Fragments

The last couple of weeks have been busy, which means I haven't had time to write. This doesn't mean I haven't had time to think about writing.
There was something about zippers and buttons being the sexiest parts of clothing.
Something about an old man and a young man, and the old man being a version of the young man who is a version of the old man (of course, this was entirely unoriginal and inspired by a conversation about Borges).
Another little story about originality and doubles, and forgery. Something about a perfect forgery not being a forgery at all? If it looks the same, and it makes you feel the same, does 'original' matter?
A short thought about a little girl sitting on her windowsill in the northern mountains of Romania, and a little boy doing the same thing somewhere in Australia, but I don't like to write about places I haven't visited.
There were also (they're there every day) thoughts about Ismeta and robbing banks and killing the people you robbed the bank with. Those are two stories that appeared in my head at the same time and are still very much works in progress. Less frequently I thought about making changes to that story about the girl who ran away from home for no other reason than home was boring.

Ideas are a dime a dozen. The sitting down and the writing are the hard part. And this week I really haven't put in the time. I find myself sitting down to write something on Thursday, the day before my self imposed deadline. And I think about deadlines and about writing. I wish I could say that inspiration suddenly strikes and something short but meaningful gets put down. But I know it's not the case.

So maybe I should start with the rain again. I love the imagery of rain. I don't quite know why. I don't find it melancholy. It reminds me of the day in Salamanca when it started raining and the rain cleared the streets and I walked around in the middle of the pedestrianised streets, getting soaked. Walking down the street where my aunt lives, I ran into my viola teacher at the time, who was also joyfully walking under the rain. She was surprised to see me, or maybe I'm projecting and I was the one who was surprised to see her. She was there to see her parents. I hadn't realised she was from Salamanca. I explained I had family in the city and we visited often. For some reason I remember this day clearly, and as a happy day. Maybe the joyful associations with rain start there? I also know that rain was an important part of the start of the story about the bank robbery. The main character (Emily? I think that was her original name, but I can't be sure. I've written the start to that story several times both in Spanish and in English, and the name changes. For today, we'll call her Anna) is sitting in her cell, thinking about how the rain wherever the jail is is more frequent than in California, where she robbed the bank. She doesn't dislike it, and she doesn't like it. She's pretty numb by the time the story starts. Doesn't really feel anything. Eats to keep herself alive, drinks to keep herself alive. At other times she just sits, staring straight ahead. I can't quite decide whether she thinks about much at all. She watches on and takes things in, but she doesn't react. It feels to her like time doesn't go by. Every day is exactly like the day before, and like the next day, and sometimes she wonders if she has died and she's in purgatory. Hell couldn't be this boring.

She looks at herself in a mirror and sees someone different from her. A girl, a pretty one. Red hair, cut short, bright green eyes. A narrow straight nose, a small mouth. The girl looks skinny, and different from the herself she remembers from just a few months before, but also different from the image she has of herself. Sometimes she sings to hear her voice, but she doesn't recognise that either. She doesn't talk to anyone else.

Sometimes, very occasionally, she thinks about Kevin. Sometimes she thinks about how she killed him. Sometimes she wonders if she regrets it, or if she's glad she did it. Sometimes she falls into the pitfall of 'it was him or me', and then almost smiles to herself knowing it was nothing of the sort. She wanted out so she killed him. From time to time she wonders when everything became so matter of fact. Before there had been feelings. So many feelings. Now there was just thoughts: what she wanted, how she could get it, and would she. The first therapist who went to see her asked her if she knew what she'd done was wrong. She couldn't answer. She wasn't sure she could understand right and wrong anymore. She had the concepts, stored somewhere in her head. She could judge, coldly, based on her definitions. But she didn't have an ingrained sense anymore. It was more like making an analysis, someone gives you the information and you classify given the definitions you are working with.

When she wasn't staring straight ahead in her cell, she was studying maths. It was the only thing that seemed to keep her occupied, that made time seem to go on. It was what she had started to study at University, the reason she'd ended up interning at the bank. But that wasn't why she studied it now. Now, it was one of the few things that felt familiar.

Her parents had come to see her. Her father had cried throughout the visit. Her mother had stared at her in wonder and disappointment. They did not understand their child, or the person who had been their child. They had asked her why, and she had told them why, even though she knew it would only horrify them. Her mother had asked whether she wanted to never leave. She had told her the truth: she didn't care if she stayed there forever. She thought about right and wrong then. Would it have been more right to lie to her parents? She didn't care enough to consider the question for too long.

