australia day, or whatever you call it

Byron Bay, NSW

For the second year running, I wasn't home on Australia day (see also: Straya Day, Invasion Day). Last year I spent the morning drinking sugary cocktails on Koh Rong Island, Cambodia, and the evening tottering between the blaring beach bars that line the mainland shore in Sihanoukville, flashing my Australian flag bikini for free whiskey buckets. One hundred percent Aussie class. For some reason, excessive drunkenness and misplaced, obnoxious national pride become totally acceptable for one day only each year. Well, if not acceptable, then at least forgiveable. The compulsion to abbreviate every single word seems a given. Necessary, even. Every Australian takes this opportunity to be the worst kind of Australian and get away with it.

I've had my moments, but it does concern me slightly that 'Australia Day' has become code for 'unleash your inner bogan'. I'm not sure that tucking a two dollar replica of the flag up under your hairy beer gut exactly conveys that whole pride and respect-for-country thing we harp on about. 

But thongs and boardies aside, there's the whole issue of what, exactly, we're celebrating. I'd like to think we're raising our stubby holders to a democracy, to a visually stunning -- and stunningly powerful --natural landscape. To the ability to speak our minds without the fear of death or imprisonment. To the beautiful cultural soup that, to me, underlies the very concept of being Australian. But a lot of the time that's not what's going on. I guess the problem is we're doing it on the anniversary of the beginning of a few hundred years of messy massacres. You'd have to be really sick to genuinely want to celebrate it in that context. And while it's no secret that some Aussies have a vicious streak of racism in them (I've encountered plenty of people who I'd like to punch right in the brains for the way they think about what it means to be Australian), I'd like to think that, mostly, people don't think about it like that. We've carefully, maybe unintentionally, separated the modern Australia day celebration from it's nasty historical context. 

In most cases, it's a totally innocent separation. My own included (see para. one). I truly believe that there are tens of thousands of people scrubbing Aussie flag tattoos off their cheeks today who haven't thought about anything remotely relating to the invasion. Maybe they're in denial. Maybe undereducated. Really they just had a good day on the piss and that's that. It may be true that we picked a politically fraught date to celebrate Australian-ism, but I don't think that means we shouldn't celebrate it.

Maybe that last statement needs to be reconsidered. I guess it wholly depends on your definition of 'Australian-ism'. For some reason that no amount of self-reflection will unearth, wearing an Australian flag on my breasts stirs in me some vulgar sense of national pride. I'm not ashamed to say it. I guess I celebrate the mere fact I can wear a bikini (and I'm talking about the glorious weather as well as the whole freedom rights thing, here). I know there are those for whom 'Australian-ism' is defined by the colour of skin, the lilt of voice, the duration of residency, or the volume of four-ex consumed hourly. Those people make me so hot mad. I am ashamed to share a means of categorisation with them. You are not patriotic -- that isn't your Australian identity talking -- you are simply an arsehole.

Dear racist, let me please dissect your Australia day traditions. We wouldn't want anything foreign (that's un-Australian!) coming into them, would we? Okay. For starters, you're going to have to ditch that green and gold Sombrero. Far too Mexican. And I know you love that cape you've fashioned from your Crazy Clark's Australian flag, but that's not going to work out either. You see, the Union Jack is British, and the Southern Cross also appears on the national flags of Brazil, Papua New Guinea, New Zealand, and Samoa, as well as several Argentinian provincial flags. Also it was probably manufactured in China. Gross. Those snags in the fridge will have to go. Yes, I mean sausages, derived from Old French saussiche, from the Latin salsus meaning 'salted'. Different languages? Don't even go there, mate. And FOR GOD'S SAKE put down that beer! Don't you know that stuff was first created in eastern Iran, you idiotic oaf. That's a dangerously international beverage. And look, I know you love a good barbie, but you'll have to pass on that Caribbean nonsense if you want to be a real Australian. Perhaps you should just go for a swim. Not in the ocean though; that very same water touches a whole slew of disgusting countries you don't even want to know about. 

Actually, while we're getting rid of items that originated overseas, maybe you should grab yourself a plane ticket back to the motherland, you big, hulking embarrassment to humanity.

Alright. I've probably overworked that a bit. But you see what I'm getting at, right?

But let me not take it upon myself to define the Australian identity. For everybody's sake, I'm not even going to attempt it. Besides, it's infamously slippery and I'm not nearly smart enough to figure it out. Even so, I've got some ideas about nationality brewing like a vat of Fosters. It's all the travelling. Makes you consider, like, who you are and stuff.

On paper, I'm British. I'm a British citizen with a British passport and the right to live and work in the United Kingdom for so long as I desire. Oh, and I'm Caucasian, from British genetic heritage. I don't have a particularly strong Australian accent. I'm sure with time I could lose it. And I'm currently resident of the London Borough of Hammersmith and Fulham. But I am not British. I don't think I'll ever be British.

