Prague and provinciality

I don't know why it is that I keep hitting my head against the same brick wall, but there's no doubt about it:  I'm stuck.  Counsellors call this habit of constantly pondering the same thing (willingly or by way of a kind of "mean-thoughts-invasion") 'ruminating'.  Which is suitably evil-sounding, enough to make you feel ashamed and humiliated, which makes their job easier - more stuff to do for them!  Maybe it's my own fault for watching SATC re-runs.  Maybe it's just that I cannot accept that life will always have to be this dull and meaningless (though I know, Francis Bacon did try to warn me) and I am desperate and determined to fight that inevitability until I get it in some kind of 'lock-down' on the floor, begging for mercy.  Maybe it's just that I need a lobotomy because humans weren't meant to get clever enough to realise the futility of their own lives and the trap of poverty they are most likely to get caught in, because it only leads to self-destruction.  

I was thinking about erasing that last line, but this is something I was discussing today, how women are not allowed to accept and acknowledge a strong quality in themselves because it comes across as aggressive.  It is not acceptable for me as a woman to say, "I'm clever."  However, I feel it's all gone too far, when you've suffered the bullying, the ostracism, the perpetual 'not fitting in' of being intelligent, that you aren't allowed to say, "damn, I'm clever and I know I am".  It's outrageously boastful and uncouth.  Is this just a British trait, or do we all suffer from this necessity for self-deprecation and is it only women who are subjected to it?

I feel compelled to explain that I'm not suggesting I'm extra clever, or remarkably intelligent, just clever enough to notice and analyse the injustices in life, as well as know I've screwed things up and blown all my chances (what few I have had) due to bad timing, ill-health and a lack of awareness equalled only by my lack of support, about how to go about pursuing the kind of career I wanted.  And now, it's too late.  I've got myself caught so far in the pit of failure, there really does appear to be no way out.  I didn't adapt fast enough, I didn't recognise the possibilities that were really there soon enough and I didn't have enough money after moving my piano (which I'd wanted all my life but only got when I was 21, so it was hard to part with) from house to house to be able to afford to do frequent recording or gigs as well.

So, I shall always envy the fictional world of SATC, where even in the bad old early days, when no-one had so much as a decent pair of earrings, let alone shoes, they had their high paying jobs, one of which allowed her to write her opinions in a creative way for a living, and their apartments in Manhattan and their highlighted hair and copies of Vogue and The New Yorker.  I read the New Yorker online today, or at least a couple of articles from it, and looked at the lovely and inspiring illustrations, but I can't afford a regular copy, or subscription.  And I can't afford their delightful desk diaries or book of paintings or drawings of New York which have graced their front covers over the years.  And I don't live anywhere near such a vibrant city.  I know Prague is a regional-seeming little place.  It's not rough around the edges, just dog-earred with neglect (in places).  

What I fear the most, right now, is that Prague and I are almost the same and always will be:  A good idea with lots of potential for inspiration, but too beaten down by the past and a prolonged case of underfunding to ever escape its provincial roots.

Scenes from September

It's been a tough month.  No doubt about it.  And it all started with the end of August being a tough time to go through, what with returning to London and the anniversary of my moving to the Czech Republic.  Somehow everything decided to come back at me and haunt me over and over and expose me to all my flaws and all my failures in stark contrast to the successes and happiness of others.  It's an atrociously cruel world when you're alone and unsupported and all around you are people being given support and care and attention, even love.

I can look at things two ways, of course.  I could lament the fact that I'm still doing the same job a year on, one that demands my time and energy and attention to support other people but barely pays me enough to support myself.  And all the while I'm in a relationship where hearing the words, "I love you" are a scarcity, and match the rarity of those words during the very endgame of my previous relationship.  And that's, sadly, no exaggeration.  It feels as though no-one will ever say, "I'm proud of you", or, "you've done really well" in the same way I so readily say it to others, including friends, and even meet-ees.  I have no such rallying words to accompany my walk through life.  But I suppose that is par for the course if you are a non-conformist of some kind.

