The Random Musings of a Nomad

These are my words. Please don't abuse them.

[davidwduffy]

The Never-Ending Storm

This is the view from the window of the room I'm in right now, the one I use as an office, and it does a pretty good job of summing up where I am in life at the moment. Storms roll in, or out, on a very frequent basis, something rather typical in North East England. Which is where I find myself now, seventeen-and-a-half years since I left the region to explore life in continental Europe, and two years after a government I didn't vote for conspired to remove my right to explore life in continental Europe on my own terms.

You know how it goes. Life happens, so they say. Well, it certainly did for me, and that's perhaps the problem. The past seven years have gone by at such a chaotic clip that I find myself not really knowing who I am anymore - certainly not having the assurety I once had back in the heyday of this place, when I was posting with incredible regularity.

I've barely written a word in the last six years, it being a whirlwind of two career changes, two redundancies, four countries, lockdowns and curfews, promotions and breakdowns, and more impostor syndrome than one should ever realistically have to face. Yikes.

I turned 40 a couple of months ago, and with it came the realisation that life just hasn't been that good. I've been in a funk for a very long time, and despite wanting to shake it, I've not been able. I feel too tired to try, and hopeless, but ultimately not completely without hope. It's been a challenging and incredibly lonely period, but somehow I need to fix all that before it becomes unfixable.

So here I am, spilling thoughts, wondering if that's been the answer all along. Purging myself of the ill in order to move forward with the healthy. After all, storms aren't permanent, at least unless you're on Jupiter. My brain may have been full of fog all this time, but it can clear, eventually. Maybe even enough to write something actually creative, something you'll actually want to read. 😅 I hope everyone is keeping well. P.S. That 'factory' in the distance, near the rainbow, is actually a nuclear power station. The test sirens scare the shit out of me on a weekly basis, even after two years of them.

[davidwduffy]

Life in the Time of COVID-19

Neuilly-sur-Seine & Levallois-Perret, 23 May 2020.

Actually managed to write something, for the first time in forever. Do excuse the facetiousness in parts, it was very flow of consciousness.

[davidwduffy]

Silence, in a Maelstrom of Others

Fifteen souls, grouped in formation

Local, social, at ease with one another

One, an alien, looking on in envy

Wishing he weren't just a peripheral figure.

A life defined by change

Struggling to belong, to feel welcome

A desire, strong, to take instant flight

Paralysed by fear, rooted to the spot.

How, why, does one make their escape?

Anonymous, one suspects easily

Just stand up, walk out, without a thought

Flee into the safety of the deep, silent night.

[davidwduffy]

Deluge

The rain fell hard, but he didn’t care. He was from a land where the downpours were incessant, where grey was the only colour the locals knew. He didn’t mind being soaked through. Water was life, he kept telling himself; water was the reason everyone lived to complain about it in the first place. 

He walked aimlessly, taking in the muted sights and muffled sounds. Droplets battering the leaves of trees, the tin roofs, the hardened asphalt. The artificial pitter-patter on the synthetic umbrella he was carrying, the soft splashes of his leather boots with each step. 

He’d always felt at peace in the rain, like somehow it matched his mood. Not depressed — he knew rain was good in the grand scheme of things — but hopeless. Nothing beat the rain, it was an unstoppable force. It drove people to seek shelter, to hide away. It flooded towns and villages. It was a reminder that humans were not all-powerful. 

And yet, it inspired him. He’d often walk in the rain, because in the rain he could wind back all those thoughts of life, of work, of everything that tired him in life. 

He didn’t know how long he’d walked for when he saw a woman, perhaps his own age, huddled under a large oak, barely any cover. Instinctively, he headed over and offered her the umbrella. She paused, looking up at him with sad eyes, as if to say pointless, I’m already drenched. He returned the gaze, his eyes soft and unthreatening, and she took the umbrella wordlessly.

He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his overcoat, and turned to walk away. Into the deluge. He managed a single step before he felt a hand grip his arm, so he turned his head half-back. She stepped forward, close, and held the umbrella above his head. 

