Attacks in Mumbai

It has been a while since I've posted on here - oh, not because I have been rantless, but rather because I have been feeling dubiously listless of late. All my rants seemed to lack a certain punch.

But today, I have one. Terrorists have attacked Mumbai and in doing so, have attacked me personally. My lovely, kind and gentle friend Harnish is currently lying in a hospital somewhere in the city, having received multiple gunshot wounds to his legs and back. His family will be with him shortly, and I hope he is rapidly evacuated from the area.

There is little point in bothering to try and describe just how I feel about the terrorists right now, not least because I am numb to the very core. How dare anyone hurt Harnish? What the hell has he ever done to anyone?

It puts all my rants somewhat into perspective, I have to say. Suddenly my frustrations are the pathetic mewlings of someone cursed with such tragedies as too much freedom and liberty and choice. A stark reminder of how fragile our lives are, and how quickly they can be taken away.

Harnish is out of danger; he will apparently be 'okay'. I fear my definition of 'okay' may be somewhat at odds with the doctors right now, but nevertheless he will survive. I'm not a religious person, I never have been and it would be hypocritical of me to start today. I don't see anything wrong, however, in appealing to my blog readers to pray for him, ask your God to keep him safe and make him well. Nobody deserves for their life to be shattered in this manner - how many more attacks is it going to take for the world to sit up and take note?

Boredom...

Have plenty of sensible things to say - or rather, plenty of angry observations to make - but am borrowing this from Kat's blog to fill a few moments of boredom.

20 Years Ago (1988):
1) 6 years old, life was about chocolate, maths, and playing Elastics at school
2) I was a Brownie who hated being a Brownie, and regularly escaped over the wall to play in a friend's garden
3) My teacher was Mrs Fewings. We had 'nap time' after lunch. I miss nap time.
4) I inherited my brother's denim jacket and wore it endlessly

10 Years Ago (1998):
1) 16 years old, life was about chocolate, maths, and playing Hockey at school
2) I discovered, thanks to GCSE design and technology, that I was good at woodwork. And useless at sewing.
3) I wanted to go to King's College, Cambridge, and study Maths.
4) I wore enormous glasses and the beach-style surfer's clothes

5 Years Ago (2003):
1) 21 years old, life was about chocolate, literature, and rowing at university
2) I discovered South America and promptly fell in love
3) I reviewed hotels and apartments in London and was paid for the efforts
4) I wore black. A lot. Including a particularly awesome black tailcoat.

3 Years Ago (2005):
1) I was 23, life was about chocolate, literature, and rowing at university
2) Deciding I needed to do something with my life, I went to Oxford for a Masters. In Women's Studies. Hm.
3) Bought tickets for the Monaco F1 GP but never went
4) I lived in my Linacre hoodie.

1 Year Ago (2007):
1) I was 25, life was about chocolate, literature, and dreaming about the Philippines
2) I discovered the Philippines and promptly fell in love
3) I took a job in Hong Kong in order to be near the Philippines, and get some stability in my life
4) Being around beaches for much of the year, I wore bikinis. A lot.

So Far this Year:
1) Life is about chocolate, literature, and escaping Hong Kong
2) I spend most of my days dreaming about where I could go in the future - Russia and Uganda currently top the list
3) I am as single as I was when I was 6 years old
4) I am trying to start work as a writer, after thinking about doing this since I was 6 years old

Yesterday:
1) I went into work, and the loathed the very core of everybody related to the office
2) I coughed and wheezed my way through a friend's 30th birthday, and ate far too much carrot cake
3) I cooked gnocchi for the first time ever
4) I read about Mongolia and Kazakhstan and had wonderful dreams

Today:
1) I took the day off work before I killed one of the blighters I have to teach
2) Cleaned the apartment thoroughly for the first time in weeks
3) Held an adorable fluffy black puppy and thought of the day I will have one
4) Panicked because when writing my 'to do' list I ran out of paper


In the next year:
1) I will find a purpose for my existence
2) Go to Africa - ideally Uganda - and, after a year of utter fakeness in HK, rediscover reality
3) Give up on ever finding a guy I can put up with
4) Live life. Because what else is one to do with it.

