In The Sack... Out The Sack. Tiddley Pom.

All geek radars must be switched off, before you read.

This lunchtime, I spent an enjoyable hour in Cotswold Outdoors with my father, browsing through the books and clothes, and gear, and, specifically, looking for my surrogate-closet for the duration of my trip. My rucksack. With the help of Mr. Luggage, the store’s rucksack/ travel pack expert, and a 15k weighting system, I’ve been paired up with the 65l destined to contain my life. The Macpac Esprit. A sack sturdy enough to withstand being slung onto a bus roof with little care, to travel in the dust storms alongside folk who couldn't fit inside; sturdy enough, in fact, to take whatever abuse I care to dole out in 3 years on the road. And comfortable enough to brave the Annapurna with full load if I so choose.

So now, obviously, I’m going to have to spend a happy evening stuffing items inside it, to see how much it holds.

Brilliant, huh?

The Spirals, They Move Downwards.

The more I do, the more I see. Things are, for the most part, fundamentally clean now. Most of you won't fully understand what that means. It's level on the scale with World Peace. Seriously. But, now that 5 years of crap has gone, the furniture and walls are visable, and, well, everything that once gleamed is now that tacky grey that you get when people leave their greasy dust deposits with their touch. Everything. It's ruining my sparkling glory, and despite the Ressurection Of Deity unbelievability of tidiness, I cannot revel in it whilst my word is tarnished.

Someone help me, please!

Won't You Help Me Break This Thing?

I want to write. That’s an understatement. Metallic desire bubbles through my veins, the inspiration burners jammed on ‘high’. Every ounce of me is yearning for the words to be released. Trouble is, I only have 3 days to finish Project House, and I can’t allow this one to rest as incomplete. One The Parents have returned, I will get nothing done without a barrage of belittlement and guilt-trips.

Simple, right? Complete Project House and reign in The Urge until the building shines. And once They return, take coffee and food, barricade oneself into a space empty of distraction, and cut the chains of inspiration.

But what if I told you that my willpower is weakened by a lack of sleep and too many waking nightmares involving other people’s laundry, parent dust, and the Giant Green Slugs I share my house with. What if I told you that I cannot prevent my fingers from tapping at the keyboard and setting stories free, but that with every letter comes an onslaught of guilt and a desire to clean instead, so that after 10 minutes I am reeling away from my PC. But then, as I tidy, my mind stretched towards the tales left untold, and neither can I clean. It’s a vicious cycle, and I can’t seem to get out of it.

This Girl's Got Issues - Let Them Be.

For years I’ve hated birthdays with a passion far exceeding that of those approaching some socially-directed milestone. Everyone around me knows it, and up to now they have respected this, albeit with reluctance.

What they don’t seem to understand though, is that, said milestone approaching does not eradicate this loathing. This year is no exception; I don’t want to know. I don’t want expensive things, and I sure as hell don’t want a party – so stop fucking asking (!), I don’t want a ‘celebratory dinner’ or a ‘drink or two’ with friends. I don’t even want a cake. I hate the fuss – it just makes me uncomfortable. What I really, really want, is for the day to go unnoticed. Completely. This means no birthday-song awakenings, no gift-unwrapping rituals, not even a verbal congratulation. Please, guys, leave it alone.

It’s not the aging thing, getting older’s not an issue. And I’m sure 21 is as pleasant an age as any other. In fact, it means that when I visit friends and family in the good ole USA, I can occupy liquor stores, bars, clubs, and the haven of Oneida, completely legally, and I won’t have to fabricate at all. Hooray!

It’s simply that events surrounding my birthday have a tendency to suffer some acidic curse, and on the rare occasions that they don’t, there’s always going be residual horror overcastting any joy. So, if you do plan anything, it’ll either go horribly wrong, or my heart won’t be in it anyway, so your efforts are completely wasted.

Besides, They paint a picture of 21 as the quintessence of ecstasy and irresponsibility. It’s just so not me. I’m way too young for it, and yet, akin to this, I’m far too old.

So, let it float by, unassuming as any other day. And, if you must do something, lets go out, on any other day. It’ll be fun. But for Deity’s sake, don’t mention the B word.

There's a Screw Loose Somewhere.

My Body clock's all screwy. I wake up at a civilised hour, say 8 o'clock. I can't get back to sleep, but am completely exhausted and can do nothing but stare into space or eat, until by 3-ish, as I start to feel really fat and lazy, I suddenly spring to life and become a productive whirlwind. And I can't snap out of it until maybe 3am, if I'm lucky. So, then I crash, and it begins again.