We can share, if you like. 

He nodded, and turned his head back. The woman didn’t release her grip on his arm, instead stepping alongside him and holding it, the way a partner might. She squeezed it appreciatively, and they set off, the sound of the rain upon the umbrella a distraction from their silence. Back into the deluge.

[davidwduffy]

An Awkward Embrace

She sat on the park bench, gazing off into nothing. The dying light of a late summer's eve brightened the sky somewhat, but otherwise the gloom was setting in. A musical collective had met on the other side of the park, and you could hear them warming up their vocal chords with exercises in harmony, while a group of children sat on the grass laughing at their parents attempting to play badminton.

A man, smartly dressed but smaller in stature, walked hesitantly up to the woman. At first she didn't notice him, but then smiled warmly. Familiarity. Her eyes sparkled as she stood up to greet him, but their embrace was awkward. Neither could decide whether to go for the traditional French embrace of kisses on the cheek, or a proper, loving kiss on the lips. In the end, it was something of both, but neither was too bothered.

Sitting down, the man took handed her a gift bag. A delicate scarf, woollen and sky blue. The wrought iron lamps saw their bulbs suddenly light up, while pigeons foraged for scraps among the well-tended grass. Behind me, I could hear rustling; rats also keen on sustenance. Vapour trails glared in the heavens, a barely perceptible breeze picked up as the day cooled into night, and their laughter was the perfect footnote to an otherwise mundane day.

[davidwduffy]

Solitude is a double-edged sword. Sitting here lost in my thoughts, the doubt, fear and shame are amplified, peace of mind elusive. Hopes of companionship and belonging just a pipe dream, the self-confidence as absent as anyone. The noise is deafening, and sometimes it feels like the only way to hush the many voices of my conscience is to take a step forward into the bosom of the waters before me. But the beauty of the place cannot be ignored. The wind rustling through the trees, birds chirping their dusk lullabies, the gentle rippling of the river against the shore, the rhythmic hum of planes large and small departing from Tegel. The hushed tones of several languages drifting towards me—the regular sound of the group of old Russian men fishing and sharing tales, a group of teenage German girls gossiping and giggling, the melodies of a singing Spanish trio sat cross-legged with their classical guitars. And then the solitude is broken by an uninvited guest—a soggy white Labrador with a pink plastic ball in its mouth, tail wagging and eyes gleaming. I say hello and reach out to scratch behind her ears, as her owner calls her name in slight panic—Emma, Emma.. I look up and smile at the owner and her friend, allaying her fear. As soon as they appeared, they are gone, laughing to each other as the round the corner of the small island on which I sit, realising that Emma was rather drenched. With that another plane hums overhead, and I return to the Murakami short story I was reading, coincidentally about a solitary man. #murakami #berlin #life #thoughts #tegel #eiswerder #spree

[davidwduffy]

Finally getting around to reading In-Between Days by @a-new-american-classic - about time, heh.

[davidwduffy]

Note

“Excuse me, Miss. This was left for you on the table over there.”

Laura took the folded piece of paper and opened it up. The handwriting was neat, the wording methodical. She read it with great interest and surprise.

 You sit alone, gazing out of the window of the coffee shop at the looming grey clouds. Soon it will rain; the heavens will open and unload their weighty burden upon us, and there’s nothing we can do except hide under our umbrellas and raincoat hoods.

You look lost; as if there’s something fundamentally missing from your everyday being. There’s no smile on your face, yet there’s no other sign of feeling. It would be easy to say you’re sad, but to me, it’s more than that. Something more akin to disappointment, or lament. If I watch for long enough, there’ll be a glimmer of optimism in there just waiting to be coaxed out.

I know this, and I see this, because it’s exactly the same as how I am these days. Broken, because someone took your trust and ran away with it. The one thing that was most sacred to you, and took all your strength to release into someone else’s care.

