. Does it surprise anyone that he’d never been to the States?

I’ve been in Europe seven months, I’ve had challenges thrown at me about my country’s politics; and each time, the person seemed genuinely interested in my answers. French people, Mexican people, Scottish people, German people, they all pick, but then they all listen. Because guess what? Everyone seems to want to understand what the hell is going on in the world right now. We all do need to talk about it. Regular Americans and regular people from other countries need to discuss their perceptions, so that we can all realize that it isn’t “America vs. Whoever”, it’s “shitty government vs. shitty government, with regular people everywhere left holding the bag”.

Most people, I think, suspect this, and are glad to have it confirmed that plenty of Americans are resisting this slide towards evil fascism. People here in Europe don’t know about AMERICAblog, they don’t know the names Russ Feingold or Howard Dean; their ostensibly unbiased and comprehensive media has been less-than-reliable when it comes to reporting on the American people’s fight against their own government. But everywhere else that I’ve gone, people seem to want to believe in that resistance. Everywhere but here.

Why not England? Has it been too long since they’ve had a revolution? Are they too used to thinking of themselves as the center of the civilized world, and whatever anyone else is doing, it is automatically less than what they’d do in the circumstances? Americans are less politically apathetic than the English I’ve met so far. Do I need to remind anyone that Tony Blair—the man that dragged his country into the Iraq war with less cause even than Bush—is still in power, and nobody here in London appears to be rallying in the street about that fact?

England used to rule the world. Now they sit by and drink tea while their government gets bullied by mine. Of course they need a scapegoat, and why not some random American traveler? That’s a lot less dangerous than actually fighting Blair and Bush.

Look, some things are inescapable. If Bush is affecting the whole world, then he’s the whole world’s problem, not just America’s. It’s embarrassingly disingenuous to say, “Damn, your president is ruining the world, better get a different one, American,” and then fold you newspaper over and read about Man Utd. You get off your ass and help me, fellow human being. Join the mutiny, or go down with the fucking ship.

Obviously, not every English person feels like that one drunk does. I remember the huge protests here against the war. But is the war “all Bush’s fault”? I sense an aura of victimization vibes swirling around the English public. And I’m afraid for them. If they fall into a spiteful blaming of Americans for everything, with themselves as the poor bullied civilized gentlemen, that’ll be just as bigoted and impotent as Americans buying French wine and pouring it into the gutter.

And god knows, they don’t want to be like us, do they?

Londinium

Yep, I finally made it to London.

I got into town Saturday the 18th, and crashed at the plain but friendly and serviceable Pickwick Hall Hostel in Bloomsbury. The trip down was a fraction of the difficulty I’d been preparing for. From the low price of the train ticket from Edinburgh to London, to the ease of black-cab accessibility for overly-burdened travelers at Kings Cross Station, I was pleasantly surprised at the way the Universe seemed to smooth my way into town. So surprised, in fact (after the immense difficulty of every other aspect of this trip to Europe), that I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Well, it was a hard next couple of days, as I went to the BUNAC offices and looked at their job and flat message boards, and scurried in circles around London’s public transportation, looking for a place to live. Let me tell you, when you have 100 pounds a week to spend on accommodation, and want to stay central, flat quality is less than what you may be used to. But I lucked out—found a great place to live in Chelsea, with a nice older woman named R., and two fellow BUNAC workers, Canadians named A and P. They seemed really friendly and told me about all the fun things they’d found to do in London. I gratefully settled in last Wednesday, eager to relax a few days and heal from the cold I always seem to catch when I travel. I even got two nights’ payment back from the second hostel (YHA St Paul’s), when I told them I’d found a flat!

So I’ve had some amazing luck. Let’s hope it holds. Let’s hope the only shoes that drop are some cool, cheap Diesel sneaks, right into my sparse closet…

Ahh, Edinburgh

What will I miss about you?

• The rain that’s just harder than a mist, dampening and streaking the towering gray buildings, themselves darkened with decades of black soot. The feeling of being surrounded with damp, solid stone, even underfoot.
• The sound of black cabs rushing over wet cobbled streets, taillights red in the darkness.
• The spikey spires of weird gothic churches thrusting over the rooftops.
• Wandering in the maze of narrow streets and towering old buildings, under stone overpasses, down hidden staircases, through haunted passageways in basements, past tight tunnel-like closes, into bright dead-end courtyards, always finding another level up in this city-built-on-a-city.
• Sitting in a pub, having a pint of real ale, looking out over a real castle.
• Scottish accents, especially after a couple of those pints.
• The clean, fresh, damp cold. I usually hate being cold, but this is different.
• Looking up sometimes at the bleak gray sky, and realizing just how far north I really am, what an outpost this city is.
• Watching out the window as the drunken punters weave and scream their way home at midnight (the bars close), 1am (the other bars close), and 3 am (those other bars close).
• Knowing you’re walking around on some of the oldest rocks in Europe, with some of the strangest histories. Scotland started off near the South Pole, originally attached to North America; drifted up through phases as a rainforest, a desert, and a glacier-covered tundra; and finally broke off and bashed into Europe, eating part of England’s northern end in subduction, spitting it out in giant volcanoes–the eroded plugs of which you can walk around on: Castle Hill and Arthur’s Seat. Hadrian’s Wall was built pretty near where the two countries collided, centuries before anyone had ever heard of “continental drift”.
• The wonderful people I’ve met here, Scottish and otherwise–Alice, Paul, Olivia, Simone, Barry, the Neils, Christine, Mike, Anne, Yvonne, Steve, Vicki, Dave, George, Topper. They come from everywhere, from Brazil to Australia, from France to America. It’s a cool mix.
• Bagpipes. Seriously, it grows on you.
• Trying to forget that haggis is made of lungs and scraps, mixed with meal, and boiled in a stomach. Why does it taste good? Why??

