Berlin

rubbing across the edges of here, scratching further into peoples space, holding back intentionally to not exert pressure, encorage others to chose in a zone unadulterated by my will. This is complicated though by my desire not to wait. Sure, there is a creeping need to pull off the covers.


Berlin: further mediatations on place and belonging as the carpetbagger travels

Smile

You know those people who just talk way too much? Every time they open their mouths they go into such extraordinary detail, explaining everything so excessively that they never shut up. I can think of one, who by the time she finally stops talking I have gotten so sick of listening, reassuring I'm listening, and expressing the fact that I do indeed understand what she is saying to me, that I'm sure she can see the look of disdain on my face. I don't hate her though, she is extremely kind, so I try my hardest to be polite and patient and hide my sneer. Those who know me will know that I am not especially good at keeping what I think to myself, sure I may not say anything, but other people can feel my ire, see my aversion to them. I just want to scream at her, "Yes, I fucking understand you!" and no, "I don't care about every single inane detail of your daily affairs," "I am not stupid and I don't want you to explain to me how to do really obvious things like operate a refrigerator!!" Instead, the higher minded, new me says nothing and tries really hard to smile.

That sinkining feeling

You want to trust someone, you try to trust that person, you let yourself believe their obvious embellishments but in the end it becomes impossible and you must admit-they're a liar and you've been taken for a ride, but you buck up, dust off, fix your hair and you calmly explain to the liar that he has messed with the wrong bird.

I am not that easy to break.

Something can be learned from "Sex in the City"

Yes there are not many valuable lessons to be weaned from this television show but there is one that comes to my mind today...

That of the GayStraight man. This is a Straight man who intentionally or otherwise carries himself off as a Gay man in order to win over the trust of women, based on his nonpredatorial association. Then once he has won over this trust-he flips the switch and that 'friendlymassagetorelieveyourperiodpain' quickly turns into a seduction manuever. Now I have seen this tactic played out many times before, and though the cast of SC depicts your succesful business man type in the GayStraight man role this move is even more cringe-causing when it is played by your bohemianactivistcolledgestudent type. You want to trust that this man is your friend and sometimes you can-except for those bad apples...

I recently witnessed one of these stray-feed me-dogs, seducing a woman with the signature massage trick and I really could not contain my ire. I had no choice but to wake the unknowing lady from her 'relaxation'stupor and tell her what was what, before those hands strayed any further.

Gentlemen, if your going to try to seduce us at least come out and admit it!

Aren't the mountains beautiful?

A steep hike up reveals a wonderful valley capable of being understood. It needs not seek guidance , plead for patience, or win one over as a friend. It exists in total completion.

"Thoreau tells us he is fully capable of living a more than pre-detemined life.

This is my argument again and once more but some people don't seem to get it. Well let us learn something from the author of that famous essay "Civil disobedience" that inspired Gandhi and MLK and anarcho kids in NYC to this day.

I find myself reading On the Road again, this is the third time and I almost never read books more than once. But I have to, it doesn't matter that I know the story, its in the telling. Its all in the telling and Thoreau (yes I'm reading two books at once now that I have more time) tells us that by imagining the course, describing it vividly, we achieve much more than that nagging destination which we are always expected to arrive at-to become-the owner of some tittle or object, not much has changed since the days of the old English Monarchy has it?

I'm rambling- what I meant to say is I love reading about the mad journey and resting temporarily from mine. I have in tow the excited traveler and the quiet recluse-both writers looking to discover something.

I eat gnocchi my favorite and I scavenge vegetables when that market is over-still fresh, I exchange glances with modern gypsies and old Italians, we collect the waste. I watch Preminger movies in black and white at the cinema next door every night. I drink tea with lemon and honey and ginger and study maps.

