I haven’t done Bloggerstock in a while, but I felt like I should contribute something because Alex told me in chat that it was the one year anniversary this month, and hey, I like commemorating shit. My Aural Sex column turns one this month, as well, and SMAC is celebrating its half-year birthday (you can do that, because I say so). There’s a lot going on in June, people. Pump up the valium.
Anyway, the last time I did Bloggerstock I got paired up with Mandy Moore and Molls so it would be pretty impossible for them to match that one. (BTW, Mollie has been going through some pretty rough shit as of late, so if all of you could keep her in your heart, that would be really awesome.)
HAHAHA. Wrong. For the Bloggerstock Anniversary Edition, I get to post for K. Syrah while I host Risha on That Ain’t Kosher! It’s like, are you kidding me??? Boner parade! (PS, Rish- I should have guessed that you liked it on top.)
You can read my contribution to this month's Bloggerstock Edition on Shoes Never Worn, but before you do that, dive into this helping of sexy right here. Picture Risha saying this stuff with her hot accent.
Hi, I’m Risha and I blog on you can read me anything, which is a collection of rants, moaning and general nonsense. Which also sums up my Bloggerstock post for this month! I’m hosting Nyx this month; so do go read her post, which is full of awesome. Between Nyx & Nugs, I’m in a fantastic BlogSandwich!
The theme for this month is “Before there were blogs” to commemorate Bloggerstock’s first anniversary! We’re meant to dig up our old diaries and journals and post a piece from our former, non-blogging selves.
Unfortunately, I don’t have any of my truly awful “I’m sixteen and I hate the world” journals with me here. I do, however, have my “I’m 21 and I’m travelling and I am such a pretentious little shit” journals.
I am truly sorry for putting you through this.
Traveling always makes me long for another few hours of traveling time, to discover beautiful new cities and, in some way, make them mine. On trains or side roads, I hear so many accents and languages, people who seem like they had interesting things to say or the kind of energy that would envelop you in laughter and fun.
I wish I could have known them.
Perhaps in a parallel universe, we shall have been good friends or perhaps even lovers.
But, for now, a surreptitious glance shall do as we go about our lives, conversations bumping against each other and your voice cutting through all the chatter & train sounds that overwhelm every journey.
Your voice is as distinct as your ice blue eyes.
I am listening in to conversations I don’t understand in languages I don’t know. There is something that is both humbling and liberating about being unsure of whether you can communicate even if you wanted to. My mumbled “Vielen Dank” ,“Merci beaucoup”, “Dank je wel” , “Gracias”, “Köszönöm” at every held-open door and pushed-ticket window, is jumbled up in English pronunciation and terrible language skills. Yet, people smile with broad grins and nods at every failed attempt to not butcher a language alien to my tongue.
On trains to somewhere else, a backpack overhead and feet aching, I play “Guess the language” in my head.
I will never know if I was right and if I won.
I have a camera full of monuments. Places seen on films that broke my heart or made me sing, backdrops to famous scenes and dancing montages.
And now, they are suffused with a knowing, a touch, and a breath of all that it has seen and held. A shared space, a known story.
I walk around these spaces on gloomy afternoons, the sky overcast and threatening. People stop to ask if I need help with my map and I am stunned by the humanity that surrounds me.
People love their cities, their towns, and little foreign girls who look lost.
I was drenched in a downpour, watched the rubbish bin tumble down a cobbled street and hail smash into windscreens.
Only stepping into a new place exhilarates me more.