In my head….

So I’ve been getting a few emails asking why I’m not updating the blog so much…

I think it’s been a case of blog-writers-block. Which is strange because I finally took the advice of a friend to try my hand at writing fiction. And it’s been going surprisingly well (I think/hope). I’m loving the experience and I’m finding so much inspiration in the world around me. It’s early days, but I’ll let you know how it goes – even if it’s just some scribblings that might amuse you all…

And I promise I’ll start writing about my crazy shenanigans again soon – there’s lots to update you on… New friends, vodka and cranberry silliness at the Notting Hill Festival, dancing on fences, BBQs and lots of working – at’s all been happening lately!

You are my friends, my family, my companions. For four days we will share our lives as we camp, and breakfast, and sing, and dance.

We will trudge through four fields, from stage to stage, intermittently visiting tents to refresh and revive. We line together outside portaloos, and laugh together as we drift from one stage to another.

We will unexpectedly meet old friends and even more unexpectedly make new frineds. I will give you directions when you are lost. You will welcome me into your group when I lose all my friends and just feel like dancing anyway.

We will trudge to the grounds for coffee in the morning, dark glasses covering our offended eyes. We will jostle each other less than five hours later as we try to vie for the barmans attention.

We will take drunken walks at 4am, and one of us will break her leg – but be back dancing with the addition of a cast only hours later.

I will be backstage, and you will be painted in blue. You will bring your face close to mine and I’ll smell your skin. And I’ll smile. And you will look at me quizzically, then with a French accent say ” ‘oo are you?” And I’ll want to kiss you – but my friends are watching and laughing and I lose my nerve.

We will sing songs to cute boys as dawn breaks under the lanterns and watch smoke as it curls into the trees, knowing the music will start again in only a few hours.

And when it all gets too much, we’ll lie in the sun as the music drifts over us…

It’s not summer if you don’t go to at least one music festival….

So long away from my family, those lovely people I lived only streets away from for all of my life. For four months I lived with seas, mountains and miles between us. I sent emails and postcards and best wishes on a gust of wind. And the wind decided to bring me back a present.

Like Mary Poppins floating down with her umbrella, my mother pulled her boxy bright red suitcase from the airport, through the sweltering, dark underground, popping up into the sun an hour later and appearing on the cobblestones outside my flat. Bless.

For three weeks we’ve visited my favourite haunts and reminisced over her many past trips. We’ve seen London through each others eyes, tourist-guide eyes and the eyes of those around us. We’ve searched for decent coffee and air mattresses. We stumbled on 1980’s style visors and 1970’s style sunglasses that begged to be bought.

There have been housewarming gifts, pretty trinkets and mountains of decadent food. There have been adventures and day trips and journeys on red chariots. Board games, sudoko games and jigsaw puzzles. Red wine, white wine and champagne. Perhaps a little more red wine on my floor than was necessary – but, hey! Lost cards, found cards, over-used credit cards. Bad tv, fuzzy tv, get over the tv!

For you; I’ve posed on crypts, I’ve posed in museums, I’ve posed my little heart out just for you. I allowed you to censor our photos, I made tea in the mornings, trudged through churches, sat in the most uncomfortable seat on the double decker and woke up at 7am on my day off.

You did even more for me.

The final thing you ask of me? You’ll find them below… A day in Brighton.

Thank you.

I’ve been searching online for a poem about being displaced and longing to return home. I think it was by a Lebanese poet, written in the 1960s. I couldn’t find it. Instead I stumbled on another poet I’d not heard of, from Iraq this time – Baland Haydari.

