Battle cry: to wanda

I have recently been propositioned by a friend [Come fly with me lets fly lets fly away…think about it dahrlink you me london paris berlin rome…] to, in a couple of years, take off and see some carefully selected bits of the world. Oh and live and work elsewhere for a couple of years. I’ll be a little more honest about it. Asia can be fucked, I’m not going anywhere near the middle-east if I can at all help it, India – well, it’s a holiday but not in the plan, there’ll be the tiniest of stops in America [a country I’d happily avoid but San Francisco is an absolute must, apparently, when you travel with a lesbian], and Canada is too vast and too much of an expense for the plan. The plan is Europe, of course, to ogle and to culture and grow. Just like every other over-educated, lower-middle-class, twenty-something Australian kid. There is an inevitability to this that does not just lie in the running joke we’ve had about Paris. There’s this need to escape the familiar, to live by plunging into new [for us] experiences. This reads like some annoyingly adolescent whinging. One should go away to better understand oneself and the world blah blah fucking blah. Then I look back on it and think about the pair of us. Where we’re at, who we are, and why the fuck it isn’t good enough. I have so many theories of how each of us has become or is becoming or will never quite become the people we kinda are now. Some of which work and some of which are made lies by our siblings. [Bloody siblings, if anyone’s gonna fuck something up it’ll be a sibling, then they’ll expect forgiveness and digging them up and reanimating them is always such a hassle.]
Fair enough, travel is travel is travel, right? Only now I’m worried about my motivation, my eternal fleeing, my lack of completion in the tasks I set myself, and the thousand other things that I lack the wits and imagination to puzzle out. Maybe I’m not who I thought I was or who I thought I was going to be. Maybe I’ve overestimated certain things. I certainly overestimated my intellect and certain of the talents I thought I had and have recently realised were merely products of my atrophying imagination. Holy fucking hell what do you do when it turns out everyone was wrong about your potential? Or did they note that from an early age I was a lazy cunt and they motivated me as best as they knew how by lying their tits off about me and my place in the world? Yeah that worked real well.
Now for a little realism. I think that one of my main motivators for this expedition is to run like the devil is breathing down my neck, to run away – again. I still haven’t overcome the absurd theory that one can run away from problems, life, insecurities, every little thing that one wants to run away from. That I can escape myself and my baggage and my cloying bossy family [ah the simultaneous love and wanting to rip people limb from limb if they don’t stop nagging you to fulfil some plan or ambition of theirs.] [And in parentheses the light shall shineth down on ye and ye shall see the light and realise that thou hast been stumbling in the dark…]. I tried it once and obviously didn’t bolt far enough. Hmmmmmmm, the fact that I’m having emotional reactions when trying to sort this out in my head is an old and familiar way for me to know I’m right thinking. There are ties that need cutting before I strangle.

Fuck it, fuck it all, and to wanda. By gods I need to get drunk in the right company.