Crikey, it's the 9th again. So I am consistent.

So I could write a travelogue for you, a nuanced and witty peak at all the minor details of differences you could find for yourself if you were where I am; but I won’t. Instead I’ll empty my head and heart onto these pages, just in case you’re wondering what I’ve been through lately. There’s a proverb I heard once that originally featured a violin, but I’ll paraphrase it for you here: Life is like writing a blog in public, and learning how to write it as you go along.
For those of you who know me well; this may be my last disclaimer, sorry.


I had a revelatory experience in my Czech class the other week. I discovered that I have a hobby; it's learning Czech! haha. I had never thought of any of my interests as hobbies. Somehow I had the concept from somewhere that they were distractions from the real business of whatever it was I was really supposed to be doing. Consequently, it’s been a long time since I’ve given myself over to enjoying my interests whole-heartedly; and I wasn’t able to do what I was supposed to be doing either, because I had no reasonable idea what that could be. Strange isn't it? So I guess I was living in some perpetual anxiety... which just keeps diminishing with age, and the wisdom of years. Thanks to the change of scene and associated dramatic distractions, it's really a museum piece now, this strange emotional strain. I've been able to check it out since now I only have it in sample size doses.

The things you learn by getting away from the familiar aren't always exotic, they're the too close to your nose despite your face, all to familiar to be realised home truths, the second natures, the maladaptive coping strategies that are difficult to shake on the nurturing ground of one's home turf... they may be just as useless at home, but they're probably reinforced by habits that loose their ... triggers in another country. For example: When asked, "How are you?” I often used to answer with a superfluous, honest in the moment, response (I was well into my 20s before I understood that most people weren't interested in a real answer). Over here no one asks me (and unless they really mean it they don't ask each other either), so it's easier to see how quickly feeling states change, as I have no psychological hangovers from the poor reception I received when I last honestly answered that question with a feeling that wouldn't have necessarily lasted anyway. Get it? I can forget more easily. No one holds me to anything. It's a joy. So maybe there is more room for psychological growth, without the old social strictures of familiar culture. At the same time of course, it's dangerous ground, I may loose myself in the gap between worlds....

Yee-haa, bring on the maddness! hahahahaha. Write to me, I'm lonely. But only for 20 minutes a day, tops, I swear. Then I'm dizzy as a schoolboy after his first date. I'm learning to breathe again. I inhale the air of 7 centuries embodied in architecture. I am the Vltava. I am the crossed and double crossed Charles Bridge that spans it and the years. All I hear is a delightful and apparently unpronounceable language, and I’m charmed by the curious buzz and humm; which must all mean something, being so vital to a people. I'm overwhelmed. Then I'm Johnny Cash, leaving Fulsome; stepping off a tram and living fulsome; I'm a King Tubby sample remixed dub style, have been all the while; I'm Andrew Bird's hauntingly beautiful whistle (You can't ride the concept of a horse, but still I try"). Czech as a robot, iPod therefore I am. I'm off my facebook. Feelin' Aus, I'm sinking you tubes… I'm Peter (G'day) Russel Clark on fuckin' vacation you pricks. A potom; I am the sidewalks of my new ‘hood, rising up doggedly to challenge the pampered apartment pets of Vinohrady to a shit fight. Then I'm a walking stick taken by my communist-era surviving owner for a hobble to the mall, just to find out if he can survive that as well. I'm a little Aussie battler with a new frontier. I'm a wanna be exile, an immigrant on loan. I am my mother tongue's master. I am slave to the metro. I'm my students' teacher: Learn my language, but please speak it your own way, by our rules, if I can find them, for you. You get the idea? I don't. Nevim. No idea. Zapomenel jsem na to. I’ve forgotten about it. Nemluvim, I can’t speak. Except to say "Chtel bych another coffee to get me through my day, I'm having one of those." Sabes? Of course you do. Aren't you readers also unrelenting idealistic children of the revolution? We are one and the same, there is no separation between us and we can never be alone, we're blogging Borg beings interrelated by our mongrel blood and the interweb, right? We identify with the refugee, who we can never be, because we will always have a home to go to. We're lucky bastards aren't we, from the world's luckiest country: Australia, the bastard child of Europe; left at the back door of more lucrative colonies. A century older and bolder and biting mum on the bum with teeth cut in the real world, fuelled by nature's gifts. Bet she didn't see that coming. Now she's watching closely, so behave!

I told my Czech friend o vikendu, that it has been interesting to be here at this time, only getting essential nuggets of news from home about the most significant declaration of our times, by the new standard bearers of our hope. Hearing the healing word had been spoken made me real proud to be an Aussie at heart. After all, I feel like an escaped piece of the landscape; I'm terra australis, mostly incognita (Ashes to dust, a being of clay, it doesn't matter what I say, my body will return, at the end of the day). After having felt the dislocation of homelessness, it was a true confirmation for my integrity aspirations that I have a nationality I can gladly identify with. So I said, allowed, "It’s no struggle to be here, I'm no immigrant, I'm an Australian in Europe, an Australian European. I know where I come from, and where I stand". I also have the EU passport companion to prove it...

... and that had had me confused for awhile: 'Who am I? I have a father's land and a mother's land to call home". Two years ago the poms changed their citizenship laws such that they recognised where my mum was from, so I became a pseudo-semi-pom. Happily this was only after my migrant mum had officially held the wattle - good on ya mum - so I had no qualms about accepting her country's offer; and I'd always felt a bit between worlds anyhow (although perhaps in a different sense). So part of my reason for moving here was to explore the very real possibilities of my other nationality: economically & geographically, as part of modern Europe; and culturally, as an offspring of this sprawling fertile cradle of civilisation as we know it…

... So my Czech friend's reply was: "and when you go home you'll be a European Australian." She's bound to be right (especially as I can't afford to go home in a hurry and I may well be suck here for good… or ill, or at least for long enough to feel at home here too). So when I get back, I'll know where I come from in a different sense. We aren't a dislocated culture. We have a continuous connection to our origins over here, and they're not all bad. A lot has changed since colonial times, the fermenting nationalism of the redefining fin-de-siecle era, the brutality and aftermaths of wars we escaped... or made sacrifices for. Now Europe is really civilized, haha! So I feel almost at home here and this place is endlessly fascinating. I'm on a voyage of discovery and I'm not going anywhere for now. I'm an Australian in Prague. Come and visit. Or write. Or Skype. Or just be happy where you are, and at least have a beer for me, you lucky bastards. Cheers.