A dear friend of mine moved to Mexico City last year; exciting for her and somewhat nerve-wracking for me. Ka hates that I do this, but I check up constantly and send links to travel advisories, crime stats, terrifying news articles about the level of violence in Mexico...I'm glad she's enjoying herself there, of course, but I can't help wishing that she lived somewhere safer.
Like England...or not...Ka popped up on MSN earlier with "So who needs to move somewhere safer?" On Friday, London's West End became impenetrable when police found a pair of DIY bombs--abandoned Mercedes containing gas cylinders, petrol, and nails--rigged to go off as clubs emptied that night. Yesterday, two men attempted to crash a Jeep Cherokee--also primed to explode--into a passenger terminal at Glasgow Airport. Things were already tense, what with 7 July being the two-year anniversary of the London train bombings, but these events tipped the scale: in the language of U.K. terror-alerts, the situation is officially "critical."
I knew all this before Ka's message today, yet for some reason it took me a minute to figure out what she was on about. What's nagging me now is not fear that something might happen, but perplexion that I'm so blasé about it all. Blasé's the wrong word, maybe more...oblivious? Or, to be cynical, jaded?
If I actually stop and think about the entire situation, or even just these most recent events, of course I'm affected. Unless I make a point of doing so, though, it might as well be news about the price of tea in China.
My idealistic side suggests this (non) reaction is just my brain's way of protecting me; I couldn't possibly live and function in this society if I experienced the full range of emotions typically associated with imminent and credible threats of danger, and daily flight-or-fight responses would damage if not destroy me, psychologically and physiologically both. Acknowledgement is impractical.
My realistic side suggests that I don't react because I'm immune. Terror plots, bombs that do detonate, wars and casualties, ideology and hatred...all of these things are as certain as death and taxes. When I lived in Canada the worst terror-level was "red," and it applied to our American neighbours not ourselves. "Critical" vs. "red" is just semantics/semiotics, and my idyllic English village is only a few miles from this ugly neighbour, but is it really any different?
I'm in awe of our ability to adapt, and surprised by how quickly the exceptional becomes the norm. I'm also sad that bombs and terror alerts now constitute that norm, and that a terror plot that's already been foiled doesn't even feel like headline news. I don't think I like where we're headed...
Saturday, 30 June 2007
Thursday, 14 June 2007
From luddite to blogger
Since I've been in England I've changed in lots of ways, one being my comfort level with the virtual world of tech (surely there's a far hipper term for it but cutting-edge cool has never been my claim to fame). In Canada, I resisted getting a cell phone for years...I think what initially put me off them was the expectation that if you had one, people could reach you any time and any place they wanted to. Worse that, that they should reach you any time and any place, regardless of what they were calling about.
I took a senior theatre production class at uni, and getting a cell phone was actually required: when you were running some aspect of a show, people needed to be able to reach you. Fair enough, I figured; it's what would be expected if I held such a position in the "real world," so why not get used to it now. I reckon that in the real world I wouldn't have thrown my phone, screamed at it to shut up and leave me alone, accidentally-on-purpose forgot to charge it or take it with me, and generally cursed it's existence as much as I did whilst I worked on my major show for DRAM445 (though I was stage managing, and so it's very possible that theatre professionals would have driven me equally insane if not more than the folks at school).
I'm sure some of it was the relative novelty factor, this being before everyone had a cell, and more of it was probably legit than my selective memory allows: the tech director confirming the location of the production meeting, or one of the actors letting me know they were running late to rehearsal, for example, probably reduced stress rather than create it. I think the call that best epitomises my time with cell #1, though, is this little treasure:
ME: (barely conscious) uhh...mmm...yeah, hello?
MR.X: (very loud, excessively awake) Aim, how's it goin'? Was the phone off or
something? This is like the third time I've called. Whatcha doin'?
ME: I..uhh..right, you were...uhh...
MR.X: What's wrong with your cell? You sound weird--hey, go stand closer to a window,
maybe that'll fix it. (long pause) Aim? You still there?
ME: Wha...oh, umm yeah, I....uhh...
