All posts by reganbarsdell

One month in America (the United States of)

June 25, 2013 reganbarsdell Leave a comment

"Freedom is, the only way yeeaaaah..." — “Freedom is, the only way yeeaaaah…”

One of the things I enjoyed most about living in the UK is regionality. I loved that I could spend Friday evening interpreting Liverpudlian accents, and then on Saturday head to a fitba (soccer) match just 45 minutes away, and have to learn a whole new dialect from drunk Mancunians. And it is so much more than just catch phrases and football songs. Attitudes towards homosexuality, the monarchy and farming are all influenced by where you first learnt to kick a ball. I always put this down to a relatively long history, I assumed that it was thousands of years of inventing slang and crafting hot puddings that led to such stark cultural differences. So bugger me blind if I wasn’t surprised to discover a similar situation here in the U.S. Ok, I have to be drive a little further, maybe six or seven hours, but there are accent shifts, cowboy hat frequencies and the delicious sub genre favourite pies to consider. In shifting your location a sub(marine sandwich) might become a hoagie, a hero, or a po’boy. Or even a muffalotto (yay Birmingham, Alabama!) You might drink a Coke with this in Texas, but in New York it’d be a pop, and a soda in Colorado. As far as I can tell, the vast distances between places to live, have resulted in a faster development of differences. Which makes it so much more entertaining on road trips, discovering toasted marshmallow milkshakes in one state, then promotion of rodeo heroes to rock star status in the next. When you add these quirks to the monumental landscape changes, and an abundance of wildlife (which changes with state lines too) how can you not be enchanted? Or at least hugely entertained.

South Dakota snacks... — South Dakota snacks…

Whilst in South Dakota over the past week, we stayed in a small town called Deadwood. I’ve never seen the apparently very violent TV series, but mention of Wild Bill Hickok and Calamity Jane was enough to pique my interest. We set up camp at a motel on the edge of town, which I was delighted to see had an industrial ice machine for guests. I remember this bizarre detail from films of road trips across the West, it seems no night in a budget motel is complete without an emergency kidney removal in a chilled bathtub. As I contemplated a home-made slushy, we noted a flyer advising that a public gun fight was due to start at 6:00pm. Colour me excited! A fast trot took us to the slowly filling sidewalks (not footpaths), and we took a squat on the pavement amongst the burgeoning crowds. We were soon twitching at gunfire, grimacing at over-acting, and taking part in the trial of Jack McCall, cowardly assassin of Wild Bill. There was country music, there were gags, and there were thick layers of American cheese. But as a gent I spoke to yesterday put it, America is good at corny. And he emphasised the GOOD. And they are, I can’t imagine the re-enactment of Wild Bill’s death in a crowded saloon bar being done quite as well, yet ever so slightly badly, anywhere else. So now I want to check out medieval times, before I head over to Scotland for a rollicking highland games…

One disturbing revelation on the road, has been my growing appreciate for the culture of tipping. Like all hard-working, poorly served kiwis, the idea of people expecting a tip bewildered me. Until I experienced the results. Considerably cheaper meals helped aid the transition, but from day two I’ve happily been adding an extra 20% on top of my buffalo burger bill. Because in return for this socialised tax you get a dose of (sometimes genuine) positivity. Being greeted with a grin, and then actively engaged with just enhances my good mood, no matter the reasons for the conviviality. I get a huge menu selection, a meal to last all day, and a chat with the waitress (server…) about whether key lime pie lived up to my expectations. Oh, and “cowboy coffee”. Eek, how easily smiles can soften my stoney heart!

Marshmallow milkshakes. So so wrong. But just a little bit right... — Marshmallow milkshakes. So so wrong. But just a little bit right…

In between bursts of travel along the interstate highways, I’ve been spending a week at a time back in Boulder. This gives me time to get to grips with all I’ve seen, and to write of it, and try to draw conclusions from my experiences. Of course it’s not seven days huddling over my laptop in a library. I’m getting to attend birthday parties, meals and gigs with all sorts of people, and to share my insights, and build on them with each engagement. One thing I’ve noticed on these occasions is that many people seem to possess a more natural ability to offer a compliment, and indeed to accept one. I’ve seen this numerous times, and although occasionally there are obvious motivations, in general it just seems to be a selfless kindness. And I’m warming to it. I’ve spent a few years growing my inner cynic, thanks to spending long periods of time dwelling on the wrongs I see being done in the world. And time in England (with the help of witty comedic heroes like Frankie Boyle and David Mitchell) helped craft a bitter (with a twist of witty) edge to my writing. And I guess at times, my personality. So now I’m feeling somewhat invigorated for getting a chance to tell someone they look stunning, without them waiting for a punchline, or assuming I’m envisioning them manacled to a wall in a nurses uniform.

