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.

The Grand Finale - ?

Have been thinking about this one for a while now, and have finally reached a decision. I think it is time to end RantingJane, and indeed all interaction I have with the Blogging World generally. I started this at a point when everything was very undecided as regards my future and felt like attaching myself to a new version of 'reality' for a while - the blog has had the added bonus that I've been able to keep in touch with people without the need for those ghastly group emails. I considered the suggestion of a 'blogliday' ['Hovis', you created an awesome word today] but no, I need to make a clean break.

So there we go. HOWEVER... I will allow my readers to decide the fate of RantingJane. If I receive enough comments or emails that suggest you actually read the damn thing and it brightens up the occasional seriously dull day, I'll consider popping back from time to time for the odd rant.

To end, I thought I'd mention a few things that I've been thinking about recently, or have observed generally.
- did you know lemon trees had thorns? Well, dammit, they do. Cursedly painful ones they are as well. Ow.
- the other day, I saw somebody wearing what is essentially a tanktop with a hood. Who the hell designed this? Why? Was it a joke that was taken seriously?
- compulsory reading for everyone should include: 'Fear of Freedom' by Fromm, 'Super-Cannes' by J G Ballard, 'Lady Chatterley's Lover' by D H Lawrence, 'Journey by Moonlight' by Antal Szerb, and, of course, 'Hamlet' by - and if you don't know you should really just go and kill yourself now, you are worthless - Shakespeare. And when I say 'read', I mean read. Not this passive skimming of words that so many have replaced reading with. Read, understand, appreciate, learn, change.
- why do I eat so much chocolate when it always makes me ill?
- in the immortal words of Yosser Hughes, 'gi'us a job'.

Well - thank you all for reading. Hopefully this has offered a flicker of amusement on occasion. If any of you ever feel in need of a good rant, I'm available for personal visits and will complain about any subject you name - in exchange for a few shots of vodka and a Snickers. What a bargain.

Cold Feet

I spent some time - too much time - this afternoon ambling around the internet, following links from this to that, and somehow stumbled across the following information. In the UK, the average age of a female marrying (for the first time) is 28years. And a frankly staggering 30% of those are under the age of 25. An article in the New York Times identified - I think aimed at women - how to become a family of three (i.e. husband and whippersnapper) in a mere two years. Which does at least suggest it is possible for someone as unutterably single as myself to target and obtain appropriate bloke before I hit that 'average' age (and how tedious to be part of the 'average', I feel...). Mind you, I couldn't be bothered to read the article in detail enough to establish whether the pointers were directed specifically toward New Yorkers.

I also read somewhere or other about how some chick is fed up with her male friends being married off. Dammit, I agree wholeheartedly on that front. In the last two years, I have 'lost' three good friends in this way (and according to statistics on men and average marrying age, I don't think that should be happening just yet). And frankly, I may as well write-off to some degree the guys who I used to hang out with who are now in 'committed' (a word that makes half the world cringe as they read it) relationships. (Good God, this post is getting an awful lot of brackets in it. Ah well).

One of my female friends has recently gotten so tired of bashing her head against a brick wall that she has opted for one of these dating websites. Have yet to make a firm decision one way or the other about these, but generally, I think I'd go bright red for the rest of eternity if I had to answer the question, 'so, how did you guys meet then?' by saying, 'um, yeah, online.' It is depressing. [Disclaimer at this point: these are views pertaining to ME personally, before one reader in particular goes and gets offended, i.e. friend who recently signed up to the dating site]. To me, it is an admission that I'm so socially inept and so utterly hidden away from the rest of the world that the only place I can meet people is on a virtual plane. Furthermore, it is an admission that I am so cursedly unattractive that I couldn't even get a guy by luring him in that way. There are no two ways about it: the unattractive people of the world have twice as much work to do as the attractive ones. And frankly, getting to the point where I have to meet people online is the equivalent of saying I'm so ghastly that nobody can bear speak to me except via a series of pixels.

The world of the singleton is gradually becoming a less appealing place to be in. The longer you are at this stage, the less likely you are to find someone who is classifiable as a 'catch' (either by your definition or anybody else's), because people are constantly going over to The Other Side. It used to be great: I had guaranteed 'thump monkeys'; people around to proffer hugs when necessary; guys to go places with when you needed a guy. Now, they're all depressingly unavailable - off leading other lives with other people. Occasionally, it crosses my mind to head back to Argentina - but even my 'friends' out there are busy pairing off. My God, before I know it, I'm going to be one of those women who hangs around in bars wearing way too much lipstick and leering at every man in sight. Or even worse, getting battered out of my brains and informing complete strangers that, wow, I love them! yes! really! Hmm.