My Mother - Weather Woman

Last night, at 11:20, my Mother called, informing us of Their arrival at The House in Ardaneaskan. Fine. At 11:46, the following was left on the answerphone:

"Hi, it's me. We're here. It's eleven thirty." Pause. " It's only just got dark, and it'll probably be light by about 4am. Love you."

What?!? Firstly, you said already. Secondly, if the sun's arising bothers you ('coz it sure as fuck doesn't bother me here in the Southern Reigions. I don't care. Honestly.), close the sodding curtains!!!

Look around you, People!

Why is it, that every little thing intrigues you when you are away from home, yet you never see things when you’re on your own ground?

Out There, with everything coated in gleaming cellophane newness, you feel just like a child, carefully unwrapping the papers from the Gift of Life. Every little thing fills you with wonder. Each bed, or public loo, or grocers store is an adventure to be broached, even the most basic bite of food a symphony of angels on your tongue, each sight of nature the finding of the century, and every person that you meet a puzzle to be to be reckoned with, or a potential ally.

But here, you do not notice anything which might enrich you in similar ways. Instead, you burrow deep into some private self, denying access to the world’s infections. The world jogs by, muted and in grey-scale. You do not see the marvel in the buttery potato or exquisite cauliflower florette, The fields at arms length from your home seem inaccessible, a mere postcard of existence, as you rush through your routine, yet if you were there instead of here, you’d surely go out of your way to walk through each of them. And you'd revel in this newfound thing that you just don’t get at home.

So, I urge you all to set it aside, for an hour, or half, or if you can spare it, a day. Heck, a moment in your day will do. Look up from your desk, or glance across the street, or put yourself out there in amongst the trees, or fields of rapeseed yellow as a pre-school sun. Inhale your atmosphere; the scent and taste of it. Think about the food you eat, its grain and flavour, the weight of it as you chew. Take a moment to watch those all around you, what they wear and how they interact with their surroundings. Whatever, just really notice things in your domain, as though you’d never seen the place before.

And, in that time-honoured tourist way, think on your discovery, and what it tells you, wordlessly, about your world.

Your mission, if you should accept it:

Over the next 2 weeks, I'm gonna kick this horrid place back into shape: specifically, washing, scrubbing, sanding, waxing, building shelving, moving pianos,painting, and installing lighting and a host of useful keep-it-neat components. Of course, in this house just the cleaning part is 80% of the job. If you never hear from me again, you'll know I'm laying face down in a pool of floor-wax, having asphyxiated on the fumes, or I'm burried under crumbled plaster.

Um, yes: The reason for this post is simply this - I need a 2-week cleaning/fixing soundtrack! Any suggestions, please?

Multifaceted Obsession

On the bus to Ikea today (domestic waves of Genius are in the making here!) the almost banal thoughts of travel crept upon me. I really do love public transport; I even enjoy the waiting part, and traffic never bothers me. So, sitting on the top deck, I lounged in the back-of-bus breeze and watched the fields roll by in true English Summer glory – the stuff of childhood Middle-Earthen dreams, of baked school breaks, of strawberries and elderflowers and flasks of ginger beer. Gulping at my Cherry coke, the fresh-mixed cola syrups of the States flashed across my mind, truck-stop meals and vending machine breaks as clear as on road-trip day itself. For hours with every trip, I soared along the highway in the best of company. And always, even amidst the worst of times, the world intrinsically was right. Right there, on the 219 through Gildersome, I longed to travel back to that again; rolling each journey into one, so I could be with everyone again.

With typical impulsive thought as we rounded a corner, my beverage pulled me to another, separate thought, to the upstream Express Boat journey in Sarawak last year. A full day’s travel in a sort of floating, wingless plane, filled with those for whom, like me, it was a novel way to move, even though it was their own domain. The sun beat through our mini-windows and radiated from the metal walls, and although I longed to join the men up on the roof, I soon sank into prodigious bliss. It didn’t take long for the novelty of 10 farangs upon the boat to disappear, and the on-screen boxing match, or long-unseen relations’ tales to take precedence over this small invasion. Fading into comfortable imperceptibility, I swept from a conversation with my crew to a slightly comical exchange with a man of 50 (at a guess) sitting across the aisle. From introduction onwards, we waded through English, with whatever little Malay I could muster from my cowards memory, or find within my phrasebook before the moment passed. It took quite a lot of gestures, patient pauses, and much to the boat’s amusement, the help of a the gentleman’s companions, one of similar age, and a boy of 4 or 5. The man returned home after 9 months in the city, bringing back a prize worth more than the wages he’d sent back; a refrigerator and a crate of stout - further up the river, several such crates were hauled, without a passenger onto docking bays of other homes, for the express served also as carriage for important goods. At one stop, a crate slipped from the hands of the crew, and for one horrific moment, as the Express passengers watched and shouted, and the young man at the bay froze in shock, his long-awaited beer floated back from whence it came. Redemption sprang from a quick thinking man upon the roof, yanking a heavy switch from an overhanging tree, lunging clumsily towards the box, and by pure chance, catching the hole atop it, then dragging on it with just enough force to stay the current’s persuasive pull whilst the crew dashed in and hauled it out, applauded by spectators gripped by said events – and a warm reception awaited him, a 3 day party, for in his absence, a baby boy was born unto his eldest sister. This small exchange, along with obligatory sentences of my home (no, I didn’t live with my family, and no, I was not married), where the group was travelling, and how much I loved his homeland, took the best part of half an hour. I twisted in my seat to introduce him to H, but she was deep in slumber, and by the time she awoke, he had gone.