RantingJane is suspended until further notice.

It seems people are incapable of reading my disclaimer - 'not to be taken seriously' - and I'm fed up with having arguments about what I write here. I write in jest or to pass a dull moment; to entertain or to ponder a point. I don't write to have my words used against me in the future.

Apologies to those of you who took the blog in the spirit with which it was originally intended to be taken. I'll be back here when I've recovered from recent virtual beatings.

So, am I judgemental?

I've used that title principally because I rather like the image of readers around the world spraying their computer screen with cornflakes as they wake up to such a ridiculous, entirely rhetorical, question. Essentially, a somewhat frustrated surveyor of this blog made the slightly irate comment that I was far too judgemental and, well, should learn not to be. I think that was the general suggestion, anyhow - I guess that is what was being implied.

I have no trouble in admitting that on this blog, and I guess in general conversation, I probably come across as the person most ready and eager to pass judgement on my fellow citizens of this idly spinning orb of ours. I see nothing wrong with observing that a girl is sporting a particularly impressive muffin top, if said girl is never going to hear my comment and the person I am sitting with is tipsy enough to find my witticism remotely entertaining. Okay, so it is a joke at the expense of somebody else - but hang on, aren't pretty much all jokes?

Again, I have no qualms about mocking what somebody is wearing: a guy clad in a skin tight pink tshirt is practically asking for a verbal lashing from me. (Come on, since when did I ever look presentable, or indeed endeavour to make myself presentable? I couldn't care less if somebody went past wearing a pink tutu as they rode on the back of an elephant, but what is wrong with making an entirely tongue in cheek comment?) Or if someone attempts to reach above their intellectual capabilities, I see nothing wrong in raising an enquiring eyebrow (in my mind only - unfortunately, this is an action I can't actually carry out; attempting to raise a single eyebrow leaves me looking worried rather than sceptical) or indeed informing them outright that they are a blithering idiot of the highest order, and should be shot at dawn.

Why shouldn't I roll my eyes in despair when a student informs me they've never heard of Dickens or Austen or Hardy? And why shouldn't I mentally slap someone for making remarks born out of ignorance? What is wrong with watching couples go by and making a rapid assessment as to how long a relationship is going to last, when the girl is constantly nagging the guy and the guy has the definitive Roaming Eye?

Of course I am judgemental - it is part of who I am, making snap decisions about people and situations, occasionally based on remarkably little evidence. If someone chooses to take all my comments seriously, I dare to judge that perhaps they don't know me as well as they ought...

I see nothing wrong with being judgemental, because I am my own harshest critic. Nobody can say or think anything derogatory toward me that I wont have already thought of a hundred times over. Physically, trust me, I know my multiple flaws. And no, I don't need them pointing out - if I can live with this nose, I guess you can, too. And mentally, I know my limitations. 'Wisest is he who knows he does not know', and believe me, every single day I have a further epiphany and realise that there is a vast sprawling desert of knowledge waiting for me to meander about on it. I delve online to find the answer to one question, and discover a dozen more. Oh, and yes, I also know my character flaws, such as the fact I am stubborn to a fault. I know that in many ways I am busy idling away my life, I don't need this pointing out to me.

Until a few years ago, it would have been true to say that I am judgemental - in truth, as well as in jest. But I distinctly remember a scene in Romania, a country I visited six years ago. I went with the intention of seeing the world, having reality thrust under my nose, learning for myself rather than from yet another news bulletin that yes, hell really does exist on earth. Standing in a dark and dirty corner of Bucharest was a tiny, much wrinkled old man. He wore a collection of rags held together by scotch tape and faith, and in his hand was clasped a bright green bunch of parsley. I remember this so vividly because the green was etched so clearly against the dull background. The old man, I was informed by my translator, had walked five miles that morning to bring his parsley into the city to sell.

And I still, six years on, have tears forming as I recall this image. He was just living, just trying to get by. Who the hell am I, was what I realised at this point, to pass judgement on anyone? For all the beauty there is in the world - a beauty that I spend my life in constant pursuit of - there is a sharp dose of cruelty and unutterable despair. Everyone is just stumbling along, trying to get through their seventy odd years by some means or other.