See, for example, my feet have been numb all day. We're talking ten hours of not being able to feel my feet. I have on three pairs of socks, and they are sandwiched in between two hot water bottles I'm regularly re-filling. Think I've fairly firmly established that I'm not getting my feet warm by myself. Where the hell is a guy when you need one.

On Global Travel

It is always exciting when you have a new trip abroad planned and you are busy working out the logistics. If you are fortunate enough to be travelling to a country that requires you obtain a visa in advance of entry, then the trip just starts a whole lot earlier as far as I am concerned. The Cuban embassy in London is a tiny, dirty office room (or at least, it was about three years ago when I went there), filled with smiling people who do their best to assist you with the absolutely useless machinery with which they have been provided. I seem to remember a guy 'popping next door' to use a photocopier at one point. And more recently, my chaotic trip to the Indian Embassy in London gave me another 'visa acquirement experience'. Despite arriving only an hour after the doors opened for Trading, the queues snaked throughout the building and out onto the streets. There wasn't any attempt at organisation, and it took four hours of sitting in a large, airless room crammed with people in brightly coloured clothes to get the relevant bits of paper in my passport. The people working there came across as intelligent and organised in their own right, merely battling against the poor equipment and technology they'd been provided with to run the service.
My point is: the embassy office is a part of the country to which you are headed. It offers you a 'sneak preview' as it were to a country. To eradicate all border controls or complex visa issues would be stripping a country of part of it's identity. The surly guards in all American airports - surely they are trained not to smile? - have asked me some of the most ridiculous questions related to my travels. ('You don't have enough luggage for three months, as a woman you would have more than that one bag for three months' being a particularly perceptive comment at Houston airport once). I've obviously never had to go through the application process myself for a visa to the UK, but I have an understanding of what it is like for Peruvians to get a visa. Close to impossible, is the best summary, and with a constant battle against paperwork and complete idiots in the offices. If that doesn't encapsulate a system that operates throughout the UK, I don't know what does.
Essentially, the embassy of a country is regarded as both a sneak preview and a trial. If you can't cope with the office, chances are you're pretty much doomed when you get to the country. I view it as a wonderful addition to my travel plans when I get to head towards a new embassy, and if you are travelling for the only right purpose - to discover and better understand a new culture - you will see it that way too. Furthermore, it is the height of insensitivity for a wealthy (in relative terms) traveller to another country to complain about the 'difficulties' encountered while trying to enter that place. Anyone blessed purely because of their location of birth with a European passport should be damn thankful and not complain about any hoops they are required to jump through in order to travel - at least the hoops are at acceptable, manageable heights. A Peruvian may as well try and get to the moon as America.
(In addition, to the person who this is obviously directed at: don't try and justify arguments when you have no data to back them up. A genuine 'Traveller' relishes the embassy prospect, rather than fights against it. I know. I've met enough).

Prancing On Ice

Which TV station was it that started this theme of repeating everything from Saturday night on Sunday afternoon? 'Dancing on Ice' took up something like three hours of ITV's schedule last night ('dancing' in loosest sense of the word, hence I have re-named it more appropriately), and some muppet has deemed it necessary to hurl this at the unsuspecting public again this afternoon. If they're going to resort to re-runs, I'd really rather it was something worth watching from yester-year, as opposed to yester-day.
My TV is invariably clogged up with celebrities trying out all manner of things - singing, dancing, ice-skating, losing weight, God knows what will be next. Alternatively, it is clogged up with people desperate to become the next celebrity, in the form of 'X Factor' like shows. ITV finally made it through the three months or whatever it is of this particular programme, and has now started bringing us 'American Idol', just incase we don't quite have our fix of People Singing Dreadfully. The whole thing is very tedious.
BBC World Service has a reason for having programmes repeated three times a day - three eight-hour blocks of Listening Pleasure are broadcast each day, with updated news seperating the items. Since this is a worldwide service, I understand the reasoning behind the repeats (for those of you not quite awake, it is so that a person listening in, say, Jamaica, doesn't miss out on programmes that someone listening in New Zealand could hear). Plus, the programmes are decent. I'm almost happy to hear some items twice.
Television, however, seems to have plummetted in terms of Viewing Quality. Not only are soaps far too prominent on all schedules, but so are these cursed reality shows. I have my fingers firmly crossed that Big Brother will be axed forever after the latest debacle. As someone observed to me recently, it is rather disturbing that anyone would want to watch an image of somebody else sleeping in the middle of the night...
My suggestion? Everyone refuse to pay their TV license until we get something decent being broadcast on our television sets. I want decent journalism - and that can be defined as journalism that doesn't necessitate showing us images of Saddam Hussein with a noose around his neck, for a start (a kid who saw that in America actually went and hanged himself from his bunkbed); FUNNY comedy (why is that so much to ask?), and watchable dramas. The last acceptable series the BBC produced was, 'Pride and Prejudice' (I mean, honestly, 'Tipping the Velvet' was just unwatchable and designed to shock rather than please), and frankly, I wish they would repeat that endlessly - particularly the Darcy Emerging From Lake scene - than hurl increasingly pathetic shows at us.
I wonder if I can be cautioned for 'inciting illegal activities' by my suggestion to withhold TV license fee? Who cares. If that happens, I'll sell my story to the 'News of the World', and maybe the ensuing drama would push television in the right direction. What a purpose to serve on this planet - improved TV Viewing for the masses. Ah well, everyone has their part to play...