Dan helps me find something new to wear in Denver

So sunny days, gun slinging, chocolate and peanut butter pie, I’m hooked. As an eye-opening, expectation twisting adventure, the US is brilliant, but it’s the depth of cultural experience that is proving my greatest thrill. I’m looking forward to countering cowboy experiences with visits to native American reservations, tasting even better tequila, and (weirdly) further rattlesnake encounters. But already this trip has changed my opinions, inspired dozens of writing ideas, and exceeded my expectations. Magic.

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On drawing all the grins we can from life

June 23, 2013 reganbarsdell Leave a comment

I guess not being in my thirties any more, I’ve begun spending time looking at how I can make what remains of my time on this colourful wee planet as “good” a time as possible. Good. Positive. Not complicated terms, not particularly poetic, but they’re the best expression for what I mean. I want to continue to chuckle, guffaw and grin, I want those who I enjoy spending time with to draw positivity from me, and I want to find someone I admire and respect to share my experiences.

I’ve spoken (typed) before about understanding what makes me “happy”, but I also think it’s important to draw joy from as many aspects of life as possible. I also believe I need to avoid counteracting this with too much stress about the past or the future. Life throws enough challenging events at us independent of our own fears and regrets. We don’t need to compound these with our own neuroses.

Some time ago I started with minimising the negatives. A good friend and probation officer (not mine…) once convinced me that there’s no point in having regrets. She explained that every choice we make, everything we’ve undergone, made us who we are today. She was able to help me cull my most significant regrets, or at least turn in them into something I could handle. I find that remorse keep me locked to the past, they’re a result of placing too much weight on a choice I once made, and failing to take what I’ve learnt and move on. I was (slightly) younger when this information was imparted, I was to a degree an idealist, and I had someone I cared for and shared with, that I thought would be with me forever. But over the years since then, particularly after discussing this with others, I’ve realised that this approach is far simpler if you’re happy with who you are, right now. If you’re convinced you’re in a shit place, and that you’ve put yourself there through your choices, this bouncy, positive ideal is a bit of a struggle. Maybe even offensive. So maybe we also need to look at ways to avoid collecting the regrets in the first place.

Each day we’re faced with choices. From whether to tell our second-best-friend that we believe their soon-to-be love bride is a terrifying, soul leaching mistake, to assessing whether flip-flops are appropriate footwear in Rattlesnake Canyon. Some of these decisions deserve serious consideration, but too often I’ve dumped too much energy on the simplest, most inconsequential decisions. How many online reviews do I read, agonising over which travel camera to buy? It’s a camera, bruv, not a double mastectomy. Rather than sweating the smaller stuff, I’ve realised I should be dedicating more time to the other end of my choices, the results. If I don’t learn from my choices, I’m Homer Simpson without Lisa or Marge. If I don’t pay attention to the outcomes, I’m unlikely to learn from the greatest tutor of all, experience. But just as importantly, if I examine the entrails of my choices, I can usually find something positive or constructive in even the worst seeming outcome. If I fail to pay attention, and determine only that I made a “wrong” choice, I miss the chance to grow from the experience. This was hugely important in moving beyond my last relationship, and something I failed to do when my marriage went tits up. And the only thing I readily think of when I consider my regret status, is that painful separation from my once wife, Claire. At least today.

The most recent area I’ve been considering, is how I might use my competencies in one area of my life, to improve another. Specifically, harnessing my ability to derive satisfaction from my work, whether it is chainsaw sculpting or working for the most evil Irish bar owner in Britain, in order to improve the areas in which I tend to flail. Like finding someone who wants to share the incredible experiences I’m going to continue to lift from life.

While I was picking up a range of coffee-making, dish cleaning and scone baking skills in Michaelhouse Cafe, I had an affable, passionate manager, Dean. He steered me from lagers towards real ales, and he introduced me to the idea of finding a whiskey that works for me. You might be thinking “top bloke, job done”, but he had one more trick up his occasionally philosophical sleeve. When I left the kitchen in Cambridge to return to New Zealand, he told me my approach to baking was like something from “Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance”. I had an idea that this meant I tried very hard to find joy in whatever it was that I ended up doing. It was only three years later when I read Robert Persig’s book. The author explores the way we can derive quality from life. Even if we’re faced with difficult or monotonous tasks, chores or jobs, it’s all down to our attitude. He uses his characters to give examples of two different ways we can leverage “quality” from life. The first is the “romantic”. These people focus on being “in the moment”, and care little for the workings of the things they experience. The other point of view is the “classical”, these people derive joy from understanding the mechanics of what they are doing, they attempt to understand all the intricacies of their experiences. Like with any good explanation of opposing ways to reach the same destination, Persig’s protagonist, Zen, decides the most worthwhile approach, the one most likely to result in the best quality of life, is a mix of the two approaches.