Accusing me of meaning all the criticisms I pass on other people is essentially the equivalent of saying I am cold, uncaring and somewhat malicious in my mind-set. I think that is a judgement I shouldn't have to live with.

“We can never judge the lives of others, because each person knows only their own pain and renunciation. It's one thing to feel that you are on the right path, but it's another to think that yours is the only path.” (Paulo Coehlo)

On Burning Man

I was forging an article in my mind a few days ago, something to do with arguing - in a very much tongue in cheek manner - that Burning Man is actually the ultimate feminist experience. Not only are half the art pieces so obviously a statement of the metaphorically castrated male of the twenty-first century (for example, the SWARM project that I know of because of a friend's loose involvement, is a bunch of guys essentially saying, 'Yes, I have enormous balls of steel, and they will pester the hell out of you as you innocently walk by') but the concluding saga of burning the figure of a quite literally de-membered man who stands on top of a spire as proudly phallic as the Washington Monument is the defining gesture of male defeat.

Generally speaking, I actually feel sorry for guys in this day and age: their purpose of centuries has been removed, and they are now only important as a fashion accessory. The more glitzy and glamorous your guy, the better. I am not arguing that endless years of the oppression of women was acceptable either, but this fervent endeavour to prove women are just like men is utterly fruitless and futile. It is a fact which defines this planet of ours: we have men, we have women, and they are fundamentally different - celebrate those differences, rather than try to deny them.

I did my best to keep an open mind about this Burning Man event; I approached google with a vengeance, found videos and blog entries, read from both sides of the story. It certainly means different things to different people - whereas to some it is the opportunity to 'radically self express' themselves, for others it is the chance to have a dangerous cocktail of sex and drugs and loss of inhibitions; I am sure that a few go for the art pieces themselves, enormous structures that in some cases must have cost millions of dollars to produce. I would say it is pretty accurate to say, though, that the vast majority of Burners (as I believe they are known) are desperately unhappy people, searching for some modicum of meaning in their tedious existences. If the purpose of BM is to demonstrate the effects of consumerism and capitalism on individuals, then it does that spectacularly - although not necessarily in the way in which organisers originally intended, I suspect. People are so constrained by their own lives that when they have an opportunity to break free, ridiculous extremes are sought. I suggest that nobody genuinely wants to spend their whole time wandering around half naked, their body speckled liberally with glitter in a suggestive manner, sporting perhaps a dog collar and a bowler hat for good measure. When the consequences of your actions are so limited, people will inevitably push boundaries: it seems everyone is vying to be the most dramatic, the most intense, the most noticed.

The 'energy' people keep speaking of in their videos is the energy of an angry, frustrated people. There was one place where you could go and, to the encouraging shouts of black-clad aggressive-sounding women, beat the living daylights out of your friend. I was supposed to go paintballing a few months ago and the event was called off due to torrential rain: I was inwardly rather glad, because I severely doubted my ability to shoot at someone, even with a paint capsule. Does nobody else see how this brutal stage could get so terribly out of hand? Many years ago, my brother was approached by a total stranger and hit squarely in the face a few times. For those who don't know him: Robin is a tall, broad, and exceptionally powerful individual. He is a mountaineer who is toughened by his experiences; if anybody could look after themselves in a fight, he could. His response? To stand there dumbfounded and watch the other guy laugh before walking away. Aggression is something we don't understand, I guess because we don't have to.

We've been brought up to follow the adage, 'know thyself, accept thyself, be thyself'. It seems that people attending BM are all searching for something, some meaning in their meaningless lives. I suggest that if the event went on for much longer than a week, trouble would break out. Human nature would eventually seep to the surface and the barely disguised anger, self-loathing and confusion would rise brutally to the surface. The effect would be catastrophic. (Try reading either Jose Saramago's 'Blindness' or J G Ballard's 'Super-Cannes' for a look below that violent surface.)