They'd assigned her a new therapist. She was different. She made her just a little bit curious. The first day she had tried asking questions. Anna had sat on her chair and stared blankly at her. She saw no reason to answer her questions. Somewhere, just underneath the numb, there was a sense that she was gone, that she could never feel, and if she could never feel, she couldn't recover, and attempting recovery was pointless. Her new therapist had not insisted. The second time she'd come she had asked whether Anna had anything to tell her, and just waited for over an hour for Anna to say something, to say anything. At the end of the allotted time she had given her a notebook, saying 'If you ever want to talk'. She had kept coming every week, and sitting with Anna for an hour and a half, not saying anything. Anna had taken the notebook with her, and as time progressed she found herself looking at it more and more. One day she wondered where she might find a pen or a pencil.

Rain or Nostalgia

Rain is water that falls from the sky. It had always fascinated her. She had learnt as much about it as she could, first through meteorology, then studying different cultures’ relationship to rain. She had prayed for rain and she had danced for rain, and at one point in her life she had thought she could control it. She had learnt she was wrong, and was happier in the knowledge that the event that so fascinated her was outside her control than she had been thinking that rain was hers to summon.

She was sitting outside the coffee shop, just watching, sipping her hot coffee, which she’d asked to be put in a takeaway cup so she could sit in the rain while she drank, the lid protecting the hot liquid from the falling water. A couple of tourists looked at her curiously before hurrying into the church. She knew she must look ridiculous, sitting outside in the rain on a day that wasn’t particularly warm, but she appreciated having the time to do just that. She didn’t mind getting wet, never had, and she found that the city looked different when it rained. It cleared up, tourists and locals alike moving inside, waiting for the rain to stop, and the city seemed different when it was empty, almost haunted, as though it had been frozen in time and the people who had once inhabited it had died and never been replaced.

She finished her coffee slowly and wondered what to do next. She hadn’t had a free day, a properly free day, for years. It was a strange feeling, knowing she could just sit there all day and no one would hold it against her. She stood up and wandered to the market. She had always loved this market. Particularly the book stall, which wasn’t necessarily the most complete, but it was well curated and the owner knew what he was talking about. She stopped to have a chat with him, and was a bit taken aback when she realised he didn’t recognise her anymore. To him she was just another tourist, someone who probably wouldn’t buy anything and was more curious about his wears than likely to spend any money. For a second this made her sad. She had forgotten how much she had enjoyed belonging to this city that once belonged to her. She had only lived there for a few years, but she had become part of the place, someone who was likely to be seen around the river, or cycling to and from her department, or at dinner in hall a few times per month. But she had left.

Leaving had been hard. The same way it had happened with London, at some point, she had fallen in love with the place, with its pace, with its people, and now it seemed foreign. At some point during her stay in the city she had started to belong there, and that belonging had disappeared. Not as soon as she’d left. For a while, she’d had friends in Cambridge, places to stay, people to see. But slowly, friends had become more distant or left, and the city had changed without changing. Her favourite coffee place had closed, her favourite pub had redecorated and lost its charm, and the place where she was once felt completely at home, her department, where she’d spent countless evenings late into the night, had been populated by strangers. But that was OK. She had learnt to understand that home is simply a conceit, any place can be home if you stay there long enough, and that any place can stop being home when you don’t return. She’d called 7 different cities home in her lifetime, and she hoped to find new places to call home in the future. But it always felt strange going back to somewhere that had been home and realising that it wasn’t anymore.

She left the book stalls and headed towards King’s Parade, looking around. It was then that, across the road, she saw the person she had least expected to see still in the city. She stared wide eyed for a couple of seconds, and then said their name.

-Andrew!

He jerked his head towards her, surprised to hear her voice.

-Barbara! What are you doing here?
-I could ask you the same thing- she said with a bright smile, crossing the street towards him.

He was a bit heavier, perhaps had lost some hair, but his blue eyes were as bright as ever and he had a warm smile. They hugged tightly.

-I thought you had moved to France- she said.

-I thought you had moved to the US- he teased.

She nodded.

-Yes, I live in Boston now. Came for a conference in London and couldn’t resist dropping by. What brings you to the city?

-I’m visiting Mark and Annie. They had a baby a couple of months ago. Have you seen them?

-Oh wow, I had no idea! I lost touch after I left. Saw Annie a few times in the US, but haven’t really been in touch for… two or three years now.

She looked down, avoiding his look. She was still embarrassed to think about why she had lost touch with them.

-Well, they’re doing great. Hey, let’s grab a coffee, get out of the rain.

-Sure!

They headed towards the coffeeshop in the market. She ordered her usual cappuccino, he ordered a black coffee. They sat down on the top floor, and for a couple of minutes just sat in silence sipping their coffee. They had never been that close, just acquaintances that happen to get on really well, and she wondered how they had ended up going for coffee. Other than mutual friends, they didn’t have much to talk about.

-So, are you in France?- she asked finally.

-Yes, we live in a small town, just outside Paris.

-How’s Sonja? Any kids?