I am Australian because I feel that I am Australian. Yes, it may be easier to feel that way when I don't have flocks of fat,middle-aged men in wife-beaters pointing their grotty fingers at me and telling me to go back where I came from. But still, I feel like I'm an Australian. It's not about other people who are also Australians. National identity is surely impossible without individual identity? So I'm wont to start there. It's so much easier to define oneself than try to tie a neat package of an entire nation.

This year, deprived of a beach (not to mention direct sunlight, sand, and anything resembling the colour blue), I didn't don a bikini. Australian flag or otherwise. I woke up. I felt no particular inclination to consume copious amounts of goon before breakfast. I went for a run in American trainers. I made sticky banana pancakes, inspired by trips to Indonesia. Then I sat down with an Aussie mate and listened to some French music while I looked up places to celebrate my nationality in London. I washed my hair with shampoo I bought in Greece. For lunch I made Thai-style stir-fry. I snacked on Mediterranean pita bread and Italian grown olive oil all afternoon while I checked up on the Hottest 100. Then I read a book by an Englishman. I am Australian despite all these things. 

I am Australian because of them.

I did not drink beer. I didn't even swear excessively and nasally for the fun of it. I did look through about a million photo albums and think about how bloody beautiful my country is. I missed it, dearly. And I'll be honest: if I had my bikini with me, I might have worn it over my jumper at one of the comically loud Australian themed bars scattered across the city. For kicks.

There's nothing wrong with celebrating national identity, and national pride. Also, I say there's nothing wrong with being drunk, if that's your thing. If it comes from a good place, and if it's about how you are, not how the next bloke is. I'll celebrate. And anyway, this marks the only day in the London calendar where it's acceptable to use the word thong to describe footwear. I'm all over that.

 Sunshine Coast Hinterlands, QLD

Moogerah, QLD

Wooli, NSW 

Moreton Island, QLD

South Bank, Brisbane, QLD

St Kilda, Melbourne, VIC

displacement (and starting a new life)

In the turbid lead-up to writing this, I typed 'displacement' into my wikipedia search bar. There are over twenty definitions for the one word. The best one is under Physics and states that 'angular displacement' is a change in orientation of a rigid body; the amount of rotation about a fixed axis. This evokes glorious images for me of rotating corpses. Wheel of Fortune Rigor Mortis. Spin a corpse, tuppence a turn. Try your luck, win a prize! 

Ahem. 

In all seriousness, it's a different type of displacement that concerns me. The Oxford Dictionary defines 'displacement' as

[noun] : The action of moving something from its place or position. 

So if I were to change that to 'displace'

[verb] : To move (remove) something (someone) from its (her) place (home) or position (comfort zone). 

Travel is not displacement. Travel is letting yourself wander from your place and then return. It's one of my favourite feelings. Moving around with no purpose but to be in a new part of the world. But for three months now I have been truly displaced. I haven't had a place (a Home). Now, I am placed again. I have a place. It feels nice. But it makes me ponder what was the whole problem with not having one.

I signed the contract for our new flat sight unseen. Ella said it suited us. It's got a bay window and neutral wall paint and my God, I was so desperate. It could have had plastic windows, or no windows for that matter, and I still would have talked myself into it. 

Ours is the only house in the street painted a cheerful, wintery blue. We each have a set of brass-coloured keys. The day we sign, we haul our bags up the stairs. I realise I've been living out of these two bags for five months and two days. I foster a bitter, festering hatred for every item they contain. All my clothes are dirty. Important papers float around, worn and dog-eared, suffering for their lack of a filing cabinet. I've never wanted to own something so much as I want to own a coat hanger at this moment. Finding a tangled spidery pile of them in a storage cupboard is possibly the highlight of my afternoon.

Walking in feels wrong. I hate the house. I hate the polished blonde wood floors and the brass door handles. It smells funny. The lighting is too yellow. The fireplace is tiny and useless and dumb. The carpet is worn and I don't like the square, brown couches. I smile and coo with the girls but I want to punch holes in the creamy walls. 

Violence why? It wasn't home. It wasn't my place. It's the same reason traveling is different to living in a friend's lounge. When you're traveling, day-to-day place is intentionally fluid. Meanwhile, true place --Home-- is where you came from and where you'll go back to. That's why bouncing around Italy and Greece was frivolous fun and why bouncing between London living rooms was a drain on every intimate cell of my being. So when I stepped into my new house and discovered this, too, wasn't Home, I wanted to destroy everything. 

Fortunately I mastered the impulse and now I love this place. Because I've accepted the fact it's my place. I am no longer displaced.

Advice for moving countries is as follows. Moving with no house and no money is not a great idea. The point at which you've thoroughly exploited every contact you have for their couch and are officially out of options is quite scary, actually. I can't guarantee that a big blue house will fall into your life like it did mine (bless it). You may end up with your suitcases and your plastic bags and some wholesale copies of the Big Issue, the last of which we only narrowly avoided. 

But we did. I walked around my house this morning and here's some pictures I took.

