Memories

It was the smell that drew me back.  The wet damp smell of hay that lined the birds cages. I'd been wandering around a market in the French countryside, on task of my writing teacher to go and be inspired by my surroundings, and to let it invoke memories.  

At first glance the market could be a market anywhere, filled with plastic, and the the sounds of rhythmically clashing traditional music intersecting in your ear. But I quickly found myself drawn to the one thing that struck me as unusual. It seems a common good to buy at a French country market are live fouls. Stacked high in wooden crates with barely enough room to move are little furry bundles of various sizes and mottles, their feathers sticking out here and there through the rough wooden crates.  One woman orders three. The store owner opens the crate grips them by their powerful legs and they are plunged head first in a furious flurry of flapping into a smaller crate, where their defeated cries become quiet chirps. The crate is tied in blue string and the new owner carries them off balanced on 2 fingers, their tiny heads peaking out at freedom as they go. 

Suddenly though I breathed in and found myself in my grandparents barn in New Zealand, or more specifically behind it.  We would often play in there.  It was the height of a two story building and, from my memory, never completely full.  You could climb up the prickly rectangular bails and lie at a great height.  For some reason this day my brother had decided to venture out back.  I’m not sure what he did to disturb the bees, nor am I sure how we knew to find him there.  But I do remember all of us standing there, all my little cousins and I, at a safe distance, watching as the swarm attacked. The strange thing was my brother just stood there, not moving, not screaming, just standing as one after the other the bees left their stings in his body.

The thing was this frozen boy was very unlike my brother.  He was always the loud one, the one you would hear when he was two houses from home. The  first and only one of the grandchildren to give a speech at my grandmothers 70th birthday.  He baffled me with his ability to speak with confidence about topics he knew nothing about, and how he would often contradict himself in his beliefs.  Swinging widely between strict vegetarianism, lecturing us about the health benefits and ethical high ground of not consuming to meat, to revelling in eating the thickest, reddest, juiciest steak on offer.   Still despite his contradictions, I admire my brother.  I admire him for being able to leap into whatever comes his way. It’s a beneficial quality and it’s this boldness I believe has enable him to deserve the highest praise I have heard for him, “He has a mind”

Back in the market I can just about see him conversing with store owners without any French. Buying the large black charcoal disc on offer to find out what it was, turns out it was a cheesecake. Buret atop his head to simultaneously blend in and charm the locals. I hope that one day he can join me here in person, and we'll grab one of those horrid to a New Zealanders taste, French coffees to try with the charcoal covered cheesecake, and chat excitedly about what obscure traditional CDs we have purchased and are eager to get home and listen to while swilling a glass of the local French wine.

See you soon, love sis xx

Dear Tomorrow,

You need not come

I'm quite happy under this tree,

With the sun on my face,

And the breeze in my hair.

Forget your quest for ever marching time

And come smell the Tuscan roses with me!

Jeantine xx

On a Sunny Day..

Starting to see the charms of this city.

When you can go from this

 

(notice the see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil photo happening in the corner) 

To this

in a 20 min cycle ride!

I took my notepad with me and looking back through it I found this poem from my time in India (another time when I was more connected with nature).  I had a Banyan tree outside my room in Pune where I lived for 3 months, in fact the whole area we stayed in was lined with these beautiful old trees.

By the Banyan Tree

By the Banyan tree I sit and watch the rain fall and wash the earth

By the Banyan tree I lie and see the sun turn the sky pink

By the Banyan tree I sleep and awake to the birds singing

Dreams

I've noticed in the night time,
just before I dream
my thoughts wander freely,
free from reality or restriction
maybe that's all we have to do to realise our dreams in the daytime
just let ourselves go!

Sleeping With Strangers

Sleeping with strangers, that's how I sometimes spend my Thursday/Friday evenings and Monday mornings.  Mostly with business men of all ages, some married, some not, but from time to time women too.  Not in a bed, that would be too mundane, but on a plane seat.

