Created Metaphors

25 years of BPEC

On Saturday Brighton Peace and Environment Centre celebrated its 25th anniversary. 

I'm glad that (on and off) over the last 14 years I have had the chance to participate in this achievement.  I've helped it move from the premises on Trafalgar Street (now Rainbow Books), to Gardner Street, to the Brighton and Hove Unemployed Workers Centre in Hollingdean, then on to its current home by Brighton Station.  In reverse, the old BPEC van helped me move out of home for the first time. 

Over this time it has found purpose and drive, and many lovely, lovely people have contributed their time to keeping it alive. An abbreviated history of the centre is given here.

May it still be around in another 25 years.

Strong Innards

Joe has just made an amazingly strong post about his innards.

I believe strength like that works wonders.

Burning the Man

I fear my memories will fade. 

I hadn’t realised the true pain involved with Burning Man; the heat, the tent-snapping storms, the stinging dust that swells your hands and feet, the blistering walking distances, the need for radical self-reliance and vinegar. 

Yet, somehow, whether deliberate or not, this makes the place.  You need each other, a community whole.  Everyone gives, everyone tries to make the experience good for all.  Everyone contributes from volunteering, to running theme camps, even just in keeping the place free of MOOP. 

It is a community trying to have fun and express themselves in a location that is, simply put, out to get you.

We drove in at dawn, past the words, to Will Call and my ticket.  The sun broke across the playa; it wasn’t morning mist refracting the light, it was dust.

We were camped at about 2.40, spanning between Grasslands and Habitat, with the lovely people associated with Wolf and Lamb and the Sapphire Portal.    Their shade structures astounded and their showers were by far the best in town.  I might not have got to know many of them well, but I will always love them all for providing my lovely home.  Just as I will always love the people I travelled up with for their forethought, planning and browbeating.

Despite the pain*, I had a week I will hold in my heart and treasure for a long time.

I still dream of it.   I will return. 

My fracturing memories in no clear order:

Dawn over the playa, dragonflies mating, my battery-powered fairy-lights that lit up the world and the moth that loved them, the sapphire portal, camelbacks and dry mouths, long walks, the bliss of cycling (although not on the dark sand), the ‘musical’ portaloos, ‘high strung’ aka hammock-land and lovely naps, the rebuilt man glowing in the dark, the necessity of tutus, joy of water misters, my poor aim with waterpistols, great cthulu and duck the bike guardians, hair that will not move for dust, the problems with tutus, eating at the snack food glory hole, the volunteers dancing on the bar at centre camp, the beauty of tinned pineapple and cold cold margaritas, Barbie death camp, dance dance immolation, watching the lights spin through 3D glasses, the slow burn of the temple, the cheers at the thunderdome, animal crackers, trampolines, rebar, the physical pain of packing up and leaving, "they don't let it stop them", the tiny room of mirrors at the hive, visiting spikes, centre camp and lemonade, the fear the rain will turn the dust to glue, giggling at friends at the roller disco, the draining of the coolers, chasing glowing balls in the dark, monkeys swinging round in the dark, the drying shower water stained by the beetroot people, the Cheshire cat art car (amongst others) sailing by in the dark like giant luminescent leviathans in the deep (where us humans were but small fry), my first ride on an art car, getting hit by swinging western doors, missing people, finding people, my amazing escape from sunburn, the man who told people they were beautiful with all sincerity as he passed them in the crowd, the pickled runner bean in the bloody mary, how smoking summoned dust storms two days running, vitamin water, climbing on vans for the view, dancing until dawn, night golf and a crocodile head, the gift of lovely pasta bolognese, remembering my cup, forgetting my cup, the dust that creeps in everywhere, visiting Hobbiton, queuing for ice, hugs from the tequila-giving eyeball riders, getting lost in the dark and somehow still found by friends, sitting on a sofa in the middle of nowhere in the night reading the letters, air raid sirens filling the air and an explosion that rocked the world, the simple realisation that I was home.

[Photoset] [other flickr photos: 'burningman07']

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* I'm really proud I went to burning man, camped in the desert and came away without the normally inevitable sunburn.

With the sad face

How can you see looking through those tears?
Don't you know you're worth your weight in gold?
I can't believe that you're alone in here
Let me warm your hands against the cold

A close encounter with a hardhearted man
Who never gave half of what he got
Has made you wish that you'd never been born
That's a shame cause you got the lot

Hey yeah you with the sad face
Come up to my place and live it up
You beside the dance floor
What do you cry for let's live it up

-- Mental As Anything - Live It Up

How can one song stick in my head for two months?  Hoping this will help exorcise it.

Breaking Patterns

*** Warning: This is quite a self-indulgent post for me. ***

... And so I took a holiday.  Somewhat.

Looking back on the last several years there is a pattern.  I have been on holiday several times.  The majority were busman’s holidays.  I have invariably brought work from home with me as well for good measure.  I've had no holidays without work. 

That’s just what you do.

(Especially in research.  It’s not like I can leave my research at the office.)

So I took advantage of the fact that I was going to the states to present (x2) and work as a student volunteer at a conference in DC to go on holiday.   I extended my flights and bought others.  I planned a tour.

(I took some work with me to be getting on with of course.  Who needs tourism when you have editing to be getting on with?)

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The first week away was at the conference.  Working, presenting and socialising turned out to be pretty full-time, so I didn’t get my additional work done.  I hadn’t shaken myself out. 