MR.X: (surprised) Shit, did I wake you up or something? Sorry, Aim, just needed to--
ME: (striving for professionalism) No, of course, what's up?
MR.X: Right, you know daylight savings time? Does it start today?
ME: (thoroughly confused) Does what? What are you talking about X?
MR.X: (playfully) What, are you like hungover or something? WAKE UP!!! Daylight savings
time--is that, like, on now?
ME: (through gritted teeth) Daylight savings time? That's why you're calling me?
MR X: (unwittingly playing the role of 'moron' to a T) Yeah, I mean, I can never remember
what day to change the clocks on 'cos my mom used to always keep track of that stuff and
I just thought you're all organised and stuff so you probably--
ME: (torn between praying for my own death and thinking living through the hangover's
worth it if it will give me a chance to kill X later) Would be a good person to call at nine-o-
fucking clock on Sunday morning to check if you were being an even bigger fuckwad than
you'd realised and actually calling at eight-o-clock instead? Is that it?
MR. X: (somehow genuinely surprised) Oh, uhh...you sound kinda pissed. Umm...well I uh...
y'know, I just though you're, like, the Stage Manager so you'd probably know, so--
A series of beeps as call is ended and cell turned off. A muffled thud as it accidentally
crashes into an area rug rather than the hardwood floor it was thrown at. The
treasured sound of silence; quick fade to black.
Wow, that memory is chillingly clear even these many years later. Reliving it actually tweaked an urge to...I don't know, hurt good old "X." I suppose I'll settle for poking him on Facebook, or maybe he's downloaded SuperPoke and I can dropkick him and throw a sheep instead.
Yes, in addition to a fancy camera/video/mp3/Bluetooth mobile phone (Brits look at me like I'm nuts if I slip and call one a cell) on which I text constantly and talk ocassionally, and old-fashioned forms of communication like MSN messenger and email, I now keep in touch with X et al. via Facebook (hey, some people still don't have Skype, and I can't run it on my work laptop anyways), and...have apparently crossed a line I swore many times I never would and become one of those people--the ones that blog. For now, let's stick with the theory that it's just a England-induced phase I'm going through...
I took a senior theatre production class at uni, and getting a cell phone was actually required: when you were running some aspect of a show, people needed to be able to reach you. Fair enough, I figured; it's what would be expected if I held such a position in the "real world," so why not get used to it now. I reckon that in the real world I wouldn't have thrown my phone, screamed at it to shut up and leave me alone, accidentally-on-purpose forgot to charge it or take it with me, and generally cursed it's existence as much as I did whilst I worked on my major show for DRAM445 (though I was stage managing, and so it's very possible that theatre professionals would have driven me equally insane if not more than the folks at school).
I'm sure some of it was the relative novelty factor, this being before everyone had a cell, and more of it was probably legit than my selective memory allows: the tech director confirming the location of the production meeting, or one of the actors letting me know they were running late to rehearsal, for example, probably reduced stress rather than create it. I think the call that best epitomises my time with cell #1, though, is this little treasure:
Really freaking early on a Sunday morning, after we'd all been out for a
post-rehearsal drink or ten the previous night. Phone rings loudly, simultaneously
blaring the prelude the Beethoven's 9th in full analog glory and causing the night-
stand to quake thanks to ever-handy 'vibrate' feature. Ignored, it starts to
beep insistently thanks to even handier 'missed call notification.' The
beep is soon overpowered by an encore of the Ode.
post-rehearsal drink or ten the previous night. Phone rings loudly, simultaneously
blaring the prelude the Beethoven's 9th in full analog glory and causing the night-
stand to quake thanks to ever-handy 'vibrate' feature. Ignored, it starts to
beep insistently thanks to even handier 'missed call notification.' The
beep is soon overpowered by an encore of the Ode.
ME: (barely conscious) uhh...mmm...yeah, hello?
MR.X: (very loud, excessively awake) Aim, how's it goin'? Was the phone off or
something? This is like the third time I've called. Whatcha doin'?
ME: I..uhh..right, you were...uhh...
MR.X: What's wrong with your cell? You sound weird--hey, go stand closer to a window,
maybe that'll fix it. (long pause) Aim? You still there?