The other way of looking at it, is that I have left employment, now work only for myself and can dictate (as finances allow) when I want to take time off, as well as decide my asking fee (within reason) and that's a whole lot better than the pittance I started on, being at people's beck and call right across town at 7.30 in the morning.  And I do have someone who cares enough about me to want me to accompany him to his new holiday home flat to help with the painting and cleaning of it.  And when he felt low, it was me he turned to for support.  And when I had period pain, it was him who drove, while I had a much needed nap on the back seat.  So we have worked as a team, to some degree, and that feels comforting.  But I know it's nothing in comparison to what I had, nor what I am capable of giving and there should be an equality there, but there isn't.

So here are a few snippets of my life over the last month or so, as an apology for my absence and an indication of the ups and downs I've been going through, if it matters at all to anyone.  And if it doesn't matter, then maybe we should all be sitting snuggled up in bed with a cup of cocoa and a good book instead, and I want to be first in line for that queue.

Pre-September:

In a cafe in Notting Hill, on sampling their gazpacho:

"...rather disappointing to say the least, though the waitress has tried her best to be as helpful as possible. Which is probably more effort than you would ever get out of a Czech equivalent.  It still doesn't justify not getting much change from a £10 note though.  And I can't stay long.  Apart from anything else, the downside of "dining" alone is that once you have to get up to go to the loo, you have to leave...."

The delights of reading German newspapers:

"...in ,,Die Zeit" there is a very interesting article by Wolfgang Tillmans about how he views London, now his home, compared to other major cities.  He makes the point that London is such a multicultural society, which is far more integrated than most.  "Even New York is more segregated", he says.  He goes on to say that, as such, London is a success story and he interestingly uses a mixed language word - "Erfolgsstory".  So it's not just us British who feel steal from other languages right, left and centre then..."

My last full day in London, when it was cold and drizzly 

and I spent all day 'out-and-about', meeting up with friends and comparing their lives to mine:

Friday 26th August:

Pet Shop Boys' 'King's Cross':  "[...] I've been hurt and we've been had.  You leave home and you don't go back [...]  So I went looking out today for the one who got away.  But I'm walking round the block, ending up in King's Cross.  Good luck, bad luck, waiting in a line.  It takes more than a matter of time.  Someone told me Monday, someone told me Saturday, wait until tomorrow and there's still no way.  Read it in a book. or write it in a letter, wait until the morning and there's still no guarantee. [...] Only last night I found myself lost at the station called King's Cross..."

I have managed to survive a last full day here, catching up with a couple of old friends and one relatively new friend.  I nonetheless feel bereft.  I don't live here.  This is not my home.  Nor am I staying somewhere on my own.  And as such, I feel homeless.  I'm sitting in an old 'thinking spot' in King's Cross, with my back to an electronic notice board of train times to places near where ex-partner used to live and it all just hurts.  It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

How did things 'work out in the end' for other people?  Was it because they never lost absolutely everything (home, job, relationship) at the same time?  Or lost the remaining good things (relationship) when the other things weren't even in place anyway?  Is there no rescue, no hope for a future for those who got knocked right off the edge?  Will I ever fully recover or will I always be stuck on the edge of the platform, knowing there is no 'home' destination awaiting me?  Will London always taunt me by reminding me I failed to make a viable, bearable, non-painful life for myself there?  Is Neil Tennant right when he sings, "it takes more than a matter of time"?  And if he is, what exactly DOES it take for this searing sadness and desperate sense of being a perpetual 'outsider' to go away?

September:

"...Early mornings are a killer and today wasn't even that early a start!  I just didn't sleep well due to the noise (that's what you get for living on a main road leading to a motorway) and the heat."

"Every meet-ee has come to my flat and said, "you live here?" Or, "do you like living here?" because of the traffic noise outside.  Most Czechs think somewhere so lacking in "nature" as they put it, must be a kind of hell.  To me however, this flat was close to a dream scenario: "Hurrah!  Somewhere vibrant!  Not residential!"  After the posh and polite suburbs of Harrow and Balham respectively, both of which I kind of hated, especially Harrow, this was a godsend."

On the finer details of my life:

"...the delicately positioned, up-turned spoon perched on my table, left over from this morning's meet-ee..."