I don't think we're in Kansas anymore toto

I walk down the wide avenue gazing this way and that and I notice a large crowd approaching me is it a popular protest, Saturday afternoon the perfect opportunity to reclaim the streets? No, its end of summer sales, 50% off, and the crowds are flocking, the line to the fitting rooms at HM stretches out the door, where am I?I turn to my imaginary toto and remark,

"I don't' think we're in Kansas anymore" toto says nothing. He won't dignify my comment with an answer, because of course we're not.

We are in Nice, France. I have just finished cycling for Darfur and slowly the world of mornings lit by golden light and beaches and new faces and bakery sandwiches for lunch starts to fade out and garish shoppers, fashionable, noses stuck up in the air begin to fade in to my consciousness. Sometimes my focus is so singular that I cease to see the commuters shrouded in designer fear.

Welcome one and all to my personal blog

Thank you for being such devoted readers of my cycling for Darfur blog. It was a really wonderful trip and I am so thankful for the opportunity that it has been to do something I believe in on my own terms.

If you wish to continue reading and journey on with me i invite you, but I warn you I can not promise where the road will take us. Not all will be nice but everything will be true between my eyes and your ears.

Still coming... well then lets go...up craggy mountains into the caverns of my experiences, next stop=Italy, lets hope it doesn´t rain!

Love Robyn

It's Strange how we get trapped in the past

I've been noticing lately, my tendency to dream about lost times. Moments that in many respects I'm glad are over, still seem to repeat on me. I imaging myself in them with this longing, which is hard to explain. Why would I want to relive pain? Is it the subtle beauty that exists inside of it, or just fear of moving on and finding less faulted beauties to languish in.

Privacy is a state of mind

According to Jan Yoors, insider gypsy anthropologist, the Rom(gypsies) consider privacy to be a state of mind. Something which involves giving other people space, not prying and not discussing unsavory things which might offend others. This statement attests to the idea that people who share tiny spaces, like campsites and wagons, or train cars and the great outdoors, an be constantly together yet comfortably alone. While, I've noticed that people who share houses or in this city sidewalks and roads, can feel continuously irritated by the presence of meddling others. There are always those people who do not observe borders, almost unconscious of there existence these people have a tendency to be intrusive. Surrounded by such space invaders many of us develop the belief that we must hole up in private places, rooms with locks on the doors, deserted beaches in order to find this truly alone sense of quiet and peace. However, why can't we, when in Rom, do as the gypsies do and find inner solace, by creating space around us by respecting the boundaries of ourselves and others?

Cyberspace

This is one of the dresses that I have recently made. Check out more on www.inkblotkelly.etsy.com I've been talking a lot with people who are physically present in the same space as me, about the craziness that is cyber relations. How, people meet online and these friendships, translate into hang out in reality(not virtual) friends, to bar dates, jobs, and sublets. the down side to this is that internet rejections burn ya just as much as to your face ones. Still we learn on places like facebook that pictures are omnipotent. Thus even old fashioned phone calls are pushed farther to the back of the bus- they start to feel too personal,"intimate" if you will, when they break the silence of pictures and text(messaging). unless they're the types of phone calls that proceed as follows: 'Press 1 to make a new booking, press 2 to make changes on an already existing booking, Press 3 to hear these options again, press 4 to go back to the main menu. Do not hang up and call again, it will not increase your wait time.' Is it variable overload or celebration worthy modernity?

Why leave the house at all

In the technology saturated land which is these great states, I have noticed that there is little need left to ever leave the house. Everything you need will come to you. As I listen to the birds waking up, a morning ritual that I've loved since my meditation days, its 4am and I'm contemplating going to sleep just before it becomes light. I want to somehow trick my body into respecting the rules of nature, rather than making up its own precepts. It wants to create new codes, based on dive bars and buses that don't come, roof top parties and dares to talk to someone who doesn't know someone you know. I definitely have a desire to leave the house often and I do, yet I've noticed how those who don't can get on. We can do business on line: make money from home, order groceries for delivery, books, movies, every commodity comes through the net or mail or phone, people have sex without touching all the time, meet dates, and friends, whole social networks exist remotely. When did we become this afraid of fresh air?

