13. DRIFTING THROUGH THE MODERN CIRCUS

Jaytheauthor Travel Journal: Brussels

SERIES MISSION: For the past two months, I have spent one hour, every two days, writing a diary entry to try to process and analyse moments, emotions, and happenings on and off the road. I found that if I let the words come out unfiltered, uncomfortably honest, this practice pulls out many hidden meanings and secrets. I thought these realisations and learnings might help others too, because maybe you too, feel these emotions, and maybe we can both learn from the autopsy of such emotions.

17th November - Brussels

It’s been a while since I’ve seen the sun. Today’s the first blue sky I’ve seen since arriving in Brussels. And today is also my last day. I leave for London in two hours. Back to work. Back to having a purpose. Back to having permission to turn off my writing mind.

Last week in London, I did a tarot reading with an inspiring girl who loves pigeons. She’s from Manila. Born into a world that made her grow up faster than most, starting work before her first period, managing a bar in her early teens, running a nightclub in her early twenties.

‘I’ve lived many lives,’ she told me. ‘I owned one of the most popular nightclubs in Manila at twenty-three. Celebrities everywhere. It was magical, but draining. I sometimes struggle to remember those years. Everything’s shiny, gold, glittering, but covered in a heavy blanket of smoke. I learned a lot, but if I didn’t walk away when I did, I wouldn’t be here now. I knew something was off when I could down thirty shots of vodka and stay sober. Something needed to change.”

She moved to Singapore. Worked for Universal Music for ten years. Saved money. Got a UK visa. Came to London. Her ten years of savings evaporated in six months. Then she became homeless. “I know, it’s not sexy, especially when a girl’s homeless,” she laughed, “but it happened. That’s that.”

She eventually found a place, but the housemates were aggressive. “Deep down, I knew this experience was teaching me something,” she said. “Sure, the housemates were very violent to me, but in that toxic house I’d always see the same two pigeons bobbing around in the garden. They made me smile. They looked so harmless. I bought bird feed. We became friends. I resonated with them. Not long ago, pigeons were cherished by humans, they carried messages in the war, they saved lives. Then technology took their jobs and now they’re vermin. I’m not calling myself vermin, but it’s not easy being an immigrant in England. Everything is harder. And a lot of people see us the same way they see pigeons. But pigeons… they’re resilient. Once I saw them build a nest on anti-bird spikes. That’s real punk rock. They’re beautiful creatures, just misunderstood. They’re survivors. Like me. Life is good now.”

We spent hours in the lobby of her apartment drinking hot chocolate. Eventually she asked if I wanted my future read. Her tarot deck was made of pigeons, each card a different bird, a different meaning. I agreed. She pulled three cards. One of them read: Stretch. A pigeon stretching its neck to the sky, ignoring a small flower blooming through a crack in the concrete.

I couldn’t have picked a more accurate card. Right now, I feel stretched, here, there, everywhere. I’m not writing this to say poor me, woe me. I know I’m privileged to even be in a position where I can be stretched. I worked my ass off to be in this position. But still, something’s tugging at me so hard I feel myself coming undone. When you have no edges to hold onto, it’s easy to be pulled somewhere you don’t want to go.

I’ve drifted for the past ten years. My work requires drifting. It requires someone who can move with the work. The film industry is the modern circus, after all. But after spiritually waking up on my long trip through Central Asia, I think it’s time to dig a hole and plant some seeds. Build a base. Grow roots. Attach an umbilical cord to my back to keep myself grounded. Keep myself from flying too close to the sun.

Last week, during one of my stranger meetings, I had coffee with a guy named Bo, a free-spirited rockstar type. He organises a giant music festival in Nelson, New Zealand. He was on a three-month trip around Europe. He told me he needed to step away from the world he’d built in his hometown, where everybody knows him, to become a nobody again. He needed to pull his ego apart and start fresh, because when people look up to you for too long, it’s easy to go blind. You can’t teach all the time; it’s important to remember you’re still a student.

One thing he said about his hometown struck a chord with me. He said: “People come to Nelson from all over the world and fall in love so hard they stop travelling and plant their roots here. It’s a magical place, situated where the mountains and the sea collide, the positioning creates a kind of energy vortex. For many, it’s the destination. For me, it’s the landing pad. I was born in paradise. My roots grew deep young. I don’t need to travel to search for a home. My home was already built on sacred ground. I travel to fetch exotic waters to feed the tree I left behind.”

His love for his home made me question my existence. Writers romanticise wandering. The publishers market it as the cool thing to do yet rarely publish anybody who authentically lives such a life. And to an extent, I agree, a writer must leave the comforts of his world to find the fire for his words beyond the horizon. But the idea of being a constant wanderer with no place is exhausting. Sure, it looks cool, being this drifter, this wanderer free from society’s chains. But sometimes it’s not the chains that strangle you. It’s the wind. The endless crossroads.

I’ve definitely acquired a lot of wisdom on the road, but a wise man once told me:
”If I had the choice between the wisdom I’ve learned or a happy family without the wisdom, I’d choose the latter every day. A happy man won’t miss something he doesn’t know, but a wise man will always miss something he knows he doesn’t have.”

I don’t know what I’m getting at with this entry. I guess all I’m trying to say is: there are prices to pay for everything. Balance is essential, but the earth is naturally tilted, so we’ve got to make the best of the tilt we’re positioned on. We’ve got to keep smiling. And writing. And living. And most importantly, listening. To both worlds. Inside and out. Rock and roll wild child.

If you like the way I write and want to learn a new kind of philosophy, a raw kind, ‘gutter philosophy’, here’s a link. Dear Stranger, Origins Rock and Roll Wildchild. Purchasing the book will support the Dear Stranger Project :) - Jay

DISCLAIMER. All photos used in this post do not belong to me. I found them on Pinterest and altered them for emotive purposes. If you own any of these photos, please comment your name below as the photographer, or if you want me to take them down, I am happy to do so.