ME: Wha...oh, umm yeah, I....uhh...
MR.X: (surprised) Shit, did I wake you up or something? Sorry, Aim, just needed to--
ME: (striving for professionalism) No, of course, what's up?
MR.X: Right, you know daylight savings time? Does it start today?
ME: (thoroughly confused) Does what? What are you talking about X?
MR.X: (playfully) What, are you like hungover or something? WAKE UP!!! Daylight savings
time--is that, like, on now?
ME: (through gritted teeth) Daylight savings time? That's why you're calling me?
MR X: (unwittingly playing the role of 'moron' to a T) Yeah, I mean, I can never remember
what day to change the clocks on 'cos my mom used to always keep track of that stuff and
I just thought you're all organised and stuff so you probably--
ME: (torn between praying for my own death and thinking living through the hangover's
worth it if it will give me a chance to kill X later) Would be a good person to call at nine-o-
fucking clock on Sunday morning to check if you were being an even bigger fuckwad than
you'd realised and actually calling at eight-o-clock instead? Is that it?
MR. X: (somehow genuinely surprised) Oh, uhh...you sound kinda pissed. Umm...well I uh...
y'know, I just though you're, like, the Stage Manager so you'd probably know, so--
A series of beeps as call is ended and cell turned off. A muffled thud as it accidentally
crashes into an area rug rather than the hardwood floor it was thrown at. The
treasured sound of silence; quick fade to black.
Wow, that memory is chillingly clear even these many years later. Reliving it actually tweaked an urge to...I don't know, hurt good old "X." I suppose I'll settle for poking him on Facebook, or maybe he's downloaded SuperPoke and I can dropkick him and throw a sheep instead.
Yes, in addition to a fancy camera/video/mp3/Bluetooth mobile phone (Brits look at me like I'm nuts if I slip and call one a cell) on which I text constantly and talk ocassionally, and old-fashioned forms of communication like MSN messenger and email, I now keep in touch with X et al. via Facebook (hey, some people still don't have Skype, and I can't run it on my work laptop anyways), and...have apparently crossed a line I swore many times I never would and become one of those people--the ones that blog. For now, let's stick with the theory that it's just a England-induced phase I'm going through...
Saturday, 9 June 2007
The adventure begins
Flash back to summer 2006 and you'll find me couch-surfing, fidgeting, and alternating between lengthy heart-to-hearts with dear friends and even lengthier road trips with only myself for company. I managed to be both an insomniac and a nauseatingly chipper morning person, and would probably have begun to question my sanity if I'd bothered to sit still long enough to think about it. If I was a little more focused, or if my friends were a little more uncouth, someone might have observed that in the summer of 2006 I was "not quite myself."
I'm glad, though, that no one pointed this out to last year's me; in part because it's a remark both idiotic and trite, and in part because having to pay it heed would have spoiled all my fun.
In the summer of 2006 the me that was not-quite-me stayed up all night with a friend, watching "The Princess Bride" and discussing the nature of evil and the difficulty of avoiding compulsive,conspicuous, consumerism in a capitalist culture (note: we'd drunk an entire bottle of Goldschlager in pursuit of the gold flakes and so this conversation was nowhere near as cerebral as one might think). "The Princess Bride" is a brilliant, magical tale, and B is a brilliant, marvellous man. I'd like to credit them rather than lack of sleep and too much drink with the conclusions I reached that night; perhaps it was the confluence of all four. In any case, here's what I'd decided by the time the sun poked through the smog:
1) If I found life plain, boring, and unsatisfying, it wasn't life's fault (I think I stole this from a greeting card).
2) I'd be a lot happier accumulating experiences than possessions (my nomadic lifestyle that summer bore this out).
3) Despite point 2, it was imperative that I one day live in a castle adorned with gargoyles (chalk this one up to the Goldschlager).
