I'm writing this in a strange state, a glow of optimism with a wretched hangover as a backdrop.
Last night we had our work party, and with a staff headcount of 11, a turn up of 9 people was a success.
We started the night at the US Coastguards bar, sat on tall tables drinking wine and ale, with fingers sticky from the cheese, chilli fries. It was the works Christmas do.
Earlier in the day I cracked a joke on Facebook, accompanied by a picture of our Christmas meal at The Broiler on Nugget Mall. I compared that Christmas party with that enjoyed by my ex-colleagues in Manchester, who enjoyed an extravaganza with footballers and Leona Lewis. My jealousy was artificial and pure pantomime in the pathetic search for Facebook 'likes'. In reality I have just finished the last of the best work christmas' in my office working life. Something tells me I am now with my people. A rag-tag group of lovable individuals which form a kind of loose gang as popularised in Richard Curtis films like Four Weddings and Notting Hill. So much in common, yet figuring out a single denominator is completely impossible.
A colleagues husband turned to me and asked "where do you call home?". This is such a hard question for me to answer. I really don't know. The easy answer I gave to this, and "where in England are you from?" is; "The West Country" or "West England". But defining me geographically is impossible, even if I wish it weren't.
I like to think as the city where I was born, and educated me, Bristol is my home town. But I don't know it anymore. Cornwall; where I grew up as a child but I don't identify with it. I should though. Cornwall is a beautiful county, with the rolling hills, quaint villages and dramatic coastline. A culturally rich part of the UK with its own language. Its waiting for me to claim it as my culture. But I can't, I reject it. I'm even in almost denial of it, with an occasional desire to wipe it from the pages of my history. I understand why, I just wanted to get out of the place, which offered so much to everyone but me. Maybe I didn't reject Cornwall, Cornwall rejected me. And the secret of my nomadic soul, is not so much as that of an explorer, more an outcast.
London, now I love to say how I was there, and why not? I overplay how the city influenced me. But really I have to report, probably only 2 out of the 6 years there were bathed in contentment, the first year and the last year.
Am I at home now? How the fuck can I answer that? Its been far too soon. In reality I'm still travelling in my mind. For despite the job, the cell phone, the health insurance, I'm still travelling and running from something. It lives in my mind most Fridays when I grab my ruck-sack early in the morning, and sleep in a sleeping bag on a top of a ship heading through the inside passage. I still feel like a traveller those days. Sometime soon it will register, this is home now. I fear my response to the realization.
Life is a ship at the moment, with the UK as a shoreline that is getting fainter on the horizon. I'm forgetting what living there is. I forget what a five pound note looks like. I go onto the BBC News website out of habit, but being on a US server it defaults to the US news. I less frequently check the UK news. But like all ships, to continue the analogy, its still on the water, and not into port yet.
Where is home if not geographically? I'm not the person who will ever know. If that place turns up which throws an economical and spiritual paradise (maybe like I have found presently), I will spend too much time trying to work out the catch, cynic that I am. Some souls live in torment of their place in the world spiritually more than others. I'm clearly one of those people.
I gave up on happiness over ten years ago, and settled for the search for contentment instead, as recommended by The Dalai Lama. Contentment seems more stable, more conducive to maintenance. Happiness seems like a rush. There is no such thing as a 'happy ever after', yet we all search for it. In that respect the downside for me is, I will always view happiness with some suspicion. I will see it for the temporary dopamine release that it is. No better than a Prodigy gig in 1997, dancing with passion and warmth. But accepting of the fact that this emotional elation will be offset by tears the next day. You never hear of people taking drugs or drinking or gambling to feel content. They do it because it makes them feel happy.
My happiness tangent, wasn't really a tangent. My problem is I relate home with happiness, when really, I need to relate home with contentment.
So my psychological education continues.
Last night we had our work party, and with a staff headcount of 11, a turn up of 9 people was a success.
We started the night at the US Coastguards bar, sat on tall tables drinking wine and ale, with fingers sticky from the cheese, chilli fries. It was the works Christmas do.
Earlier in the day I cracked a joke on Facebook, accompanied by a picture of our Christmas meal at The Broiler on Nugget Mall. I compared that Christmas party with that enjoyed by my ex-colleagues in Manchester, who enjoyed an extravaganza with footballers and Leona Lewis. My jealousy was artificial and pure pantomime in the pathetic search for Facebook 'likes'. In reality I have just finished the last of the best work christmas' in my office working life. Something tells me I am now with my people. A rag-tag group of lovable individuals which form a kind of loose gang as popularised in Richard Curtis films like Four Weddings and Notting Hill. So much in common, yet figuring out a single denominator is completely impossible.
A colleagues husband turned to me and asked "where do you call home?". This is such a hard question for me to answer. I really don't know. The easy answer I gave to this, and "where in England are you from?" is; "The West Country" or "West England". But defining me geographically is impossible, even if I wish it weren't.
I like to think as the city where I was born, and educated me, Bristol is my home town. But I don't know it anymore. Cornwall; where I grew up as a child but I don't identify with it. I should though. Cornwall is a beautiful county, with the rolling hills, quaint villages and dramatic coastline. A culturally rich part of the UK with its own language. Its waiting for me to claim it as my culture. But I can't, I reject it. I'm even in almost denial of it, with an occasional desire to wipe it from the pages of my history. I understand why, I just wanted to get out of the place, which offered so much to everyone but me. Maybe I didn't reject Cornwall, Cornwall rejected me. And the secret of my nomadic soul, is not so much as that of an explorer, more an outcast.
London, now I love to say how I was there, and why not? I overplay how the city influenced me. But really I have to report, probably only 2 out of the 6 years there were bathed in contentment, the first year and the last year.
Am I at home now? How the fuck can I answer that? Its been far too soon. In reality I'm still travelling in my mind. For despite the job, the cell phone, the health insurance, I'm still travelling and running from something. It lives in my mind most Fridays when I grab my ruck-sack early in the morning, and sleep in a sleeping bag on a top of a ship heading through the inside passage. I still feel like a traveller those days. Sometime soon it will register, this is home now. I fear my response to the realization.
Life is a ship at the moment, with the UK as a shoreline that is getting fainter on the horizon. I'm forgetting what living there is. I forget what a five pound note looks like. I go onto the BBC News website out of habit, but being on a US server it defaults to the US news. I less frequently check the UK news. But like all ships, to continue the analogy, its still on the water, and not into port yet.
Where is home if not geographically? I'm not the person who will ever know. If that place turns up which throws an economical and spiritual paradise (maybe like I have found presently), I will spend too much time trying to work out the catch, cynic that I am. Some souls live in torment of their place in the world spiritually more than others. I'm clearly one of those people.
I gave up on happiness over ten years ago, and settled for the search for contentment instead, as recommended by The Dalai Lama. Contentment seems more stable, more conducive to maintenance. Happiness seems like a rush. There is no such thing as a 'happy ever after', yet we all search for it. In that respect the downside for me is, I will always view happiness with some suspicion. I will see it for the temporary dopamine release that it is. No better than a Prodigy gig in 1997, dancing with passion and warmth. But accepting of the fact that this emotional elation will be offset by tears the next day. You never hear of people taking drugs or drinking or gambling to feel content. They do it because it makes them feel happy.
My happiness tangent, wasn't really a tangent. My problem is I relate home with happiness, when really, I need to relate home with contentment.
So my psychological education continues.
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