7 years ago today I landed in Sydney to start a Master of Cultural Studies at The University of Cultural Studies It was my second visit to Oz, the Hubster’s first (yeah, #truluv).
It was 12 months of mind-blown moments in a collegiate culture that positively encouraged respectful challenging, questioning and opining. I was prodded to (re)think/frame/position and adopted the annoying habit of over-using brackets (parentheses) and slashing word/s.
I loved it. It nearly broke me.
Ditching my dissertation 3 months before its deadline because it was boring as bat-shit; ‘popping’ to Montpellier to present my Bachelor’s paper at an International conference on Love and Music; and pulling all-nighters to push out assignments in the final term was one of my stressiest times, ever.
It’s easy to think: Call that stress? THIS is stress! And whip out my Cancer Card (Expiry Date: never). But it’s all relevant, isn’t it it? It was real to me at that time. It was be.
Since my diagnosis people often say to me: whatever will be, will be. To which my reply is: it’s already fucking ‘be’! But usually with my inside voice.
I’m so very fortunate that my current ‘be’ is living where I do with all the multiplicities of privilege I have. The basest which is to simply ‘be’ (living/breathing/being).
Part of being is to do the feels - the good, the bad and the ugly - and today I’ve been doing the dark feels. You know, that dark mood that feels like a chemical imbalance in your being, which you can almost taste.
I miss my Scouse famalam a lorra lorra. But until our country-wide lockdown is lifted it’s not to be.
So fare thee well, my own true love
For when I return, united we will be
It's not the leaving of Liverpool that grieves me
But my darling when I think of thee