When I look at my approach to work, to performing tasks in order to make enough money to live, I can see my approach is a useful mix. When I was learning to bake, starting work at 6:30am on midwinter mornings, I biked to work through the snow with an ipod soundtrack accompanying my slips and falls. My fellow early starters and I used banter, “chef’s rants”, and cooking competitions to drag giggles from long hours of hard, hot work. I struggled towards the perfect complement winning scones, the most splendid pizzas, the finest five grain loaves. And it was rare I had a bad work day.

But when I look at my attitude to relationships, I have always been a romantic. I am always trying to achieve better, more memorable moments, and I’m disappointed when I can’t contribute significantly to the happiness of the person I focus on. I have been entirely willing to set such things as “the children question” aside, so that I can just create incredible, beautiful, memorable events. I’ve run to the other side of the world for a chance of a life eternal with someone I barely know, ignoring the difficult questions, like whose family to spend Christmas with, differing opinions on the ideal temperature for beer, and the Northern Hemisphere inability to handle Vegemite. As a result of these ill-informed, spontaneous bursts of romance, I have had some incredible, passionate relationships, but eventually they have had to end. I failed to address the mechanics, the framework. I rarely looked towards the inevitable frustrations, the tearful departures, believing passion and faith would be enough.

I know now I need to balance my romantic idealism, to engage with a woman (sorry lads) who doesn’t want things I can’t offer. I need to ensure I learn from my choices. And I will try to harbour no regrets. I’ll let you know how that all works out for me some time.

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Putting nostalgia in its place

June 12, 2013 reganbarsdell Leave a comment

Over the past week we’ve been travelling through landscapes which acted as backdrops for my childhood dreams. The canyons here in Colorado and Utah, the wildish west, are adventurous tales brought to life. The vulture monitored ravines that once harboured black hatted, unshaven gangs, are now a sanctuary for the ghosts of their notorious deeds. They make it so easy to slip back into the imaginary world of the eight year old boy or tom boy, casting a wary eye over the crevices and ravines, and stretching the fingers on gun hand. But it’s not just gunslinger territory. Scattered amongst the seismically ruptured landscapes are the physical evidence of dinosaurs, dream feeders for all us overly imaginative kids that wished for dragons, but were willing to settle for thunder lizards. All I needed was a couple of jawas and I’d have encountered the holy trinity of my childhood.

Nostalgia is an incredibly effective editor of our past, triggered by our senses and our emotional states. I’ve found it is at its best when unprovoked. Hearing “Pour Some Sugar On Me” and being drawn back to a long hot summer mowing lawns, attempting to accelerate mullet growth through sheer will power, and scamming beers from liquor stores. When I try to engage nostalgia on command, the results are usually underwhelming. Introducing a younger girlfriend to The Dark Crystal was seven levels of uncomfortable. At its lightest it is pleasant, fuzzy recollection, accompanied my a half grin and a half stare back at a version of the past. But it can also be a powerful distraction, thanks to our memory’s ability to summarise chunks of our past in the same way a movie studio makes a film trailer. Take the highlights, the most evocative shots, the funniest lines, the flash of half-nudity, and add a stirring two minute soundtrack. The highlights of old relationships, road trips with the boys/girls, and your first gig, are recalled with 92% higher frequency than the negatives. Probably.

I think there are problems though when we begin to yearn for the past with more passion than we can muster for creating a fulfilling future. I remember being told that my high school years were going to be the best of my life, and I am so glad that this wasn’t the case. If that’s actually true for anybody, what the fuck happened? Did they take their foot off the fun pedal the day they left the prefabricated classrooms, arbitrary rules, and inadequately enforced stress on conformity? Did the responsibility of making their own decisions, and owning their own failures take the sheen off the rest of their lives? Most of the fundamentals of who we’re to be, are decided by the first seven years. And then I swear I learnt so much more of life well beyond my teenage years. The thirteen to eighteen year stretch was a volatile time, decisions magnified by hormones, choices made with too much consideration, or none at all. They were days spent combating insecurities with bravado, then watching the bravado wilt, crushed by one harsh comment from a teenage witch.

Another powerful nostalgic diversion is that pseudo romantic favourite, lost love. An entire relationship can have its defining memories drawn from the few sublime punctuating moments, rather than the seemingly endless low-on-passion, high-on-drudgery hours/months/years that drew you towards a tearful/noisy/embarrassing conclusion. If I’ve been having troubles in a relationship I admit at times I’d get teary eyed reflecting on prior romances with piss poor recollection. “It was so much easier with [name omitted to protect the innocent], maybe we should never have split up…” Of course if you then mix in two jugs of ale and a functioning mobile phone, Queen Nostalgia’s destructive powers are revealed. Then again, one of the quickest ways to correct any misconceptions over why you split up with your ex, is to call him/her at 2:00am, drunk, and ask them for an explanation.