I don’t know about you, but I find the rain incredibly soothing. The sound of it upon the rooftops and windows, the feel of each drop as it hits the bare skin of my arms. It’s invigorating, and I always thought that if I could see the positives in something like rain, something that everyone is so down about, then it would help me cope with the other negatives we face in life. Rejection, disappointment… I wonder if that’s why you look the way you look right now.

I want to reach out to you, want to reassure you that it can, and will, get better. That what you feel right now, whether it’s loss or something else, can be worked through. Although often I don’t always feel that myself, I have to believe. I’ve come to realise that it’s the only way we’ll ever be able to live without that monkey on our backs.

Perhaps I would read to you; a passage of a novel or a piece of poetry. Something that shows us that we are not alone, and that there is a way.

We as people aren’t often capable of really talking about how we feel. We get confused, we get sentimental, we get angry and sad when talking about those things that have hurt us. The words of others can capture that on the occasions we can’t, so perhaps hearing someone else’s words will help.

Perhaps I would just sit with you, on a park bench under a grand oak, with no words exchanged. Just letting the silence do the job it’s supposed to, without the pressure of having to articulate something too complex to define in the narrow way we’re constantly seeking.

Either way, I would reassure you that it’s completely okay to be just who it is you are in this moment in time. No appearances need to be kept up, no false pretences need to be spoken of.

You are who you are – beautiful in the way you smile even in lament; honest in the way you don’t come and go with airs and graces; endearing in the way you look out of that window longingly at just what it is that could be. Gazing into the future; the hope of a better one for us all.

You are both invisible and in the glaring eye of all those around you. Sometimes you will feel neglected, sometimes ignored, sometimes the focus of anger and disappointment.

But remember that it is you who the sun shines upon.

 Laura folded the piece of paper with shaking hands, rose from her table by the window and pulled on her coat. Slowly stepping out of the coffee shop, she paused and looked around. People went about their daily business without so much as a glance at her, yet somehow she felt like the whole world was staring at her.

She looked up, past the tall buildings that surrounded the inner-city café.

The sun was indeed shining upon her.

[davidwduffy]

My Best Friend.

I remember that day very well, as if it were yesterday. It was the day I met my best friend. Sadly I’m no longer in touch with that friend, but I know that he’s always there if I need him. That kind of friend never goes away. That kind of friend is part of who you are.

It was the weekend; winter, I suppose. It had to be, there were no leaves on the trees. I would never have seen him otherwise. I didn’t have many friends in those days; a couple at school perhaps, but none I could play outside with after school or on weekends like this. But it was OK, I had quite a wonderful imagination, and was capable of dreaming up whole adventures on my own. These often got me into trouble with my mother, usually for wandering too far from HQ or being late. But if I didn’t wander, didn’t push the limits, they wouldn’t have been adventures and I wouldn’t have met my best friend.

So there I was, wrapped up in brightly-coloured winter garb – hat, scarf, gloves and coat. I had my wellies on too - it had been snowing and I was insanely excited to go out in it, as any five-year-old would be. I’d already decided on what adventure to seek, remembering how my mother had told me of Ranulph Fiennes and his polar expedition shortly before I had been born. He was one of my heroes; I loved imagining myself to be him. I was all set; I’d equipped myself with a plastic commando knife, several shoelaces for rope, a toy compass and some sandwiches I’d begged my mother to make. She was happy to indulge my imagination in the end, knowing that it was far better for me than sitting in front of the TV all evening.

I set off, traipsing knee-deep in the snow. It would be a long and arduous trek to the South Pole, some hundred-and-fifty yards away. My compass pointed me in the right direction and I periodically stopped, raising a hand to my brow theatrically while scouting ahead. This way, lads! I called back to my imaginary support. Things were going well, we had no casualties so far. We walked and we walked and we walked, stopping for nothing. The cold will kill you, I remembered reading, keep moving at all costs.