-She’s great. Loves living in France, likes it more than I do I think. And we have two kids, a boy and a girl. Lisa’s seven and Matt is nine. Here.

He showed her a picture on his phone. The girl had hair so blond it looked white, and the boy had inherited his mum’s dark hair and bright green eyes. She knew already, of course, she’d seen pictures on Facebook, but it felt like asking was the nice thing to do. They were really gorgeous children, the sort you might see in adverts, and it was strange to be able to recognise their parents in them so easily.

-They’re beautiful.

-Two little monsters to tell you the truth. I don’t know how they have so much energy.

-That’s rich coming from you.

He laughed.

-And how have you been? Husband, kids? Last I heard from you was from Dave, but he only said you’d gond stateside.

She laughed, with a point of sadness that she was determined not to let through.

-I… well, I was with someone for around five years. He died a couple of years ago. That was rough. And I’ve been single since. Finding it harder and harder to date to be completely honest.

He looked shocked, as though he didn’t quite know how to respond.

-I’m really sorry.

She smiled at him.

-Yeah… Sorry, I don’t know how to tell people without making them uncomfortable. It was hard, but I got through it. No point in dwelling in the past. Anyway, it’s good to see from you! You’re like, the last person I expected to see here.

He looked surprised.

-Why?

She shrugged.

-I don’t know. I guess, when we lived here it seemed like this was home for you, that you’d never going leave, and then you did leave so… it didn’t occur to me that you’d be back.

He nodded.

-Anyways. What are you up to nowadays? Did you say you were at a conference? Still in science then?

She nodded.

-I remember you always saying you’d drop out.

It was a statement, almost a reproach.

-Well, I’m not so good on going through with things.

Her tone had been harsher than she’d intended.

-It wasn’t a criticism- he said softly.

She nodded.

She had forgotten how difficult it had become to be herself back then, and she was surprised at how easy it was to fall back into old patterns.

-Yeah, I know. Sorry about that. Didn’t realise I was still touchy about the whole thing.

Outside it was beginning to get dark.

-I should get going- he said. –Are you staying in the city for the weekend? I was planning on meeting up with Susie and Liz, have a pint, maybe go punting on Sunday if the weather changes.

She smiled. She'd rather go punting if the weather didn't change. After all, she loved the rain.

New beginnings

I haven't published a post on this blog for a year.

I could make excuses (I've been busy, I haven't had time, etc.) but the truth is that I'm not sure how to go about this blog anymore.

A lot of the topics I've discussed here in the past are based on feminist theory of different types, and it has come to the point where I don't feel I'm adding anything to the conversation (simply because there are much more prepared and knowledgeable voices already saying the things I want to say). There's also another issue, one that I'm uncomfortable writing about, but which I feel I should be honest about: I find myself censoring myself a lot on this blog. A lot of my opinions on sex and gender don't necessarily agree with the latest feminist theory from the theorists I like, and that makes me uneasy, like perhaps I'm not a good person. To put it briefly, I believe that biological sex exists and that it is a binary. I don't think that it affects individual people's abilities or characters, but I do think that on average, it might skew things differently for biologically male and biologically female individuals. Of course, I know that there are people who fall outside the binary, but I don't necessarily think this makes it less of a binary. It just means that there are exceptions to something that is generally a rule. More than this, I believe that without the binary a lot of feminist theory wouldn't make sense, because without a biological difference on which gender differences are based, it would be impossible to discuss the discrimination of a group (if humans were completely homogeneous in respect to sex, I don't see how gender differences could have been established). This doesn't mean that I think men and women should be treated differently (I think we should be treated equitably), nor does it mean that I think an individual is more likely to be one way or another simply because of their gender.

I am still very much engaged with feminist thought, and I am still going to remain a vocal defender of the rights of women and other genders that have historically been discriminated against, but I'm not sure I'll keep writing about it on this blog, because I feel my ideas are unoriginal and you can learn more from reading other people who have a much better analysis than I do of the subject (a quick google search for feminism, womanism, gender theory, etc. will get you to many of the resources I've used to learn in the past).

This being said, I really miss writing. I miss typing and I miss trying to put my thoughts down and (being the attention whore that I am) I miss people randomly commenting about what I write. So I'm going to go ahead and rebrand. I may end up once again writing about feminism, or writing about ethics and biology, because these are all topics that fascinate me, but I'm going to try and stay away from those topics as much as possible on this blog. Instead, I'm going to turn this space into what it was meant to be from the start: somewhere to publish my fiction writing. I've been doing a lot of it lately, all loosely related, and I feel that publishing some of it here will make me more consistent about storylines that go together and standalone pieces that I should finish.

To start with, I'm setting myself the task of publishing something here every two weeks, starting this Friday. I hope you keep reading.