Flea Market

The phrase is not one which English as a second language speakers often know. Its etymological origin is not clear and it can only be described to them as slang for some kind of a market.

I've always loved them filled with random scores and bargaining from a dollar down to 50 cents. However, I go about every day generally considering myself to be weird, but the odd-balls one finds at flea markets outdo me hands down. The collectors of candles from the seventies, miniature ceramic boots and of course ancient coins and stamps. The sellers of 2 dollar shoes by the dozen, made in china, socks and electrical tape, the hamburger vendor and fresh lemonade Italian ice.

Everybody loves a street fair but only freaks (and vintage buyers) love flea markets.

Meditation

Become very still and listen-I prefer power yoga with music and sweat-but there are birds-not racing to become something-nicely stumble across a park rose petal morning-coffee square absorbing the sun-submit, apply, impress get press 'any press is good press'-get dizzy from staying up too late not drinking enough water I'm that fragile I don't need help to decay-the hammock is calling waiting for an accepted invitation into relax-run on a machine don't go no where seek shades of people past-shine charming bastard shyness can only protect so far.

Travel from home in the rain

It doesn't rain like this in Melbourne, for days, all night, without stopping. It shocks me now no longer used to constancy. I travel through cyberspace, picking up messages leaving questions.

The City is too Loud

The bus driver inside of his 25 foot protective sheath, catches attitude about something the guy in the car in front of him is doing, so he lets out a loud long honk. He hardly hears it, but I'm reeling. Why is this city so loud? And noise is not the only way that it is... Loud, remember the adjective way back when, your grandma used to use it: to denote brightly colored, different, attention grabbing. New York is loud cause like the bus driver, its got attitude. People here don't shy away from the splatter paint facts of their experience. Instead, they tell you about what it is like to be a sex worker. Librarians ask you if you know where they can get crystal meth, I become unsure if they're a narc or I am. Am I a cop?

The stories, I hear about Dominatrix/Lawyers, stiltwalking cat on acid experts, givers, healers media activists, political experts, live from the front of greedy landlord/developer wars, and back from real wars. Iraq, Darfour, Katrina, Guantanamo bay. There are myriad stories and this city is too loud for me to hear all of them together rising to make dim the smoglight, rising above the din of the lime light and the wine light. I hear the attitude of naked, tattooed, human art, it helps me to do something, get live. My ears hurt, I speak quietly cause I dislike noise, but the words are poison when the woman refrains from her speech.

Talking a woman down off the bridge

We were going to take the Brooklyn Bridge, but my mom was lost again, and we were approaching the Manhattan bridge so I pointed it out and we drove on to it. Brooklyn had graced us with a beautiful African dance performance and now it was time to go home. As we drove across, we each thought of mundane things like going for a jog, or walking the dog later at home. Yet the weather had changed the summer night filled with rain, wind, and lightning-just like a story but this was real. The woman was standing on the edge of the bridge, her hair blowing, hands still grasping the cables. I shouted. "There is a woman there!" Mom said, "I know," thinking I meant something else. So I shouted it again louder, she saw, she gasped, "Oh my god!" I said."Get out, talk to her, your a therapist talk her down." She got out yelling at me to call the police. I called them, they took details, spent time. I got out and approached her, my mom was five feet back from her, didn't want to make her jump by jarring her. She was saying things like 'we'll help you' and 'tell us what's wrong.' There was a man just behind her, I went up next to him and spoke to her, "Please don't! Let us help you, you can talk to us and tell us what's wrong, there's no hurry to do this, tell us what happened." The man asked me if he should grab her wrist, I said "yes." He tried, she said, "Don't touch me," as she turned around and looked at him. She was determined, but more she was lost. I continued to talk to her, as did my mom saying, "We'll help you, with money or a place to stay, whatever you need."A Russian man and a few other men, as they got out of their cars shouted, "It's not worth it!" "Don't do it." She would let go with one hand and our pleading would grow louder. I kept talking, knowing the police were coming. Another man came up behind her, the two of them could together grab one hand each, they asked me and each other, should they grab her, I affirmed "Yes!" And spoke to her to distract her, in unison they each got one hand, grabbed her arms, pulled hard and got her down. My mom, hugged her then, she hugged back. We offered her endearing comments, words, advice, our relief, the whole strangers group of us. I held her on one side, my mom on the other, we walked her to our car and sat down with her. She wouldn't talk, except to say thank you(at first), hi( when mom introduced me by name), and no thank you (when I offered her food). The police called then, they were on their way. Police arrived they took her, in an ambulance, and moved her car from the road. I was shivering, my mom was shaking, she looked warm. I hope that we saved her.