In everything I do, I am myself. I am consistently honest and true to the person I am - by what I wear, the places I go, how I speak with others and moreover what I say to others. I am not suggesting that the world would be a better place populated by Jane-Clones (my word, it would be horrifying), but I do know it woud certainly be happier if everyone figured out who they were and got on with being that person. Everyone has negative experiences and internalises them, becoming affected by others who interrupt their peace: the trick is to move away from such people and separate yourself. I know how difficult this is, and sometimes I fail temporarily, but I refuse to let some weak individual who has sought to destroy me have a lasting effect on my life.

With all my flaws and failings, at least I know that I can stand up and say that yes, I am I. I seriously doubt that something such as BM will help anyone achieve this peaceful status.

Are you who you want to be?

“When we are unable to find tranquility within ourselves, it is useless to seek it elsewhere”. ( François de la Rochefoucauld)

Three borrowed snippets

The following are three snippets that have struck a chord somewhere over the past week. I'll open with a D H Lawrence poem:

Sick

I am sick, because I have given myself away.
I have given myself to the people when they came
so cultured, even bringing little gifts,
so they pecked a shred of my life, and flew off with a croak
of sneaking exultance.
So now I have lost too much, and am sick.

I am trying now to learn never
to give of my life to the dead
never, not the tiniest shred.


From John Keats', 'The Eve of St Agnes':

'As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again'

Thomas Hardy's, 'Far From the Madding Crowd' is a worthy classic, a veritable work of inspired art. I love this section, where the dashing Sergeant Troy proposes to the beautiful Bathsheba Everdene that her charms are in fact injurous to society at large. Excellent concept:

'Ah, well, Miss Everdene, you are - pardon my blunt way - you are rather an injury to our race than otherwise.'

`How - indeed?' she said, opening her eyes.

`O, it is true enough. I may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb (an old country saying, not of much account, but it will do for a rough soldier), and so I will speak my mind, regardless of your pleasure, and without hoping or intending to get your pardon. Why, Miss Everdene, it is in this manner that your good looks may do more harm than good in the world.' The sergeant looked down the mead in critical abstraction. `Probably some one man on an average falls in love with each ordinary woman. She can marry him: he is content, and leads a useful life. Such women as you a hundred men always covet - your eyes will bewitch scores on scores into an unavailing fancy for you - you can only marry one of that many. Out of these say twenty will endeavour to drown the bitterness of despised love in drink; twenty more will mope away their lives without a wish or attempt to make a mark in the world, because they have no ambition apart from their attachment to you; twenty more - the susceptible person myself possibly among them - will be always draggling after you, getting where they may just sec you, doing desperate things. Men are such constant fools! The rest may try to get over their passion with more or less success. But all these men will be saddened. And not only those ninety-nine men, but the ninety-nine women they might have married are saddened with them. There's my tale. That's why I say that a woman so charming as yourself, Miss Everdene, is hardly a blessing to her race.'

On poppies and pausing for thought

I passed a spare hour a few days ago floating on the sea - somewhere I'm to be found with increasing frequency of late - thinking of significant events in my life. I tried to recall something from every year, excluding the first few which I think I can be forgiven for not quite recalling with perfect clarity... As too many memories starting vying for attention I endeavoured to order them into different categories: academic achievements, friends, countries visited, dreams created or shattered or realised.

And at some point, I started thinking of world events from the past twenty-six years. Why is it that those which are so memorable are also those which are so terrible? I can remember exactly where I was when I heard that Princess Diana had been killed; I know every moment of the afternoon where I sat and watched, transfixed, as planes crashed into New York's World Trade Centre. The year of the tsunami, I passed a sombre Christmas in Buenos Aires; a few months previously in Argentina, I know exactly how I lay as I saw the news of the Russian school siege. I remember thinking how lucky my brother was, hidden away somewhere in the mountains of Kazakhstan, no contact with the outside world and one of the few who was fortunate enough not to know of the horrors unfolding.