As we stopped at the final town along the way, switching our luggage from one Express to another, going our way, I was steeped in contentment. I know it was only surface conversation, but at the time, it was so real, so big. And as my companions stretched and groaned, flustered from their stationary state, I felt more alive and rested than I’d felt forever. And I knew, right then that I had to do it properly, to travel, using every means I can, to meet a thousand people and to know them as friends, to get lost in other cultures – really lost – emerging in a different place, perhaps no longer me.

Far more excited than I have the right to be.

Distracting myself from the delectable form of Jennifer Garner as Agent Bristow, I started browsing Lonely Planet pages.

I get the feeling from everyone I speak to, that talk of local’s hospitality should instil deep-seated fear as a solo female traveller, but it merely sets my digits on fire with longing to discover it. Can you imagine anyone here opening their doors as they see a stranger passing by, and welcoming them in to share a brew, a meal, a tale or two? Honestly?

Then, as the topic melded into that of local foods, my tongue began to dance.

In Syria “Arabic unleavened bread, or khoobz Arabi, is eaten with almost everything. The other staples are felafel, deep-fried chickpea balls; shwarma, spit-cooked sliced lamb; and foul, a paste of fava beans, garlic and lemon. Mensaf is a Bedouin speciality - a whole lamb, head included, on a bed of rice and pine nuts.” I don’t know why Mensaf doesn’t scare me, as a vegetarian it should, in light of rules of hospitality, for I know I’ll be unable to refuse at some point. But since I’ve resolved to do the whole Spider thing, I might as well go the whole hog (or, um, sheep), right? (Please, please understand that this does not mean I’ll be rushing for a big-mac, or trekking to the butchers, it simply means that for complete, positive, inoffensive experiences, I’m gonna have to swallow my principles, gristle and all).

A noiseless life, a sheltered life.

I can't imagine what it will be like to spend 3 years without my music; the constant soundtrack of my life.

I can't imagine not having latin jazz to propell me through the pavements of a city strange and new; not peaking that mountain at sunrise with the songs of Middle Earth to share my awe; not having Pink or Aerosmith or Simple Plan to slide the travel hours along like silk.

And nothing to sheild me at will, to alter my thoughts or cloud my view and hide the things I do not want to know.

To be frank, I'm dreading it. But I know how much I'd miss with my audio-blankie at my side.

For starters, I'd skim past it all completely unaware. I would hear nothing of the local life in which I was submerged; no street musicians, or the sounds of childrens' play, or desperate cries from living hell. The waves, the rain, the slapping of produce to slabs at the live market, would all be lost forever. And caught in the current of the familiar Western Me, I'd see and taste and smell selectively as well.

And the people Out There - potential allies in my quest - will never have such wealth. So, although with speakers I could share my world with them, it can only build a shiny techno-barrier of class, or wealth, or race; a negativity I do not want to fight against, for it holds no meaning in my mind.

It'd be one more thing to fuss over; to break, or lose, or for someone else to find. And I'd have to replace it on return, costing hours as well as cash.

So, I guess it's something I just have to live without. In its place, only local noise and self-made Irish tunes. Just for the record though - it sucks.

Freedom Has A Price.

So, I'm finally free from the clutches of U.B.U and it feels great; I don't miss it at all!

Ok, so that's not quite accurate. I've been officially unchained for a total of 36 minutes, and I hate it. I feel like I've lost a limb; like a huge slab of flesh has been severed from my body. My brain hurts from my almost-tearful state, and I already miss people insanely, despite assurances from everyone of contact.

Everything is suddenly - somehow unexpectedly - unnervingly uncertain. And yes, I know the uncertain's what I seek, but not here; not at home. Home should be a cetain, solid place, filled with the familiar; a stationary unchanging state providing the foundations for my private revolutions.

And now, now that work as a solid entity has gone from this ideal, now I'm all alone in a world I do not know at all.