round the corner and through the looking glass

I’ve been listening to a lot of internet radio recently, mostly BBC7 and a bit of Radio 4. This isn’t unusual – frankly, I’m an addict – but it’s especially nice to have voices to tell me stories and tell me jokes when I am so far from home. I have also been reading a fair amount, though I am currently at a bit of an impasse: I am reading one brilliant book (Invitation to a Beheading by Vladimir Nabokov, the Lolita chap – I recommend it) that I seem to only be able to read in short, intense bursts, and one book that I couldn’t stop reading the first 200 pages of, but I can’t seem to face another 350 pages of Tragedy proper, all slow self destruction…

Anyway, I’m full of stories at the moment, my head filled with the potentialities of characters. I am all the time so fascinated by characters – real people and created ones – how they think and feel and believe – and do things, their lives unrolling in intricate plots. People make decisions, or sometimes decisions make themselves, and things happen, things begin. I’m talking in vaguenesses because the characters and the stories in my head are shapeshifting snatches of nothing, stolen from all the things that wander in and out of my consciousness: golden age detective stories, pirates, tales of love and loss, dancing skeletons and dancing with death, Meera Syal growing up Asian in the Black Country, old marriages, a winged lion the colour of the sky, clowns, the world that’s round the corner and through the looking glass…

I think if any of it would resolve into something solid I could write it down and not feel so restless. I don’t exactly think about this, I’m just constantly aware of it, like a buzz or a glow.

I’m also at the moment aware of the feeling that somehow life is happening without me, or that I’m failing to do all the exciting things I could be doing. This probably sounds ridiculous and ungrateful from one who is living in Mexico, but that’s not my point. Sometimes I’m grateful, sometimes I guess I’m not. I’ve done some really exciting things while I've been here; I’ve also spent hours on tedious work, done grocery shopping and washing up, felt lonely. But regardless of what’s rational, there’s a little needle in my head, and I’m convinced that if I was different, or did things differently, I’d be doing all these exciting things, meeting interesting people, having meaningful interactions, seeing wonders and having revelations. I feel like I could be seeing more of the ‘real’ Mexico, meeting ‘real’ people etc, if only I was not so goddamn square.

I think it must be partly because I was left out so much as a child at school – the suspicion that everyone else is having all the fun somewhere else is pretty hard to shake when you spent your formative years knowing that were true. I think it is also a result of having read so many books and lived so much time and emotion between the pages. In books, things happen to people and people do things; there is meaning and excitement and resolution. The bloody Lonely Planet is even worse than fiction – they always seem to convince you that every country is seething with friendly locals just bursting to whisk you off on fascinating adventures, that every bar and café will be full of characters, every square full of itinerant musicians and charming crafts, that there are forests and ruins and beautiful landscapes round every corner….

Anyway. I’m sure there are other things too amongst all the twists of nature and nurture – those human tendencies towards yearning and feeling inadequate, for a start. But it’s strange to realise that the feeling that there is excitement and adventure and meaning somewhere and I’m not quite finding it seems to be quite deeply ingrained into who I am. I guess it’s all part of being a dreamer, a seeker for the unfindable – the meaning of life, resolution, happy endings – whatever it is that stories convince you is there. But I think it can too easily become something ugly, a parody of itself – when you realise you were looking so desperately for experiences that they didn’t find you, and all you did was spend money on trinkets instead of spending time, and take snapshots that you can substitute for memories…

Pragmatically, I shall try to tell myself to enjoy the moment [insert sick noises], relax and not be afraid of people, and not beat myself up about all the things I can’t squeeze into one lifetime. Reminders appreciated.

I wasn’t expecting this post to get quite so late night soul searchy. Tis what happens, late at night. But this is me… my head full of stories, real and imaginary and the stories of all the things I could be doing, if only… buzzing with the overwhelming possibility of an infinite world of characters who can do anything and everything. I hope I’m not sounding negative. It’s exhilarating and sickening and distracting and frightening and comforting and think of any adjective you like… it’s just a buzz and a glow. It’s just me.