This evening, I watched the final episodes of the 'Celebrity Apprentice'. In my defence, I'd like to say that the DVDs were bought for me by a friend in China who acquired them at barely existent prices for my occasional amusement as a source of mockery. Piers Morgan was trying - and succeeding impressively well - to earn money for the Intrepid Fallen Heroes Fund , money going to wounded American servicemen and women to assist with their rehabilitation. I was reminded of the time when I sat up into the early hours of the morning to watch George Bush officially declare war on Iraq, and I was reminded of all the times I've made slick comments and ribald remarks about the politicians who allowed this war to take place. And I have to say, I feel thoroughly ashamed of myself this evening. I sat in Houston Airport a few years ago, watching wives saying goodbye to their husbands who they may never have the chance to see again, guys who might never see their children grow up, may never have the opportunity to be a father. I've never really had a father, not in the traditional sense of the word anyway, and it isn't something I could wish on any child.

I guess the concept of, 'Support Our Troops' finally hit home. If someone is out there being shot at from all angles in the name of Freedom - however tenuous that definition may be - then one of the last things they need is people voicing pious opinions about their presence in the occupied country.

On 11th November this year, I will be in Hong Kong. And at 11am on that day, regardless of what those about me are doing, I will pause in my tracks and think for two minutes of the millions of people who have given their lives in the last century. They make you do this in schools in England, standing upright with a paper poppy fastened loosely with a safety pin onto your uniform, no particular explanations offered as to why this requirement exists.

No, I don't agree with the principles the war in Iraq is being fought on - not now. I did to some extent when they first invaded, the concept of liberating the Iraqi people. But since then I've changed those ideas and disagree with the person I was six years ago. As long as somebody is out there, putting their life on the line because it is their job, risking themselves so that I can exist in a world with a slightly less skewed version of Freedom operating, I think I'll support them. And I suppose that, after all, teaching upper class brats isn't so very terrible a task.

'If we let people see that kind of thing, there would never again be any war.' ~Pentagon official explaining why the U.S. military censored graphic footage from the Gulf War.

Recalling Hong Kong

Whenever I eat chanterelle mushrooms, I'm reminded of wandering around a forest in Sweden, searching for the curled orange umbrellas perched on their delicate stalks. There's a certain combination of paint and methylated spirits that casts me back to the river on which I learned to row up in Lancaster; at six in the morning in the middle of a dark winter, we always knew when we were nearing the end of our stretch by the pungent aromas forcing themselves to the back of our throats as we passed by the factory. Considering most of my diet in Cuba consisted of salted plantano chips, my mind wanders back there whenever these appear in my world; tequila sees me on a beach in Mexico, and a particular piece of music whisks me to a club in Buenos Aires drunkenly whirling the night away with a delectable porteno.

I was wondering the other day what would remind me of Hong Kong when I left, or indeed what memories I'll take with me - how I'll remember the city. I guess whenever I see one of those movies that starts off with the camera zooming around city skyscrapers heading towards people beetling off to work in all directions I'll be reminded of walking through the IFC mall early in the morning: the music that plays in each circumstance is one and the same. People walk through the IFC with a jaunty step as if on their way to a movie-set, and indeed in some ways I guess they are.

There are the shops that I daily pass without having a clue what the products are. Neither have I any intention of finding out as the smells emitting from these establishments are toe-curling in their hideousness; strips of dried meat and fish hang stiffly above plastic buckets of alien fruits, dehydrated out of all recognition.

The slightly surreal evenings when I floated calmly on the surface of a luke-warm sea, counting the stars that dotted the sky above a gently glowing power-station - paying particular attention, of course, to the manner in which the staircase wends it way around the building in a curve particularly interesting to those of us who are mathematically minded... And I'll remember walking home up a dark path, leaping three feet in the air every time a leaf rustles beside me as I anticipate a python the size of a tree trunk whipping out to swallow me whole. And I haven't forgotten the evening I plunged headlong into the water, such niceties as bikinis forgone.

Many of my memories are related to the sea. My first sea-rowing experiences, my first outrigging attempts - being tipped unceremoniously into the water as I leaned out too far... Dragonboating while wearing a tshirt so pink it dyed my body for days after. Hundreds of hours spent sitting on ferries followed by the mad stampede to get off them, a stampede that is imitated on all forms of public transport here but unfortunately not emulated on the pavements: people here have developed the art of walking slowly and taking up an entire pavement, however diminutive they may be.