Preparation

Having had to make bring my stuff from southern France to Edinburgh in two chaotic trips (thanks to EasyJet luggage limits), I’d had it in my head that packing for this upcoming move down to London was going to be a nightmare. After all, I’ve been here four months, longer than I’d been in Aix-en-Provence. My things were pretty scattered around my friend’s flat.

Adding to the dread was a dream I’d had recently, one of those anxiety dreams where, even in the dream, you realize you shouldn’t be stressing so much. In this dream, I was fighting my two suitcases, duffel bag, backpack, and wicker market bag onto the train for London, and spending half of the ride down trying to find places on the train to put all my luggage–which was of course multiplying and busting open, spilling underwear and paintbrushes everywhere. I do actually own that much stuff, but the disorganization of the packing job was the tipoff that I was dreaming. I’ve been in traveling for over six months–when I cram something in a suitcase, it stays crammed.

Why did I bring that much stuff from America, you ask? Well, I thought I was going to be in southern France for the entire school year, eight sedentary months. Instead, I took the spring semester off from school to stay with my friend in Edinburgh, and try to get a work permit through BUNAC for work in London. (I also not only changed majors , but additionally switched schools–but that’s another can o’worms!) Now I’m gearing up for my fourth transferral of the mountain of crap I brought over here. I didn’t really bring anything I haven’t needed, surprisingly. And I haven’t acquired near as much as I thought I would. Which meant that when I finally packed it up a few days ago, I was shocked at how easy the job was. I threw it all into the two suitcases without looking, then turned around real slowly, expecting to see a giant overflowing mess. Instead, I saw two almost-full suitcases. I then spent the next fifteen minutes wandering around the flat in shock, wondering where the rest of my things were.

Maybe this move won’t be so hard, after all.

Of course, the GNER train company had a nationwide computer failure yesterday when I went to buy my ticket at the station. They were unable to sell advance (cheaper) tickets, only for tickets that day. I hope they get the network fixed before 6pm on Friday, the last chance for me to buy a 60 pound ticket instead of a 90 pound one. I arrive at King’s Cross station in London, where I’ve been before, and I’ll take a cab to my first hostel. Getting the bags down to the cab stand, and then up the hostel steps, should be the worst parts. And that’s nothing on the 3 train trips I took in one day this past January, getting from Provence to Edinburgh with three tons of junk and a blistering hangover (don’t ask). If I can do that, I can do this.

One More Quote, and I Swear I’ll Write Something

From the peerless AMERICAblog.com:

“‘Senator, when you took your oath of office, you placed your hand on the Bible and swore to uphold the Constitution. You didn’t place your hand on the Constitution and swear to uphold the Bible.’

“-Jamie Raskin, testifying Wednesday, March 1, 2006 before the Maryland Senate Judicial Proceedings Committee in response to a question from Republican Senator Nancy Jacobs about whether marriage discrimination against gay people is required by ‘God’s Law.’”

Just in case there’s still some confusion about this:

• The Constitution is the law of the land, applicable to all Americans.
• The Bible is a religious artifact, applicable only to those who convert to Christianity, and even arguably then.

See the difference?

The Title of this Post isn’t “London Calling”, Promise

Well, thanks to the miracle of big tax returns, it looks like I’ll be heading to London sooner than I expected. I thought I’d have to work here in Edinburgh and save up all the money to get down there, but I’ll be going on the 18th of this month, instead of about the beginning of May. This is wonderful news!

Technically speaking, I was only ever supposed to be in Edinburgh a month, visiting Rance over December break. When I decided to leave school and take the spring off, he let me stay with him while I worked out the BUNAC visa, so that I could stay in Europe and work. That took longer than I thought it would. The week I spent in London in January was supposed to be the week I went down and found a job and flat, coming back up to Scotland only to get my things. Due to delays in getting the documents for the visa, it was mainly just a holiday. And then, after I got back to Edinburgh from southern France with my things that week, I got some bad financial news. I had to make some tough decisions about whether or not to go right back to the States. Rance stepped in and offered more help than I could possibly have asked for. He said I could stay with him and work in Edinburgh until I had enough cash to settle in London. It really felt amazing to have a friend who’d have my back like that. Thank you, Rance.

So two months passed, and the visa was approved. I went to BUNAC’s orientation and wrote a resume. I’d printed it up, and was about to go hand some out to a few local pubs, when I had a chat with my mom. There was some possibility that they could help me get down to London and set up there, and owe them back later. My parents knew that, as cool as Edinburgh is and as much as I like my friends here, I needed to be in London. I needed to get on with my life and take advantage of all the things that city offers a writer and artist. So they put their heads together and came up with a plan. And it looks like I’ll have to print another batch of resumes, with a London address. Thank you, mom and dad!

It’s hard for people like me to accept help from others. I feel like I should do everything alone. When people step in and give me a gigantic hand, I’m almost embarrassed. But everyone seems to be really supportive of this crazy thing that I’m doing. I really am amazingly lucky, not only to be here in Europe, but to have people that truly want to help me make the most of it. I don’t for a second forget debts until I’ve repaid them. And I’ll never forget what my parents and Rance have done recently.

Thank you both again, so much.