And back to today, sitting in my old haunt, the bookshop cafe, having perused a couple of magazines and some art and fashion books I can't afford:

Thursday 29th September:

I hope I'm coming out of the torture period now.  I feel haunted by what happened over a year ago and I'm still not sure if I'm free of all the teasing and mocking dreams I've been having.  I feel bereft, but slowly regaining some strength since having a week-long break from the day job.  I don't know if I'll be able to sustain it, but I want to try to cut down on the meet-ees and planning and all the academic stuff I do.  I'm so tired of supporting other people and having no support myself.

I've been soothed and wooed into wanting to do music again by listening to "Support Lesbiens" (listen to one of their best tracks, though the lyrics are slightly dodgy, as in, non-native English, HERE) even though they often make me laugh.  Hats off to them for being brave enough to write lyrics in English.  I am quite enamoured with their little misuses of English (check out the pronunciation of 'oasis') and how their lead singer seems to oscillate between fine English pronunciation and standard American 'rock god' fare...  Their music is so good and, across their albums so varied, that I must admit I've been won over.  (And the lead singer's voice is so seductive though I can't for the life of me pinpoint why...)  And yet, at the same time, they feel a little bit provincial, as does Prague, really.

Prague is strangely cocooned from the harsh realities of civilised living, though the cynicism and pessimism out-do even my own, and it's been a revelation to find myself having to put forward the optimist's view.  Who would have predicted that?  So as I stare down the bleak outlook and taunting thoughts of the past that have plagued me over the last month, I can only find a way forward in the frivolity of dressing strangely and using colours and patterns that don't go together to help me be more ME somehow.  It makes me stand out more as a foreigner, but then, that happens wherever I go.  Sex and the City's Carrie sometimes used to inspire me or reflect the kind of nonsensical array of clothes I would wear to feel more at home, but the films have taken everything to a kind of 'grown up' otherworldliness that is so far removed from the original characters and their first intentions, that I feel saddened that everyone seems to lose their principles in the end.  Or people move on to the next logical stage of life and I somehow cannot find a place for myself there.  

I don't belong in the grown-up world of dressing sensibly or looking like I've finally 'made it', so much so that I can afford a stylist (god forbid) and a family.  I never wanted that stuff, I always knew I'd be contented with the creative work and flat of my own in a capital city (I'd be on cloud nine if it were in Manhattan, but we all know only movie stars can afford to live there these days) and that would thrill me.  To have three great friends who backed me up would be the icing on the cake.  To have a relationship as well?  An unnecessary extra, but wonderful bonus nonetheless.  But I am the prime example of what happens when you don't have any of those.  Friends have moved on, achieved at least some degree of success (i.e. don't have to do the shitty day job anymore), are having or contemplating having a family and therefore cannot imagine what it feels like to have ticked none of the boxes they had hoped to tick by their mid-thirties.  Though music still feels like where I belong, at the same time, I feel like I was never allowed more than a visitor's pass into the 'house of music' and I still don't quite know why.  I must find a way back in.  Or maybe a way in, that I never had.  Perhaps there simply is no way forward, except the 'road less travelled' and that's a lovely road, I'm sure, but it's a deserted and painfully lonely one.  The only way to carry on is to try to enjoy the beautiful sunsets and the gorgeous autumnal coloured leaves on the trees and survey the mountainous area and breathe in the beauty on this perpetually difficult, painful and deserted road that no-one else I know has ever seen, because they all made it to the end and could come home.  I suppose I just have to get used to (and better at) being a nomad.

Sadness, failure and a Swedish Faerie Godmother

The tiredness and confused thoughts in my head do not seem to have abated much.  I apologise that I didn't succeed in harnessing them better, and untangling them enough to make my last post comprehensible, but it was a case of having a 'jumbled-up haze' post or none at all.  Maybe none at all would have been better, I honestly don't know.

As it is, things here so far have been a sad reminder of how I no longer belong here and perhaps, how I never did.  I have been confronted with all the mistakes I made and all of the consequences of not having found confidence in what I was doing soon enough to make use of it and it's been painful to look at.  As I waited last night for a bus to take me back to my lodgings from Victoria, I felt like a scorned visitor, who has no real place here anymore.  As though unless I have some important, well-paid work to do here, I have no right to consider myself a Londoner.  How long do you have to live in London before you can call yourself a Londoner?  And does that get revoked if you have to leave in the end, no matter how long you were there in the first place?