I guess I'll just remember Hong Kong as being the city I never intended on visiting, let alone living in, and how my Lamma retreat helped me survive the unmitigated, frenetic chaos of Central. I came here looking for stability and security and instead found my freedom curtailed, my character restrained, my mind stultified at times. I leave here at the end of November and I can honestly say that I'll have few regrets about abandoning the city that will have been my home for a year. There is too wide a world out there with too many permutations and variations for me to restrict myself to being in one place for such a duration.

'Any existence deprived of freedom is a kind of death'. Oh, how true. I'll have a plethora of memories to be fondly recalled by the time I leave Hong Kong, a moment that will reaffirm my presence on this idly spinning planet of ours. I'm looking forward to feeling alive once more.

Current annoyances (by no means an exhaustive list)

Of late, I haven't had the inclination to blog - my thoughts have been tied up elsewhere on somewhat more pressing matters. I regularly meander along the chaotic streets here or sit through yet another ferry journey into work while pondering what I could be writing on here, and indeed have written some fantastic posts. Computer geeks of the world, unite: make something that transfers my thoughts to a computer screen.

Perhaps I'll get a dictaphone. Awesome.

A pet hate of the moment? Umbrellas. I now have a monthly budget set aside for umbrellas, and I jest not. What with ridiculously high levels of humidity over here it is unreasonable to consider wearing a waterproof coat to fend off the elements and thus an umbrella is the only truly viable option; unfortunately, the majority of umbrellas are not built to withstand the forces of nature that are present in HK at this time of year. Specifically, the Rainy Season. In addition to the regular destruction of my umbrellas, I have to deal with the idiots who march along with their stadium-size brolly with an evil sharp point at one end, held parallel to the pavement and thus at a perfect height to jab me firmly in the shins. An Umbrella Proficiency Course needs to be created.

Next? Oh, which to choose? How about the fact that I have a Masters degree from one of the more prestigious universities in the world, a degree I gained by - essentially - a careful and impeccable analysis of words. Meanings, sentence structures, words omitted, words overlooked, pauses, punctuation, the whole works. I could write a dissertation based around a single postcard. It frustrates me that, despite knowing this, some people try and have their way with me by means of artful playing around with semantics. A gentle word of warning: underestimate me at your peril.

Weather. Perhaps this should have slotted in after Umbrellas, but I trust that nobody reading this is going to dare to question my judgement. Continuous rain is unutterably depressing, and we've had a good deal of it recently out here. HK even has a warning system for when the rain becomes particularly dramatic - a few weeks ago, I experienced the worst rains in the city since records began. 'Black rain', as it is referred to on the warning system, equates to time off work as it is deemed too dangerous to be outside. There comes a point, however, when walking up a hill as drenched as a person can get, that the frustration with the rain suddenly dissipates and is replaced with, for me at least, a strange sense of belonging. Every part of you has become so involved in the very business of being alive that eventually a part of my brain kicks back into action. I do some of my best thinking after prolonged periods of miserable weather- well, after I've climbed out of the initial pit of depression that it invariably induces.

It shouldn't be classified as an 'annoyance', but still: the endless knifings I keep reading about. I just glanced at the BBC website between typing paragraphs and note that a man has stormed into a police station in Shanghai and stabbed to death at least five officers. Dear God. Somewhat illogically, there is something much less brutal about murdering someone with a gunshot; at least this method is (or can be) mercifully fast and painless. Stabbing, cutting somebody's throat, repeatedly thrusting a knife into another human being - where does such anger and hatred come from? (That was entirely rhetorical, I obviously have just a few opinions on that topic.)