Life, believe, is not a dream

Following on from yesterday's doomstruck post - which I contemplated removing and then decided, no, dammit, I'll leave it there (for reasons best left to your overactive imaginations) - I thought I'd throw a slightly more positive poem out towards the world. One of Charlotte Bronte's efforts - am undecided as to whether it is trite drivel, or actually a rather fine synopsis of a philosophy. Either way, I like it. Judge for yourselves. (By the by, for those tuning in for a good ol' rant, I promise one in the immediate future. Have much Rant Within to be dispersed somehow, and here is as good a place as any).

LIFE, believe, is not a dream
So dark as sages say;
Oft a little morning rain
Foretells a pleasant day.
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,
But these are transient all;
If the shower will make the roses bloom,
O why lament its fall?
Rapidly, merrily,
Life's sunny hours flit by,
Gratefully, cheerily
Enjoy them as they fly!
What though Death at times steps in,
And calls our Best away?
What though sorrow seems to win,
O'er hope, a heavy sway?
Yet Hope again elastic springs,
Unconquered, though she fell;
Still buoyant are her golden wings,
Still strong to bear us well.
Manfully, fearlessly,
The day of trial bear,
For gloriously, victoriously,
Can courage quell despair!

On the Brink

I feel today - as I so frequently feel - that I am perched on a ridge. I balance precariously on the ridge that seperates sanity from insanity - and I feel that I can look down and see either option available to me. From my standpoint, the world of the insane seems so peaceful, so much less exhausting than the manic, impossibly fast pace of the world that the sane inhabit. I dare not enter one, and I cannot enter the other. It is a perpetual purgatory: unknowing, inescapable, and isolating. Solace comes in finding others who know what it is to be perched on this ridge - I have spent my time in pursuit of such a person 'in the flesh', as it were, rather than hidden behind the words on the pages of my books. In all of his books, Thomas Hardy shows that he knew; in, 'The Ballad of Reading Gaol', Oscar Wilde shows that he knew. Sartre knew; Rimbaud knew; Emily Dickinson, Charlotte Bronte, Coleridge - they all knew.
To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wildflower:
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.
There - William Blake knew as well. But what is the use of all these dead people knowing and understanding? Of having shared my agonies? And no - that isn't too strong a word. Unless you know what it is like to be terrified of living in this world of other peoples' making, you aren't in a position to judge my terminology. Right now, I want so badly to give in to my version of sanity - the world's version of insanity. Why, for the sake of those around me, don't I? Living has become a constant battle, a submission, a suppression of myself.
Why am I writing this? Because I am at the point where I desperately need to find someone who understands. Not somebody who brushes this aside with the view that, 'everyone feels like that sometimes, yeah, you just, like, DEAL'. If just one person could say to me - okay, you view the world differently to me, and I cannot wholly understand your view, but neither will I invalidate it. That they accept this isn't some drawn-out teenage anxst; some cynical idealism; some image being created.
What is the purpose of my blog? I was asked that earlier today - pertinent question indeed. Frequently, to mock the world, to laugh at it, something that you find amusing cannot surely be as terrifying or inhospitable. Occasionally, through a poem I've chosen or an entry I've written, I've attempted to convey - perhaps unsuccessfully - that it is not cynicism that dictates my ideas. And today, I've tried to show you something else, another aspect. I know what any reader's reaction will be, with phrases such as 'attention-seeker', 'dramatist' and 'ego-trip' springing into minds globally as you have read this. Frankly, if you want to think that, you go for it. You're wrong. I've given you the option to understand and if you choose not to take it, then that says more about your relationship with the 'real world' than it does mine. In a few days, I'll produce another Rant about something - food packaging, game-playing, my perpetual computer-related torments - and everything, for you at least, will be Back To Normal. Consider yourselves lucky you can walk away from the brink this post directed you towards - because I don't have that option.

