Everywhere is better than everywhere else
Every place I have come to has been better than the place I was.
South Africa was better than Australia. Kenya better again. I enjoyed myself in Germany more than Sweden. Switzerland got even better. Manchester was better than London, and anything in Europe was better than England. Switzerland was perfect. Now, I am happy in London. London is better than Manchester. It’s better than England. England is better than Switzerland and Germany is better than England.
Understand? Good. So do I.
The skies here are blue and the air crisp. ‘Here’ is a suburb of London called Haringey. It is a cosmopolitan suburb. It has contained part of the life of Sir John Betjeman, and parts of the lives of many other literary figures who I also do not know. It has contained part of the life of Karl Marx and it contains all of his death.
Lines of pristine white cloud criss-cross the sky as the harbingers of modern humanity cruise back and forth. The smells on the street are homely. They remind me of Brisbane. And the shops and streets remind me of every place I've ever been. In an alley beside a fruit market, I am in Mozambique. In the shopping centre I am in Brisbane. The suburban street up the road is the picture of perfect settled life.
Germany was the best country I’ve ever been to. Switzerland was better but I didn’t appreciate it as much. Sweden was better than both in the guidebooks and I disliked it.
It has nothing to do with the countries. It is me. I am learning. Learning to enjoy life.
And I'm dieing slowly to do it.
I read something I wrote two years ago. I was on my way to America. I was in the airport. My thoughts were exactly what they are now. I was a little more eloquent. A little less innocent (although the difference is depressingly small). My thoughts will never change. My ego and self-interest. My desire for discovery, and my complete inability to manifest my uniqueness in any form appreciable by other sentient beings.
I always talked of despising the man who traveled in foreign lands and did not allow them to change him. I now know I am this man.
I am as happy as I have ever been, here in London. And I am made desperately unhappy by that. Terrible despair grips me when I realize how little I have given to other people. Even worse is knowing how much less they want.
South Africa was better than Australia. Kenya better again. I enjoyed myself in Germany more than Sweden. Switzerland got even better. Manchester was better than London, and anything in Europe was better than England. Switzerland was perfect. Now, I am happy in London. London is better than Manchester. It’s better than England. England is better than Switzerland and Germany is better than England.
Understand? Good. So do I.
The skies here are blue and the air crisp. ‘Here’ is a suburb of London called Haringey. It is a cosmopolitan suburb. It has contained part of the life of Sir John Betjeman, and parts of the lives of many other literary figures who I also do not know. It has contained part of the life of Karl Marx and it contains all of his death.
Lines of pristine white cloud criss-cross the sky as the harbingers of modern humanity cruise back and forth. The smells on the street are homely. They remind me of Brisbane. And the shops and streets remind me of every place I've ever been. In an alley beside a fruit market, I am in Mozambique. In the shopping centre I am in Brisbane. The suburban street up the road is the picture of perfect settled life.
Germany was the best country I’ve ever been to. Switzerland was better but I didn’t appreciate it as much. Sweden was better than both in the guidebooks and I disliked it.
It has nothing to do with the countries. It is me. I am learning. Learning to enjoy life.
And I'm dieing slowly to do it.
I read something I wrote two years ago. I was on my way to America. I was in the airport. My thoughts were exactly what they are now. I was a little more eloquent. A little less innocent (although the difference is depressingly small). My thoughts will never change. My ego and self-interest. My desire for discovery, and my complete inability to manifest my uniqueness in any form appreciable by other sentient beings.
I always talked of despising the man who traveled in foreign lands and did not allow them to change him. I now know I am this man.
I am as happy as I have ever been, here in London. And I am made desperately unhappy by that. Terrible despair grips me when I realize how little I have given to other people. Even worse is knowing how much less they want.
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