In New York, there was a phrase going round that 'for up to 8 years in NYC, you're merely a 'zoo-yorker', just one of the millions who try and nestle in to a choice spot, but have to face the horrors of housing competition among the huge numbers of people who require it.  During those years, you have to put up with some barely habitable places before you finally find somewhere (if you're lucky) viable to live in.  Some never make it to the finding somewhere habitable stage.  Maybe that's my experience with London really, although I lived here earlier on, years back, when it was still vaguely possible to afford to live on my own, albeit in a gloomy basement flat with no washing machine.  

I had enough hope left back then, that made living somewhere dingy more bearable.  Plus it was really very central, which is something I loved about it.  The rent was quite high, but nothing like today's standards, and I was still prepared to spend a greater percentage of my income on rent than most people, even if it meant I never had enough savings to buy clothes anywhere other than in charity shops (a state which, sadly, has not changed in over ten years) and no money to go out for meals.  I suppose that was my downfall and still is, but living alone means that much to me, that I continue to sacrifice all else, because it really does make such a big difference.  

After a day full of crying (embarrassingly frequently) and feeling bleak about everything yesterday, I suppose I need to make an extra effort today to do fun and frivolous things.  A silly film is lined up for viewing tonight and I think some chocolate ice-cream is in order at some point today.  Other than that, perhaps I can say a fond 'hello again' to my old haunts , especially Kensington Gardens, and see if I can stop worrying about the future and how much I've screwed it up, for just a few hours at least.  Funnily enough, the wise Swedish Faerie Godmother told me yesterday, "it's strange but sometimes when you think you've screwed life up completely, you find there are second chances."  I hope she's right.  She usually is, in fact.  Being that she is both wise and utterly nutty, two qualities I very much aspire to having myself, she's always got a good point.

Airports and the British Sense of Humour

When the plane touched down in Heathrow with a gentle bounce, I was flooded with thoughts about what home really is and, more importantly, where it is.   And I suddenly had tears in my eyes.  It was mostly me questioning whether I could really think of London as any more of a home than Prague, and seeing as I had to leave London because my existence there was almost certainly killing me slowly but surely, I had to admit, that London felt more like a familiar yet sometimes hostile friend.  And I then thought of the town I was born in, and how I don't have time to go there while in the UK this time, so I won't be able to see my sister or any other relatives/family friends there and I felt like, yes, I'd feel a huge familiarity there and of course I'd feel really happy to see my sister, if it were possible, but it's not home.  

Of all things, I ultimately had an imagined conversation in my head with my Mum, whereby I was trying to justify what things I'd done and not managed to do.  I was saying to her in my head, that yes, I have reached my mid-thirties and I failed to make London work for me, but I have come a long way from the background she grew up in.  And I may not have made a great success of it, but at least I've fought time and time again to avoid the safe option, the default option, and I've pushed to do something more challenging instead.  I may not have succeeded in proving that it's worth doing that, but I have at least tried it, with the spirit of a pioneer and the bravery that comes from years of doing things on my own and knowing that being an outsider is painful but there is a kind of freedom that comes from already having been ostracised, so there's no loss in leaving people behind.

I was very tired indeed when I got into Heathrow, so I have to put some of my over-emotional state down to that, but it was such a strange feeling.  Just setting foot in the UK again caused a monumental re-assessment of what I've achieved and what price I've paid for what I've endeavoured to do.  In the queue at Border control, I was reminded of one of the few endearing qualities about the British:  a sense of humour in the face of sheer incompetence, tedium and difficulty.  The electronic passport system was a note of confusion for some, and the queue for those still without one (that would include me) seemed both long and slow-moving, but the family behind me, who sounded like they were from up north somewhere, just made light-hearted jokes about it all and it made me smile.  

Even the Border control officer made me smile as he announced that families could come forward in a group, only to realise, as I alone approached the desk, that I was not a part of a family.  Indeed, if he'd have asked, I could have told him that trying to get our family together all in one country would take quite some doing these days.  But he just 'welcomed me back to the UK' by name (a smart move on the 'final check for note of recognition' illegal passport holder detection front) and I felt sort of at home, but also partly in some kind of surreal world of luggage and passports.  When it came to baggage reclaim, a dimly-lit twilight zone that gave me a feeling of deja-vu because I could swear I'd dreamt of being in a baggage area just like it, though in fact I had never set foot in Terminal 5 before, I really did feel like I was mid-transfer between the recent familiar world and the old known.