One cannot be deeply responsive to the world without being saddened very often. (Erich Fromm).

50 Ways to Look Good Naked

I am (unreliably) informed there was a TV programme airing recently with this rather instructional title. Fairly sure I saw a version of it a year ago or thereabouts, doubtless while avoiding some essay or other, and have decided in my moderately tipsy state to post my views on the subject. A brief reflection first of what I recall from the episode I saw - which involved finding a fairly hefty wench, convincing her by means of Scary Pants and vast quantities of make up that she really wasn't quite so hideous to behold after all, and taking a photo of her that notably excluded the lardier portions of her anatomy. This photo was then projected onto some London skyscraper or other, and men dragged off the street to inform the delighted lass that, 'yes, she looks good naked'. I think the gun in their back and the fifty quid being waved at them by the director probably had some influence. As a result of this TV programme, the UK is doubtless littered with men being terrified by their female friends lumbering around the bedroom in all too non-existent negligees, shaking their booty, and threatening all sorts of things involving whipped cream and handcuffs. Shudder.
Anyhow - here is my brief and highly effective guide to Lookin' Good Naked.
Men - you just can't. Although obviously being something of an admirer of the toned male physique, most rational females will agree with me when I say that a naked man is a thing of ridicule. Ways around the issue? Leave the boxers on (if you wear y-fronts, sorry, you are beyond help), or alternatively, whisk your other half into the shower where - unless your hair does something really dodgy when wet - you will potentially enter a God-like state. Glistening skin is a Good Thing. And waterfalls are better than showers, if available.
Women - through much trial and error, I have discovered how to take photos that leave out the bad parts and focus on the good parts. Cellulite an issue? Easy: just go to your photo editor programme on the computer, and click the 'chalk and charcoal' option, thus your photo is transformed into waves of shading that will disguise even the dimpliest of dimples. Furthermore, there's a fine line between looking Miserable and looking Sultry - a black and white option generally speaking adapts it appropriately, I find. (B&W also dramatically reduces the appearance of spots, by the by).
Unfortunately, sigh, all men can't go around with watering cans poised above their shirtless bodies, and all women can't present themselves as a black-and-white blurred photo. My only suggestion that bypasses the trials and tribulations of this harsh judgemental world in which we live: leave off seeing the other person in all their 'glory' for long enough for it really not to matter what the hell they look like to the rest of the world. There aren't any tricks or ploys that can be used to make you Look Good Naked - knowing that the person you have fallen for is tearing off your clothes not to ridicule but to learn you by heart should be indication enough that, frankly, you're Pretty Damn Fine.