We never touch, but we twist and turn in our tightly packed seats only inches from each other. I lie there with my head nearly on their shoulder, listening to the deep rhythm of their breathing as they sleep. From the perspective of a northern european culture it's actually quite an intimate thing to do, and call me strange but in an odd way I like it.

Spurred on by a conversation with someone else on a plane, I'd actually been reflecting on this lack of intimacy in our culture just a few weeks ago. I was on the way to a friend's wedding in India and started up a conversation with the German guy of Chinese descent who had negotiated his way into the seat beside me to take a video of the plane taking off.  He was on his way to China to source people to produce eye glasses for a charity that designs and distributes glasses to people who need them in Africa. Somehow we navigated our way to the topic of how absurd we find it that so many people who are in love cannot marry because of religious reasons. I started to congratulate myself for how lucky I was to have grown up in the great Western culture which values individual freedom, but I paused just for a second to contemplate that there might actually be downsides to our culture.  The first thing that came to mind, was that I'm in fact in awe of the closeness of the family unit and communities in other cultures, and the support this closeness provides.  It may sound strange coming from someone who's chosen to live halfway across the world from my family, but I think we have traded too much this intimacy for individualism.

A Logical Romantic's View

The 12" sparkly high heels did their job, catching my attention.  I could see one foot out of the corner of my eye as I stood in front of my friend's apartment fixing the height of my bicycle seat. I couldn't help but feel unsettled as I  imagined what it must be like to be her, sitting there in next to nothing, waiting to attract some wandering eye.  Of course it was perfectly normal in this part of town to sit in the window of your apartment like that. You see my friend whom I was visiting lives between two windows.  Which might sound perfectly innocent until I explain that she lives in Amsterdam.

She in fact doesn't live in the main red light district, but on a street with a little pocket of red light windows. Which may sound better, but is in fact worse. As while the red light district may have a lot more windows it also attracts a lot of curious people who are just there to see what it is like. The people frequenting these little pockets though, are there for one purpose only.  It's creepy to watch them walking down the street eyeing up the merchandise.  To know what it means when the curtain is closed.  Or worse yet to catch them on your way out the door, themselves also on their way out, cheerfully waving goodbye, see you next time, like they had just had a haircut from their favorite barber.  

Years ago when NZ legalised prostitution I remember arguing with a religious friend of mine, who was horrified at this change, that this was a good thing.  This industry has been around for centuries and wasn't going away, and as it stood up until then, it would be the women offering the service not the men who were criminalised.  And, I also argued, now they could be protected by health and safety laws and yes I said it, pay taxes.  I've too explored the topic with enough men to know that many of them think it is a valid service. For men, they explain, sex is a need, if they can't get it in normal ways, then its good that this service is provided.  I've also heard other men, describe sex as similar to eating a sandwich, they get hungry, they eat the sandwich they go on their way.  Fortunately I've also heard from the same men its no substitute for being with someone you have an emotional connection with. 

I too have been one of the curious keen to have a look at the red light district. But despite my liberal beliefs telling me that people shouldn't be restricted, I didn't last more than 5 mins in the area without getting a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach and wanting out of there.  I had also looked to rent an apartment on the other side of my friends street, but although it was very nice I decided not to take it as I didn't want to be reminded on a daily basis that this industry exists.  Still despite these feelings of unease I had never really been forced, until now seeing it on my doorstep, to face up to what I really think about the industry.

So what do I think?  Is it a valid service for men who just need to eat a sandwich and women who supposedly are happy to do the menial task of sandwich making in exchange for money?  

In the end I think no.  As despite as much as men may like to think of it this way, it isn't quite like sandwich making.  I think in the end it really comes down to choice. How much choice to the women involved in this have?  And I suspect its much less than everyone would like to admit. My gut tells me that these women are either financially, physically (sex trafficking) or mentally bound in some way that does not allow them to make what I would call a "normal" choice.  Much as we do not allow the child laborer ,who may choose to be out of school to earn money for their family, to make that choice, I don't believe we should allow these women to make this choice either.