Gargoyles and castles may seem somewhat suspect as factors supporting a 'MAJOR LIFE DECISION,' but I should point out that I've previously made said decisions by tossing a coin. It's not as daft as it sounds: you call it whilst the coin is in the air and then gauge your first feeling when it lands; if you're happy you stick with the coin's verdict; if you're disappointed you decide the coin was wrong and go for the other option. (If you decide you want to make it a 'best two out of three' contest instead, you need to appeal to some other authority--in my experience Magic 8 Balls provide a good second opinion. If you're still stuck, you might need to revert to more traditional means of making a decision: talk to friends? draw up a pros-and-cons list? whatever works.)
So what was I going to do? Take a break from my boredom and dissatisfaction with life in plain old Southern Ontario, pack all of the things I couldn't part with into a couple of suitcases (parents' basement provided a ready-made storage locker for the rest), and go to a place where I'd at least be in proximity to gargoyle-guarded castles: England!
A coin supported my decision; details such as money were easily solved by selling my car; a working holiday visa was surprisingly simple to obtain; I'd accumulated enough pieces of paper (aka diplomas) that finding work wouldn't be a problem; the Internet made it possible to 'know' England without ever having set foot there (note: not really, but I was naive enough to believe so); language wouldn't be a barrier and I might even pick up a charming British accent. What else was there to consider?
In a few short weeks I had everything sorted, and on 7 August, 2007 I headed off to Pearson International with passport and one-way ticket in hand, bound for London Heathrow and a year of tea with scones, football, gossip about royalty and (of course) castles and gargoyles. My visa said I was going on a working HOLIDAY--how complicated could it be?
I'm glad, though, that no one pointed this out to last year's me; in part because it's a remark both idiotic and trite, and in part because having to pay it heed would have spoiled all my fun.
In the summer of 2006 the me that was not-quite-me stayed up all night with a friend, watching "The Princess Bride" and discussing the nature of evil and the difficulty of avoiding compulsive,conspicuous, consumerism in a capitalist culture (note: we'd drunk an entire bottle of Goldschlager in pursuit of the gold flakes and so this conversation was nowhere near as cerebral as one might think). "The Princess Bride" is a brilliant, magical tale, and B is a brilliant, marvellous man. I'd like to credit them rather than lack of sleep and too much drink with the conclusions I reached that night; perhaps it was the confluence of all four. In any case, here's what I'd decided by the time the sun poked through the smog:
1) If I found life plain, boring, and unsatisfying, it wasn't life's fault (I think I stole this from a greeting card).
2) I'd be a lot happier accumulating experiences than possessions (my nomadic lifestyle that summer bore this out).
3) Despite point 2, it was imperative that I one day live in a castle adorned with gargoyles (chalk this one up to the Goldschlager).
Gargoyles and castles may seem somewhat suspect as factors supporting a 'MAJOR LIFE DECISION,' but I should point out that I've previously made said decisions by tossing a coin. It's not as daft as it sounds: you call it whilst the coin is in the air and then gauge your first feeling when it lands; if you're happy you stick with the coin's verdict; if you're disappointed you decide the coin was wrong and go for the other option. (If you decide you want to make it a 'best two out of three' contest instead, you need to appeal to some other authority--in my experience Magic 8 Balls provide a good second opinion. If you're still stuck, you might need to revert to more traditional means of making a decision: talk to friends? draw up a pros-and-cons list? whatever works.)
So what was I going to do? Take a break from my boredom and dissatisfaction with life in plain old Southern Ontario, pack all of the things I couldn't part with into a couple of suitcases (parents' basement provided a ready-made storage locker for the rest), and go to a place where I'd at least be in proximity to gargoyle-guarded castles: England!
A coin supported my decision; details such as money were easily solved by selling my car; a working holiday visa was surprisingly simple to obtain; I'd accumulated enough pieces of paper (aka diplomas) that finding work wouldn't be a problem; the Internet made it possible to 'know' England without ever having set foot there (note: not really, but I was naive enough to believe so); language wouldn't be a barrier and I might even pick up a charming British accent. What else was there to consider?
In a few short weeks I had everything sorted, and on 7 August, 2007 I headed off to Pearson International with passport and one-way ticket in hand, bound for London Heathrow and a year of tea with scones, football, gossip about royalty and (of course) castles and gargoyles. My visa said I was going on a working HOLIDAY--how complicated could it be?
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