I did have a good try with the facepaint though. [Photoset]

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The second week away involved imposing on an acquaintance in LA.  ‘Put me up, I’ll be quiet and get on with work. I’ll be good, you won’t even need to talk to me.’ 

This started a shift.  I did that work I’d brought with me, I procrastinated with tv, but somehow, inevitably I slowly faced the fact I was somewhere new, not Brighton.  I was away from all close friends, all procrastinating work.  I didn't know what to do with myself - going out exploring on my own was unthinkable. 

My rhythms broke, my thinking changed. 

For the first time in a decade (or in my life?) I slept in front of people (people I didn’t even know well) with trust – they came, went, chatted, sewed while I slept.  I went out and met new people.  I slowly  remembered just a little bit what it was to be self-sufficient, to understand that my mood was my own and, fundamentally, that I actually quite liked my own company*.  I still wasn’t comfortable with the idea that I was completely on my own, but I was working on it.

I made it out and explored. [Photo Set]

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Week three (and a bit) was in Burning Man, about which I shall write more and separately.  I didn't camp with my friends from Brighton, a chance choice which helped me further expand this idea of my own individual coherence.  It was hard.  By the end of the first day (after two days awake) I was hot, lost, dehydrated and fretting that I had friends out there somewhere that I couldn’t find.  I had no laptop, no mobile, no work to read, to hide behind, and I was somewhere alien to everything I knew. 

Over the days I slowly coalesced my thoughts, and grounded myself.  It was lovely when I found my friends, but it made me realise how much I missed my once independent spirit.  I re-evaluated my fear of walking about alone; was alone so bad? Where was my random self-reliance? 

I don’t know at what point things shifted, I don’t know that they ever did completely.

All I know is that by the time I left I was happy and content in myself.  Closer to someone I recognised. [Photoset]

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Week four culminated with the journey to San Jose from Burning Man, where I realised I was brave enough to rekindle an old friendship, which in turn led me to San Francisco, views, beaches, twisting roads in town and mountain, the smell of eucalyptus, sons of butcher at high speed and good laughs.  The next day I took my time, rediscovered sleep, encouraged randomness met up with Sophie and went exploring.  Oddly happy. [Photoset]

Thankfully this set my mood well for the two days and four flights that my odd travel plans had left me for the journey back to Brighton.  I didn’t mind the occasional security issues**, the fact I almost missed one of my connecting flights due to my phone resetting its clock, and I actively rejoiced when my bags turned up with me at my final destination.

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Hopefully I will carry the memories of this time with me for a good while longer. 

I had a holiday.  I welcomed randomness and wonder back into my life. 

More astoundingly  I... relaxed.

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* Even if I do talk to myself a bit too much.

** Such as the fact that we could not leave our seats during the short-haul flight to DC, not even for the toilet.

Abandoning the White Rabbit

And so, before I left for my month away from town I ended up asking myself what my priorities were.  I’d somewhat (no, not somewhat, certainly) neglected my health and my social life over the past year. 

Of course I blame it on my ‘white rabbit’ issue.  Friends and health fall behind work issues when there are time concerns (‘I’m late, I’m late’).  This is just the way I have always worked.

The problem is that I am always late for something.  I always have something I ought to be doing.

The immediate and overdue gets dealt with, the ongoing slips and slides.

When do you face you are doing too much?

How can you convince yourself that a reprioritising is necessary?  Give yourself some time back to play, move, stretch, chat, wander and wonder?

I wasn’t sure so I took a holiday...

And...

I only worked for some of it.

Y’know what, I’m even going to find time to write about it.  Honestly.

Sundial

In 1152, Eleanor of Aquitaine gave a sundial ring to Henry II so that he would know when to leave the hunt for their love trysts. Moved by her love, Henry ordered his jewellers to make a copy for Eleanor – inlaid with diamonds and engraved with the Latin words Carpe diem (seize the day).

I realised while packing for my long trip to the states that I could not find my Aquitaine Sundial Ring.  I needed it to tell the time and tell stories in the desert. 

And so I ordered myself a new ring, as these days there are stories I cannot tell without it. 

Those Words

I woke up this morning with a sharp remembering.  I had forgotten.

Once the walls of my bedroom were tessellated thick with books, pictures, paintings, ephemera and words.  Once, that now empty space between the picture rail and the ceiling was filled with hand-written quotes I had lovingly gathered, captured, set down.

I would go to sleep with them and wake up with them before my eyes.

Where are my quotes and words now?  What was it they told me?

Those Pesky Zombies

Back in June Ginquinn asked me to plot my zombie escape plan...  Finally I get around to it.  In a kinda abbreviated way.

1. Describe your zombie escape plan (generally). Explain your choices.

Find boat.  Sail to Norway.  Go to hut in mountains.  They'll never find me.

2. Who would you choose to have with you and why?

Someone who can sail as, despite always intending to, I never learned.

3. What is your choice of zombie bashing weapon? Be creative - this is the UK, are you really going to have time to try and acquire a shotgun when the apocalypse comes?

One of my heavier laptops.

4. Finally if your escape plan goes horribly wrong what will you do?

Err?  Get turned into a zombie and learn to tapdance?

Ho hum, I lack skills in these question answering things it seems.

Words Slipping

And so my writing lacks depth, beauty, truth.

Or so it seems to me.

I see the souls of others, bared on the screen, bringing tears to my eyes.

I remember how I locked down rather than show myself.

I wonder where the me is that I kept confined for so long, wrapped up tight.

I look for my defended self.

And I wonder where my words lie.