New Jersey

How is Jersey? Is it good to be back? No it sucks. When is Jersey ever good. I was throwing an old couch down the stairs when I hit a family heirloom framed pastel of my paternal grandfather. The glass broke and the picture ripped. My mother busily swept it up while I sat there feeling sad. Later we determined that the thing to do was to take it to our local framer and see if it couldn't be fixed. As I gingerly carried the drawing into the shop and my mother lugged the broken frame, it fast became apparent that the man in the shop was a bush voting for tacky polo shirt wearing dick. The conversation developed badly into a screaming fit with him shouting that no one can un-rip a rip and that if I could find someone who could fix the tear, he would like to meet him. I then was forced to ask him what he thought art historians did in the course of restoration of old works. Did he think that Michelangelo's 's art comes to us today perfectly preserved, and indeed if he would like to meet the woman who fixes tears, I'd be happy to introduce him to an art preservationist.

Jersey sucks because there are people like him running free, and although you find them everywhere they bother me more here, because tis is where I'm from. Somehow it claims me and I kind of have to claim it back.

The trees are really big though they manage to rock the suburbs and bike riding and swimming, walking, running, eating lunch specials seeing movies- are all kind of sedate but fun still.

come and vist me one and all, I'll take you bowling...

Atlanta

What am I doing here? A cousin of mine who I haven't seen in a long time got married this weekend. So I came down south to see her do it. I also decided to couchsurf while I was down here and lucked out staying with a really cool guy. Tonight we went to a comedy improv night at a place called Dad's Garage. The highlight was this make believe nurse (potentially drunk) deciding whether or not to take the blood of this gay man, based on whether or not he had had sex with a man since 1976 and whether or not he had been to chad Cameroon Niger or Nigeria in the last 12 months...something was so true and hilarious about but I guess I can't explain what. I have also gotten to catch up with my "super cute" ( new slang that I have just learned) little cousins who are 4 and 7, they are amazing, plus a whole wonderful slew of other relations. I have also patronised the famous Atlanta breakfasterie The Flying Biscuit. I recommend it for a grand southern feed.

Welcome

The words Carpetbaggers, Gypsies, Nomads, Hoboes and Tramps and even Travelers have all been used with negative connotation. For the real reclaimed positive definition of carpetbagger see top. I also like Ben Reitman's definition of Hoboes and Tramps, he goes on to define Bums as the negative incarnation of vagrants, the kind that are addicted to drugs and drink who are the smallest element, yet perhaps create the negative image.

As for Gypsies and Nomads these both represent indigenous groups of various countries who either traditionally travel in search of food or work, as musicians, or because of oppression are forced out of lands.

This leaves Travelers, something I have often called myself along the way. I think we are modern day tramps and Carpetbaggers, maybe with a bit of the pilgrim (one who goes in search of a sacred location) in us. The non- religious type of pilgrim that is; we go on a quest, towards one thing/place, away from another. It’s the great hero's quest, the journey, except most of the time no one is watching us!

As a carpet bagger in the best meaning of the word I love to arrive in new places and get stirred up in the politics, perhaps find work, record my exploits ( writing is the most important thing for me...take some photos too), taste the delicacies, meet the locals, and definitely carry as little luggage as possible. Anyone have a carpet bag gathering dust in the closet?