Eventually we spotted the pole, a lone tree standing in a square surrounded by houses. In summer this was our football stadium, where epic cup finals took place, but now it was the barren sea of white I called Antarctica. I imagined penguins watching me intently as we struggled on, determined to become the first to ever reach the very centre of the square. I stumbled and fell, but with the help of my friends and some Herculean effort I hauled myself up and forged on. And then we made it. I threw my hands up to the heavens in exhilaration and celebration. I was the greatest explorer man had ever known.

I looked up at the tree while munching on a sandwich. Ham and cucumber, my favourite. Something caught my eye, something trapped up in the branches. My adventure was forgotten, and a new one took its place. There was something to be rescued, and I would be the one to rescue it. People would pat me on the back as they passed me in the streets, cheering me for my selfless efforts. I formulated a plan.

I tied together all the shoelaces I had to make an extended rope some three or four metres long. To one  end I attached the stick I’d been using as a walking stick, making sure it was secure. I threw it up into the tree, figuring I could dislodge whatever was up there and make it fall, hence rescuing it. I threw and I threw, for what seemed like forever, and my arms grew extremely tired. I would not give up though, the stubborn streak that seemed to be strong within my family refusing to let me. In the distance I heard my mother calling my name; I checked my watch to find that I was already ten minutes past my curfew. I wouldn’t leave until I had completed my mission.

Three more attempts; on the third I was successful, knocking the object just enough to send it toppling. It landed in the soft snow, barely breaking the surface, and I rushed over to it. It was a soft toy; a white duck with a yellow beak. Or at least it was supposed to be white, instead a very dirty grey. I looked at the label; Quackers. I decided that was his name. I packed the shoelaces into my little rucksack, abandoned the stick, and ran home.

My mother scolded me for being late. I apologised sullenly, head hanging low, then excitedly told her of my adventures. She smiled, obviously pleased that I’d had so much fun on my own, but frowned when I showed her the dirty grey duck. She took it off me and moved towards the outside bin, but I begged and begged her to let me keep it. She refused, and I burst into tears, devastated at the impending loss. She paused, seeing the pain in my eyes, and relented.

She took me inside, fed me and bathed me before putting me to bed. She said she’d put the duck in the washing machine and if it came out OK then I could keep it. But only if it was in good condition. I fell asleep quickly, exhausted from my expedition eager to wake up as soon as I could. I figured that the quicker I fell asleep the quicker I would wake up. I was more excited than I’d ever been.

The next morning she sat me down for breakfast before school, and disappeared into the living room. I was never allowed in the living room until after school, so to me it was the room of endless secrets – another adventure to be told of later. She reappeared a minute or so later, and handed me the duck. It was still warm, from where it had been sitting on the radiator overnight, and it gleamed almost like new. I flashed her the biggest smile she’d ever seen, and hugged it tight.

That day I took Quackers to school, and told everyone who would listen of my epic adventure; how I’d crossed the South Pole and rescued Quackers from an army of evil penguins out to rule the world. I ran wild with my description, and the other kids listened with open mouths and wide-eyed stares. He became my best friend, a sidekick like no other; one with whom I shared my biggest secrets. He wasn’t just a soft toy, he was alive.

Nowadays, I no longer have Quackers. I passed him on to my ex’s little girl, telling her the same grand story. The look of wonder and awe in her three-year-old eyes; the way she hugged him tight just as I had – I know that he’s in good hands, that he’ll be loved just as much as I have loved. He’ll always be with me anyway, in my mind and through these words, but now he’ll also inspire a new generation of adventurers. The kind of best friend we spend an eternity dreaming of and wishing for and never quite getting. 

[davidwduffy]

A Letter, To My (Future) Daughter..

My Dearest Freya,

This letter is being written way before your time, before I’ve even met your mother, in a period of great turbulence for me. I’m not even sure why I’m writing it, given the uncertainty that engulfs me and my mind, but I felt it needed to be done. It may seem a confusing mess to you now, and in time I hope I can sit down with you and explain this part of my life in a little more detail. 

I never want you to end up like I did, not having a full and rewarding relationship with your father. I consider that the worst thing I could possibly do to you, unforgivable, and I am absolutely determined not to let it be that way. Never let us neglect you Freya, never be afraid to tell us when you’re not feeling so great or when you feel something needs to change.  