Yes, some people have accomplished incredible things - en masse, the human race has evolved impressively, dramatically, seemingly impossibly at times. And yet, while some leap on with technological and medical advances, others are left behind, the pawns in an elaborate game of chess played by people with ideals and theorems; people armed with a veritable mountain of statistics and data but no concept of understanding human nature. Students are constantly asking me why we bother to read some of the texts we do - why read Sophocles and Shakespeare and Hardy and Woolf? Surely they are redundant today? I tell them that one damn good reason is that we can see as we read that humans have, fundamentally, remained unchanged for centuries. Isn't that both fascinating and terrifying? We are still jealous and envious, bitter and greedy, cruel and unkind: it somehow seems irrelevant that I can write something on a computer in Hong Kong and transmit it to the entire world when such basic problems remain unsolved.

The man who created the atomic bomb petitioned to the US government to not use it: he realised the evil he had unleashed on the world. With great power comes great responsibility, and I just wish a few more people understood that concept and worked with it. Here's to hoping Barack Obama means at least half of what he says.

"Science has made us Gods even before we are worthy of being men." (Jean Rostand)

On Questions and Answers

I like to regard myself as an inquisitive sort of soul (which is generally perceived, possibly accurately, as a polite term for 'nosy'), and have a tendency to annoy people regularly by asking one question too many. The problem is, in an ideal world I would know everything about everything. I'm always interested to meet people who know about stuff that I don't, and like squeezing as much comprehensible information out of them as possible, but on the same note I don't like coming across as a total idiot for knowing nothing at all about a topic... I think up until now I've probably developed a fairly broad spectrum of 'interests' and need to focus in on a few.

Maybe this is a reason I've enjoyed literature at university: there is no definite answer, the more information you have on a subject the more valid your answer - this is certainly true - but ultimately, there is no right or wrong. I say that loosely because, to quote an email I sent the other day despairing the sheer stupidity of a fellow tutor, 'Anyone who thinks Keats wrote 'Autumn' to talk about Autumn is an idiot.' I enjoy the concept of an unanswerable question, one which can potentially be discussed over the period of weeks... months... resurrected years down the line with yet more angles to be peered at inquisitively, assessed, and rejected or accepted.

Questions with a precise answer are so enclosed. A door slams each time such a question is posed and responded to: the knowledge acquired can perhaps be reprocessed and used in multiple situations, but there is no delightful uncertainty or ambiguity - no potential, regrettably, for endless arguments. Four plus four is always going to equal eight, and once knowing this life moves swiftly on. But the answer to, what is the meaning of life? It has perplexed people for centuries and as yet no answer that satisfies all has been obtained. I love that scientists and philosophers are busy easing apart the same problem.

I had to ask a question today that makes even the strongest of us quake. While seeing a stupidly expensive doctor for extreme stomach-related issues that have lasted for the best part of a month now, I thought I'd make good use of the consultancy fee and bring up everything that could be discussed. And so I braced myself, swallowed the sharply quivering lump in my throat, and asked her to look at the freckles on my back. I've been given - or they've been given, whatever way it works - the All Clear, but that is one seriously scary question to have to ask, boiling down to, 'So, do I have cancer?' That is one hell of a leveller: go to a cancer ward, and you'll see people from all backgrounds sitting, waiting, an equally terrified and confused expression on their face. But ultimately, those are questions that have to be asked - and with the answer, you know where you stand. Life proceeds one way or another.

Right now, I have one of those impossible situations where I have questions to ask that I don't think I want to hear the answers to. And whatever the answers, they won't help me step this way or that. Sometimes, questions are perhaps best left unasked because one version of the answer could be too difficult to deal with - sometimes, ignorance can indeed be bliss. If a somewhat unsatisfactory version of bliss, I suppose. I guess in this instance I don't even need to ask the questions as somewhere inside I do know the answers: the writing is on the wall, it is whether I choose to read it or not.

"I am against religion because it teaches us to be satisfied with not understanding the world." (Richard Dawkins)

Coming Home...

'HongKongJane' just isn't doing it for me - there is no sense of permanency to that title...

And so, my blogging duties are being transferred back to the reinstated RantingJane. A resoundingly cheerful Hola! to all those following me across from HongKongJane, and a friendly Welcome Home to those returning to this site. Pull up a comfortable chair, dim the lights a little, put the feet up by the fireside - perhaps acquire a suitably fluffy dog to pat in absent minded fashion from time to time - and settle down for a return to serious ranting.