Alone I am
and tomorrow I die with the herd
Alone
and I drag my extinguished night
Alone
My head is here
and my foot is there
and my hand presses
on my hand
…horrible pain
and I feel the yearning
for the spring inside me
dying
Oh for the destruction
and from there
and from there
Oh for the destruction
the voice of the broadcaster
is wooden
They wished for him
to not feel what he broadcasts…
they lie…they lie…
My mother…oh my mother
Here…without my love
or my smile
I sink in mud
I sink in the wound
I sink and you are not with me
I sink and no sun is with me
And not the passion hanging from
my morning
And you will forget me
despite the extinguished
flare in my room
despite the empty
future, my mother
you will forget me
Alone I am
Any my hand presses on my hand
…horrible pain
And I can almost hear
from there
and from here
the voice of the broadcaster
wooden
They wished for him to
not feel what he broadcasts

I’m a feminist. I think. I mean, I believe in many of the things that proper feminists believe in. And I’m not ashamed of that. I’m proud. But I’m not a ‘proper’ feminist. Oh god. I don’t know anymore…

Where does this disjointed ranting come from (other than from my little brain)? As a few of you may know, I’m working for a film festival – we present international films made by women.

Below is a recent, frustrating conversation I’ve had. The frustration comes from the fact that I can’t believe, in this day and age, that this is the sixth time I’ve had this conversation since I started working here.

Him - Oh, so you’re like a feminist, huh?

Me - yes, but that’s not why I work for this company, I just love what they do – it’s cool.

Him  – are you all like, you know, all lesbians?

Me - does that matter?

Him - well you’re a feminist, and you work for a organisation that’s for women only.

Me - not at all. I work for a company that shows films to men and women – in fact we want as many men to come along as possible. Just because a woman made a film, doesn’t means those films are only about “women’s issues”. Women go and see films made by men all the time, and we don’t think that.

Him  – Aha. So you are gay then!

Me - Ummm – it’s not really a fair question. I don’t see how it’s got anything to do promoting art by women, and why I need to justify why I do the work I do.

Him  – But it’s obvious.

Me - (VERY frustrated at this stage). Why’s it obvious?

Him - because you’re a feminist and you work in a feminist organisation. Just like gay people work in gay organisations, and that’s like what you do.

Me - Actually, I work in an arts organisation, not a feminist organisation. I’m not gay. I am in support of women who need a platform to present their work. Some women prefer not to use a company like ours, some find it’s the only way. It’s their choice and we’re not forcing anyone to do anything. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it.

Him - it’s discrimination against men.

*I really need to add that I’m actually toning this conversation down – this particular guy was an idiot. The others weren’t this bad, but there were certainly echoes-throughout this conversation of the others I’d had*

Me – it’s not discrimination when film festivals show films - 90% of which are usually made by men.

Him – yeah, but that’s not our fault.

Me – (speechless, and confused at this point. How could I possibly be losing this argument, feel backed into a corner, feel guilty about not being gay and being a feminist???)

Him – the problem with you feminists is you want everything to be your way. You show films made by women, whether they’re good or not, just cause their made by women.

Me – Look, I think you misunderstand what feminism can mean to some people. I wear short skirts, I kiss boys, I read vogue and I like it when I buy stupidly expensive make up. That doesn’t mean I can’t be a Guerilla Girl and actively fight to see more art by women hung in galleries, more movies made by women nominated for oscars and more women become conductors, if they want to. Plus – we show films that are the best of the best – they win awards and they are amazing and great.

Him - Whatever. I have to go. But we should go out on a date, here’s my number…

(this guy should consider himself lucky I didn’t give his mobile number to everyone I know so they can prank call him)

So here I am. Confused, bruised and worried that I didn’t do the cause any justice, but I actually might have made it worse. Somehow.

I never considered myself a feminist because I never thought I had to – I just thought it was all very obvious. How wrong could I be?

When did ‘feminism’ become a dirty word? Why did I stupidly feel the need to defend my girliness, as if there’s something wrong with someone who doesn’t like lipstick and skirts and boys. There’s not, and I let some important people in my life down by not being stronger and defending feminism and being gay. Why should I care if some loser thinks I gay, just because his pea-brain equates feminism with lesbianism?

Aaaarrggghh. I’m just so disappointed… In myself mostly. But also a little bit in him and his ilk.

*I know – I made myself look like a superwomen, fighting on the side of right, and he look like neanderthal man in the retelling of the conversation. I’d have no problems with writing it differently if it had happened differently. It didn’t though. All I can say is that you miss all of my blustering, red faced-ness and umming and ahhing which makes the whole thing seem a lot less cool.*