So, the tiredness of 4.5 hours' sleep last night and not much more than 5 or 6 the previous few nights, took their toll and I still felt half in the Czech Republic, at least in my head, when I had a strong urge to tell a shop assistant in Boots later, ,,na schledanou" as I left.  (Woe betide you if you don't do this in the Czech Republic.)  I suppose I'll adjust better tomorrow.  In the meantime, I have some absolutely beautiful flowers to greet me when I wake up:

Sunshine, errands and photos

London is awaiting me tomorrow, along with the Faerie Godmother Trainee.  But the sun decided to come out today (I knew it - the one weekend I won't be here in Prague and it decides to heat up and be sunny - typical) and it's amazing what a difference a bit of sunshine makes.  I went on a little walk to get a few last things to bring with me to bestow on friends in London, but I didn't have time to enjoy much of it.  So I took some photos instead, to be able to look at them and marvel at the lovely weather later.  

While I was out, I stupidly decided to try a bit of light-hearted banter with the woman in Tesco, but she was probably too young to indulge in such things and my comment that, ,,konečně je to léto, že jo?" ["it's finally summer, isn't it?!"] was received with a teenager-like look of simultaneous incomprehension and disdain.  Maybe I was being overly friendly and thus impolite with such an informal phrase as ,,...že jo?" or maybe she was just miserable because people kept telling her what a lovely day it was outside and she was stuck working in an air-conditioned, no natural light to speak of, branch of Tesco.  In which case, ,,takže, chapu." ["I understand then."]  Or maybe my Czech is worse than I thought.  Occam's razor would decree it has to be the latter.

Anyway, I thought I could bypass any further need to attempt to write something interesting, seeing as I'm pushed for time and really should be packing my case instead, with some of the photos I took . There's one extra one from the other day when I realised they'd vamped-up Václavské náměstí with flower beds down the middle, just in time for tourist high-season.  Ah, the vanity...

Looking up to náměstí Míru, the church in the background, this is the general theme of where I live, banks, banks and more banks.  Oh, and a tram.  Of course. 

Then the view from the bank on the corner by the metro station, looking past yet another bank. You can just about see down to the shiny and copper-topped building in the background, which is part of the national museum at the very top of Václavské náměstí:

And here are the roses [um, sorry, you'll have to zoom in and look closely to see them!] in the middle of Václavské náměstí (or ,Václavák' as it's affectionately known to us 'locals'):

Adventures in Deutschland

What can I write in 10 minutes, bearing in mind I really need to get some sleep before I have to be up bright and early at 6, and munching some breakfast in order to be able to plan things for further meetings by 7.30/8am ish?

Well, let's see, I curled my hair and wore wholly inappropriate shoes to the restaurant the architect and I went to for his birthday on Friday.  He liked the results of both the curling-tong-ed hair and the shoes and kept staring at me all evening as a result.  

Then on Saturday we ran away to a tiny village north of Prague near 'Česká Lípa'.  And on Sunday we went to a place called 'Luž' and crossed the German border, where they call it 'Lausche' and much fun was had by all.  Including realising I had forgotten the word for 'mushroom' in German and that even linking words, like 'like' in German had gone out of my head and had been entirely replaced by their Czech equivalents.  Thus resulting in an Identity crisis for the girl who got an 'A' in her German 'A' level (before A* existed).

Here is photographic evidence of having made it to Germany (though what 'Stiftung' in the main sentence means is currently beyond me, but sounds suspicious nonetheless)*:

Here's a sign that proves Germans are the epitome of efficiency and forward planning with notices for everything imaginable, including the 'free-time area' for sitting and eating your packed lunch, overlooking a podium where one could stage a small performance of Shakespeare, should one so wish, though you can't see it in the photo:

And here are some German cows (though the zooming in only made them look even more like chickens instead of cows, but oh well...I tried) that the architect remarked were too clean to be Czech ones: 

And this is the beautiful lush green hill in Germany overlooking both Germany and some strangely German-sounding town in the Czech republic named 'Varnsdorf', that reminded me of the T'ai Chi scene in Calendar Girls where someone ends up suggesting, "Does anyone fancy some chips?", to which I would happily have replied, "hell yes!" had I been given the opportunity:

And with that, I have been writing for over half an hour and shall suffer for it tomorrow morning when I will not be happy about how my body feels post-aerobics and only 5 hours' sleep.  But "that's life, eh?"  Or rather, "to je život, že jo?"