Herein begins phase three of my 'trip'. I must find a better word for this kerfuffle of a life choice. Welcome to the big blue house. I'll be doing some drifting from here, and hopefully writing some things that make everyone think real hard about important stuff. And some things about places I go to. And also the mundane chronicles of my life. It's like a lucky dip. No, it's like roulette. Spin the corpse; win a prize.

viva la revolucion : new year

The new year is one of those cruel times that make me think about, you know, life, and what I'm doing with it. I'm sure it's not healthy to think so hard about something so apparently important. But still each year I make a mental list of things I should achieve. These are called new year's resolutions. Apparently they're quite common. And the best thing about them is I only have to keep them for a few weeks. Then the year isn't so new and everyone sticks their head back in the sand. And I can too.

The years have always come around with a speed that terrifies me, but I've always known what the next will bring. I've new-year's-resolved to do this and that. The uncertain future has been far off. Now here I am at the new year, with no house and no profession, a large white wine at midday, and not a clue where I'll be in six months time. Am i failing at doing life? 

I spent the 23 minutes between train connections last night walking up and down the sheltered part of the platform (which takes exactly one minute per circuit, in case you were wondering) composing a witty gumtree ad designed to trade basic Spanish for advanced English. I hate being the dunce that only has one language. And I need a hobby badly, right? I really do dislike new year.

This morning I was scrolling through facebook, aimlessly wasting precious minutes of my life, and saw a flashy article link to: 6 Harsh Truths That Will Make You a Better Person. I clicked the link with a mind to wasting more minutes on something that went like: 

1. Cheese really does make you fat 

2. Forget everything you thought you knew about stair sprints

etc.

What I got was a big ol' conscience lashing. This guy is ruthless. He doesn't give a damn about your feelings, in the best possible way. He's a caller-to-action. He's like, be bothered to do something or get the hell off my lawn. The internet around new year drips with these articles like cold leftover gravy from Christmas. Most are useless. Some are great. Like this essay by a guy with the shortest darn sentences I ever had the pleasure to devour. He's Oliver Mol. It was called, IF YOU GIVE UP, FUCK YOU. The title sums it up nicely.

These two ruthless gentlemen have been floating around in the think tank. Six solid slaps and some good inspirational swears. I immediately wanted to do something. Prove myself a valuable addition to society rather than just an effective means of disposing of baked foods. I didn't write my witty ad. I'm not very witty, actually. I did respond to a few though. I decided to learn something about economics, or something. I searched for second hand guitars on ebay. Then I remembered it's new year, and that makes these ideas for self-improvement into new year's resolutions. That gives them a half life of three weeks. Oh, even better. I'll have my surge of motivation with everyone else. Then I'll let my resolve peter out with theirs. No one will say anything because we've all failed together. 

I've decided, in my infinite wisdom, that some of the problem is the build up. The anticipation of what hardships the new year has in store. The chain-smoking, cake-devouring, and couch-sitting that go on in December because after new year all fun will be disallowed. I'm missing the logic involved in drenching oneself with addictive substances and behaviours until the very moment of quitting. Seems like that'd make it harder, no? And in February, when you're too busy for the gym and it's just too damn hard to be nicer to everyone in general, there's always next year. Besides, I love food. Screw everybody.

Maybe there's also the issue that no one really wants to wake up at five in the morning to don tights, be disgustingly pleasant to the general public, and ditch their most delicious vices. I can't speak for everyone, so here's just me: maybe I don't want it bad enough. Maybe I'm making new year's resolutions because that's just what you do. It's January 1st: time to be better at stuff. That's dumb. Stop doing that, world. It's clearly not working out. (And we both know neither am I.)

Call it denial. I don't want to face the fact I am walking into the year with my eyes closed and my hands splayed in front of me. But I've decided to revolutionise new year. I call  it the new year's revolution, because I'm endlessly punny.

 I've decided that new year's resolutions are destined to fail. I'll improve myself some other time. Some time when I can't think about it for weeks and stock up on damage points before the date hits. I thought maybe taking some emphasis off self improvement would make the whole experience more pleasant. This new year I tried thinking about all the good stuff I did achieve, not just how I can improve my sorry arse. And you know what? I liked it. I liked watching the fireworks from Trafalgar Square without having to think. It wasn't tainted with the fact that I was about to have to stop doing things I like, or start doing things I don't. So I agree with dear David Wong and his incredibly harsh article about how shit everyone is. We're all hopeless losers. But I don't think we should change because it's a new year.

I don't have a resolution for 2014. But that doesn't change the fact that I want a hobby and will get one. It also doesn't change the fact I've got no answer when people ask what I'm doing with life. Traveller's curse. To be constantly defending a lack of solid career and a pathetic bank balance. Double blow if you're also a struggling creative. Making new year's resolutions is a good way for us to give ourselves meaning. But the more I travel, the more I discover that meaning is relative. I don't have a career or a house, or savings of any description. I can't speak Spanish. Yet. But I have found my way around dozens of foreign public transport systems, and once I ate a cricket.

Happy new year, losers.