I guess this letter is also a heads-up. There are things in life I would love you to be, and things in life I wouldn’t. However, I am never going to presume to mould you in a specific way. I want you to be brought up the way I was by my mother in my early days, free. I want you to be conscious of the world around you; of its joys and ills; of its beauty and its darkness. I want you to be adventurous with your beliefs and morals, to find yourself in a sea of muddled psyches.

The world is an amazing place Freya, but to understand it takes time and patience and a willingness to accept things that may seem alien to you. You may never understand some parts of it, and there may be parts that resonate with you unexpectedly. I would whole-heartedly recommend going out into the world, as I have done so far with my emigration, as it will enable you to see things you’d never have thought possible. 

So many cultures, so many people, so many customs; all of which you can learn from. You’ll grow as a person, as a human being, and that sense of wonder and enlightenment is both powerful and frightening. Don’t be afraid to let go of the familiarities of home, don’t be afraid of loneliness. I’m currently fighting that battle, not because of my isolation in the world, my lack of a place to call home, but because of my past, because I’ve felt isolated for so many years of my young life. 

Live for yourself, my dearest Freya, and don’t concern yourself too much with the opinions of others. Don’t listen when people criticise your dress sense, or your choice of job, or the boy/girl you go out with. Don’t let them determine who you are, don’t let that peer pressure drag you down. I was bullied a lot as a kid, and I was thoroughly miserable for it. I hadn’t many friends, because I was different, and I felt like some kind of freak as I thought one’s success was based on popularity. Don’t get sucked into the rat race that young life seems to have become. 

I’d also like to see you grow up to be an honest girl. Hiding things leads to introversy, dwelling on problems and worries that eat at you until you feel you can’t take it anymore. Find someone to open up to, whether that is us, your parents, or a friend. Or even someone you don’t know. I know from experience that it can be a very liberating feeling to open up to a stranger. You don’t get any of the bias that you would from someone close, so you can often get a pretty good view of what the whole picture is.

Explore your creativity. I’d always encourage and support you with this, whether you choose to write, draw, find solace in music or find release with drama. This creative side can be your saviour, a place to turn to when thoughts in your head become trapped and jumbled. See the words on the page, hear the notes you play and breathe in the visual splendour you create. Creativity is liberation. 

Always make time for people. Whether they are friends, family members or simply someone asking for directions in the street, connecting with people is one of the most rewarding things you can do. You’ll make lifelong friends, and hear stories of life and misfortune. Take all of this in, use it, learn from it, grow from it and most of all, enjoy it. 

I’d like you to know and understand that nobody is perfect. Anyone who claims to be is lying. Everyone has their issues, everyone has faults, everyone is capable of causing hurt and being hurt. Remember this in your dealings with people. I am by no means perfect, I have my glaring faults and every day I learn from them. Every day I see something or hear something that makes me feel, and you should never, ever be afraid to feel. Feeling shows that you are human, and all we can do in life is try to be the best human we can possibly be.

Embrace life, my darling Freya, use it and mould it the way YOU want it to be. You are in control of your own destiny, no matter what you may hear or experience. Sometimes, life will get you down, sometimes it will give you such a massive high. Never give up in the face of adversity, as I have come so close to doing. Never feel like your life is not worth living, never harbour thoughts of ending it prematurely. I’ve been to that dark place, on more than one occasion, and then I remember the small things which make life beautiful, and that gives me the strength to carry on. 

Most of all, the thought of having you in my life is what I live for, the thought of seeing you grow, seeing you smile. 

And remember this final thought - you’re beautiful, and always will be. You have the gift of life, and the gift of freedom, and the gift of love. Use that love, spread that love, to any and all you see fit. It is by far the most beautiful thing we have, and to waste it is to waste life. Never be afraid to love, even when love hurts. 

Love, my dear, is what brought us you, the single most inspiring and beautiful thing I have done in my life.

Always yours, 

Your father, David.