(*According to Google translate, it means 'foundation' or 'establishment'.)

The Czech language, Slovaks and cheap hair dye

It's been an odd kind of day, mostly exhausting because I had so much to prepare for my meet-ee this morning and then only an hour and a half in between to try to do some Czech homework, but my Czech lesson went quite well.  I'm getting to a point where I know most of the main things necessary for a basic conversation in Czech, but I sometimes still don't know the perfective verb that pairs with the imperfective one I know.  (I like how my spell check is currently underlining these words as if they don't exist.  Obviously my spell check never had to learn about Czech grammar.)  

Yes, perfective verbs exist.  They are the ones which signify an activity done once, whereas the imperfective ones are used for regular activities.  So if I want to say, "I have to go to the shopping centre," I would have to ask myself, "hmm, which verb do I need here - do I mean I have to go to the shopping centre every day for a meeting or I have to go to the shopping centre now, just once?"  Not that hard, but the verbs for 'to go' (and I mean 'on foot' here) are 'jít' and 'chodit'.  I go (once) carries the meaning 'I will go' and is 'jdu' but 'I go', every week, every day etc. is 'chodím'.  Quite different aren't they? 

It's quite complicated that there are two ways of saying future intentions, (though English sort of has three) you can either use a word that functions like 'will' or use the present tense of the perfective verb which is always future in meaning.  But that requires you of course to know both the perfective and imperfective to have the choice.  And I can't believe the number of verbs where I do know both but can't for the life of me remember which one is which.  So I end up saying the equivalent of, "I'll be doing it" instead of, "I'll do it".  (Actually, that one I know both forms of [dělám/udělám] like the back of my hand.  And it's easier than in English anyway, because there isn't another verb like 'make' that requires you to know which nouns go with it and which don't.  Hearing any foreigner say, "I do so many mistakes", highlights this difficulty rather well.)  But I'm sure I've recently said something like, "I was remembering" instead of, "I remembered", or, worse still, "I'll try", instead of, "I'm trying".  So, having told you all that, I imagine you're thanking your lucky stars that you don't have to learn Czech.  Yes, well good for you.  Hmmph.  Some of us have to work hard to survive, you know.

The almost tragic thing is, however, that I know, in spite of Czech being a language that drives me insane with how "challenging" it is, I will miss speaking/hearing it when I come to London.  I'll be dying to find some way of keeping in touch with it, so I'll probably have to read the online newspaper I always check (www.idnes.cz) in order to not feel too far from it.  And when I come back, I'll feel pleased to be back in this quirky little country with its seemingly unintelligible language and it'll feel like home the first time I hear someone say something typically Czech, like, ,,to víš, že jo!" [you know it is! / of course it is!] or just, ,,ježiš marja" [=lit. "Jesus Mary!" = "oh my god!"] Which is utterly looney, is it not?  But I kid you not, I do enjoy speaking Czech.  I love the fact that it's so incomprehensible to most English speakers. It's like knowing a special code and I've always rather liked the idea of codes.  

It's a way of having a secret club only for those who know the lingo.  Except in this case, my secret club is a country of about 10 million, all of whom speak it a hell of a lot better than I do.  And there's also the fact that Slovaks speak such a similar language, that they understand Czech perfectly too, so there's another 5 million. And when Slovaks move here, they adapt to saying things in Czech instead as and when necessary, so they speak it better than me too.  I still find it really confusing listening to Slovak speakers on TV, as I start wondering why I can't understand as much, but think it has to be Czech, but then I realise it's a Slovak programme and that's why everything sounds sort of...skewed.

And with that, I'm feeling really rather tired now and must go to bed.  I washed my hair this evening and it's already looking less than professional (it really does look like I dyed it myself with a cheap bottle of Wella hair dye or something) so I just hope the architect won't be totally disappointed tomorrow.  It's his birthday and I want to make him feel happier, not make him feel ashamed that his girlfriend looks like someone who never grew out of henna-ed hair and tie-dyed dresses...

Wish me luck.