True Stories From around the World

I've just bought a delightful compilation of Travel Tales, introduced by by a wonderfully eloquent and self confessed frequently sullen author: Herbert Gold

"Behold, here is a man doing battle with his khaki clad peripatetic sould to overcome impulses toward jealousy as he reads accounts by [list of authors...]"

I know how he feels.

But I have always despised travel writing, being of a practical and impatient nature, I've never understood why anyone would want to read about a stranger's adventures from the safety of their armchair when they could just go out and experience it all for themselves. And yes, I can see the flaw in my logic. Flaws of logic are a specialty of mine, just ask any of my friends.

Take this conversation with my housemate for instance. (paraphrasing)

On arriving in the house, book in hand, wearing a fabulously spring-time floral cleavage revealing shirt:

T: (greets me with scornful derision) girly shirt wearing person

Me: yes, and look, I bought a pretty dress with butterflies on it

T: sneer

Me: and look, a book about travel writing. YOU should be reading this.

[T. is off to tour Europe on Wednesday - house to myself - I may smoke a cigarette inside. I hope he doesn't read this blog]

T: I certainly don't intend to be having any adventures, and if I did, I wouldn't be writing about them

Me: What you're not going to be sending us postcards? You should send lots of postcards, you should START A BLOG

T: No offence, but blogs are for ..... (searching for the right words)

Me: boring, middle of the road, tediously average people with too much time on their hands

T: (face lights up) YES! exactly

Me: thankyou you've just given me an idea

So I burned out onto the balcony to smoke two cigarettes while I wait for my recently returned laptop to boot up. 20 minutes later I'm still staring at the grey apple logo as it churns algorithms. Anonymous Bogon: what HAVE you done to my laptop?










but i digress

I'm fascinated by the fact that since written language was invented people have be compelled to record their inner thoughts, no matter how insightful or bland. In fact I'm convinced that written language was invented because of this.

I don't believe that writing has to be technically brilliant, eloquent, well edited or disciplined to be interesting. When I first discovered the blogosphere I spent weeks returning to a randomly discovered blog reading about a 24 year old dental technician from Idaho who was naively trying to manipulate her boyfriend into marrying her "I mean, honestly, just because i sent him a link to A jewellery shop that sells engagement rings, it's not like i was HINTING at anything, GOD. I just thought they were pretty" I wish I could remember that link now.

I'll read anything and everything. I just can't get enough of reading. I read That's Life, I read the Age Australian, I read the back of ceral packets. I'm tortured by the fact that I'm not studying any more and dying for someone to challenge me with a decent text. I'm lucky enough to have a few friends who have written delightful books, one who is completing a pHd in philosophy, one who does book reviews for the Age, one who contributes to Desktop magazine, and one who frequently bcc's me into his wonderfully written sometimes scathing and always entertaining email correspondences.

I am ashamed at my attempts to write in the face of such brilliantly talented people. I caught up with a dear old friend who lectures in Philosophy recently and lamented that we don't see each other nearly enough.

He: "I see you frequently at this (well known drinking hole) but I'm always intimidated by the size of your friendship group."

Me: "yes, and I by the intellect of yours."

Having said that I'd like to take this chance to leave you with (a very limited and not exhaustive) list of links to some of my favourite, frequently read blogs, would like to ask you for links to more and will also quote some shakespeare just to be a bit of a wanker.

Scrap that, am running late for something, links already on sidebar - will edit this post later.

William Shakespeare: Sonnet 65

Since brasse, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundlesse sea,
But sad mortallity ore-swaies their power,
How with this rage shall beautie hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger then a flower?

O how shall summers hunny breath hold out
Against the wrackfull siedge of battring dayes,
When rocks impregnable are not so stoute,
Nor gates of steele so strong but time decayes?
O fearefull meditation; where, alack,

Shall times best Iewell from times chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foote back,
Or who his spoile ore beautie can forbid?

O none, vnlesse this miracle haue might,
That in black inck my loue may still shine bright.