On the Art of Conversation

I love overhearing snippets of conversation that exist almost entirely of cliches and colloquialisms - 'at the end of the day, when all is said and done, it is for the best.' The art of making language utterly meaningless. But wait, let me check the definition of 'conversation' as provided by the mighty dictionary.com: 'informal interchange of thoughts, information, etc., by spoken words; oral communication between persons; talk; colloquy.' I suppose I could argue that a chat littered with the likes of 'at the end of the day' is a chat that is not grounded in thought, and therefore I can make the statement that such conversations are not really conversations at all.
The dictionary seems pretty firm on the idea that a conversation only takes place when it is a form of 'oral communication'. What, then, is the definition for the exchange of words that takes place on any of the various instant messaging internet systems? All the times I have nattered away on the likes of MSN, that wasn't conversation?
If I could be bothered to google it, I could tell you what is the considered percentage for 'non-verbal communication' when having a face-to-face chat, but for now I'll just acknowledge its existence and furthermore its importance. Probably particularly true in reference to me - I'm apparently incapable of hiding my genuine reaction to anything said. But does the indisputable importance of this non-verbal communcation necessarily negate conversations that take place without it? Of course not. I cite blind people as an example there.
Blind people, however, obviously have the advantage of being able to hear the inflections in a voice that can reveal as much regarding the speaker's opinion as the words they are using. And deaf people have the benefit of being able to see expressions and emphasis that can be placed in the smooth or agitated movements of communicating hands.
I have an answer for everything - of course. So a blind and deaf person cannot have 'conversation'? Is that what you are thinking? I will refer to the most famous example - Helen Keller - in order to continue presenting my case. (And besides, it gives me the opportunity to throw in one of my favourite quotes here: 'The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched. They must be felt within the heart.') More relevant, however, is her point regarding literature, and I think it is safe for me to define literature here as 'the written word'. Keller said that, 'Literature is my Utopia. Here I am not disenfranchised. No barrier of the senses shuts me out from the sweet, gracious discourses of my book friends. They talk to me without embarrassment or awkwardness.'
On this basis, it is arguable that to be able to engage in a chat on instant messenger could be the epitome of conversation. I can discuss subjects with friends that I would feel awkward raising in a face-to-face situation; I can take time to form a response and delete and re-phrase as required; the merits are endless, in fact, and I wont list them all because if you haven't agreed with me so far then I can't see you starting now. The obvious disadvantage, of course, is that words can be misinterpreted - without the visual aid of the raised eyebrow and the slight smile, it is difficult to tell, unless you know a person particularly well, whether or not they are serious with their comments. Now that I think about it, instant messenger is probably ideal for an autistic person, as they are saved the potential awkwardness of not picking up on social and visual cues.
Right now, according to the dictionary.com definition, I'm not getting much 'conversation'. I'd have to argue otherwise. In the first case, I have my books - they present ideas to me, they alter my thoughts and emotions, they make me feel part of a world. And in the second case, thanks to MSN and Skype, I have interactive conversations. Sometimes I can talk about the fact I am eating toast dripping with butter; other times I can catch up with the gossip; maybe I'll discuss my views on using animals in medical experiments. Some are trivial exchanges; others are inspiring. I do know that a part of me is involved in all these conversations, that the words I type are in some way related to me and who I am. They will reflect one of my moods, my feelings at the time. Surely the Art of Conversation is the ability to include a part of yourself, and not merely to exchange the pleasantries society requires.
Maybe my obsession with the perfect arrangement of written words is the real reason I'm arguing the merits of instant messenger 'conversations'. At least I'm not alone, however. I'm in good company. Thoreau seems to think a lot of the written word as well, and I'll let him finish this posting for me. I'm sure if he'd seen the technological age, he'd have allowed me the obvious exchange of 'written' for 'typed' in IM conversations.
'A written word is the choicest of relics. It is something at once more intimate with us and more universal than any other work of art. It is the work of art nearest to life itself.'

To continue your education...

I've just had an amazingly enthusiastic Hard Drive Clean Up - files deleted all over the place, hurled towards the Trash Can merrily. Always very satisfying to know there isn't a load of rubbish clogging up the computer; my justification is that I want to get everything sorted in all aspects of my life before 2007 starts, so I can begin afresh. In reality, I was a touch bored and needed something to do... Anyway, I unearthed another poem that I wrote down when I was in Argentina at some point. They're the lyrics that go with a piece of tango music, and I obviously liked them enough to bother sitting and writing them out. Thought I'd throw them on here in a bid to educate at least one reader out there. I've given the weblink at the end so that those of you who read Spanish can see the far superior original.

Nostalgias – 1936, Cobian and Cadicamo

I want to drown my heart with wine
to extinguish a crazy love
that more than love, is pain…
And that's what I'm here for,
to erase those old kisses
with other lips' kisses.
If her love was short lived,
why is this cruel preoccupation
always living in me?
I want to drink for both of us
to forget this obsession,
but I remember her even more.
The nostalgia
for her laughter,
for feeling her fire-like breath
next to my lips…
The anguish
of being abandoned
and of thinking that soon another will
whisper tender words to her…
Brother,
I don't want the humiliation
of begging, crying,
of telling her I can't live without her.
From my sad solitude
I will see the falling of the lifeless roses
of my youth.

Moan, bandoneon, your sad tango
maybe you also are in pain
for a broken love…
Cry my silly, lonely and
sad soul tonight,
dark, starless night.
If drinks bring relief,
here I am with my sorrow
to drown it at once.
I want to drown my heart with wine
to then make a toast
to my defeated love.

'Nostalgias' in Spanish

Because things are not always as they seem

Jose Marti poem that sums up something for me today. I've put the English translation as well as the Spanish original. Not feeling particularly talkative, so this will have to do for now.


Because your eyes were two flames
And your brooch wasn't pinned right,
I thought you had spent the night
In playing forbidden games.

Because you were vile and devious
Such deadly hatred I bore you:
To see you was to abhor you
So lovely and yet so villainous.

Because a note came to light,
I know now where you had been,
And what you had done unseen —
Cried for me all the long night.


POR TUS OJOS ENCENDIDOS... (Verso XIX)

Por tus ojos encendidos
Y lo mal puesto de un broche,
Pensé que estuviste anoche
Jugando a juegos prohibidos.

Te odié por vil y alevosa:
Te odié con odio de muerte:
Náusea me daba de verte
Tan villana y tan hermosa.

Y por la esquela que vi
Sin saber cómo ni cuándo,
Sé que estuviste llorando
Toda la noche por mí.