If we tie ourselves up too much in what has been, or what could be, we will lose momentum, we become less dynamic, less capable of making decisions at least partially informed by instinct. And I’ll happily invent a statistic that reveals that if we’re in a state to listen to our “heart” or “instinct”, or “Women’s intuition”, then the resulting decisions are considerably more likely to be super positive. We can’t recapture our youth, our first loves, the thrill of that first stage dive. We can though retain our youthfulness, have the courage to leave a destructive relationship for the right reasons, and relearn how to listen to hearts in order to discern how we should move forward. And never stop crowd surfing. Ever.

Nostalgia has its place, ideally behind me when making decisions, but leap frogging to the present to remind me that my life’s been blessed by many astounding moments, beautiful friendships and roller coaster relationships. Of course that won’t stop me scouring thrift stores today for cowboy boots and ten gallon hats, in preparation for a foray into “The Badlands”, South Dakota…

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First week in the U S of A

June 4, 2013 reganbarsdell Leave a comment

International differences in slang are ripe for giggles. Whilst at my sister’s backpackers in Derry a Canadian came into the kitchen laughing, and telling us that her boyfriend was double-fisting in the garden. At this point I realised that the fanny pack wasn’t likely the only snort-worthy misreading of intentions I was likely to encounter, should I visit the America’s. A couple of days ago Francoise and I went for a walk around the Farmers Market in central Boulder, and then for a stroll through the bohemian quarter. At one end was a “Cheesecake Factory”, and whilst jittering at the number of © and (™)’s on the menu, I noticed they served “root beer”. “wass that then?” I asked. Quickly I was led to Mountain Sun, a brew pub which happens to make their own root beer. Now for Kiwis (and Aussies) the giggles might have already begun, as a “root” in the Southern hemisphere, is another name for sex. I guess a root beer lowers everyone’s inhibitions? But when I was asked whether I’d like to take it away in a “growler” my poker face gave way. Down under (don’t even start) a growler is a cheeky euphemism for a woman’s lady-parts. Of course we passed a playground on the way back to the car which had a beaver on full display, and at this point I’m sure my estimation in Francoise’ eyes must have dropped. If not then I’m sure we’ll be friends forever.

One of the things that’s sometimes struck me about a couple of the Americans I met whilst travelling, is that they tended to vocalise almost everything that passes through their minds. “That’s a big ol’ bus” as a bus goes by, or “mmm-mmm, that’s red wine alright” as they take a sip of (yip) red wine. Occasionally these same individuals also dropped over the top responses to minimal stimuli, “Oooooh my Lord! Sweet Jebuz wrap me in a chunky Kentucky man’s bathing costume and throw me to the coyotes…” in response to a traffic light shifting from amber to green. I’m so used to growing up in New Zealand, a world of muttered, muted understatement, that this broadcasting of one’s inner monologue always used to seem a little…attention seeking. Like the red headed cousin that’s lost the focus of their neurotic parents attention and decides to shove dry roasted peanuts up their nose until the cough-cry-snot combo has the desired affect. This morning I went on a bird hunting hike with a group of around 25 citizens, most in their 60’s, and I had to shift my perspective. The harmonic vocalised enthusiasm that accompanied every hummingbird spotting was endearing when matched with widened eyes and “o” shaped lips. I’m glad my inner cynic has given way, I’d sooner listen to a chorus of oohs and aaaaahs of appreciation, than a cacophony of scornful derision. Expressed happiness trumps arched eyebrows and rolling eyes heavenwards.

Amongst the childish observations, I’ve also jumped in the deep end, and been trying to draw real learnings from my experiences and conversations. One thing I’m finding is that there seem to be serious concerns that the US Government is working hard to reduce people’s freedom to choose. The implementation of the Patriot Act utilised a nation’s fears to introduce Big Government in a nation built on rejecting State control. And since then it seems further erosion of freedoms, many which appear to contravene the constitution, are causing angst, though maybe not for enough people. Despite this though, there’s still an underlying belief amongst people I’ve met so far, that they should be able to achieve anything they want, as long as they’re prepared to work for it. And just as importantly, they have picked their own paths through life, avoiding “convention” when it ran contrary to their needs. And up until recently the mix of federal and state leadership promoted this. Imagine 50 regions with different environments, different laws, different attitudes. Americans have been able to choose to live in the area that suited their desired lifestyle, from gun control laws to attitudes towards homosexuality. I love the idea of those sorts of personal freedoms. But it seems increasing federal powers threaten the ability of States to maintain this degree of independence. Hopefully Americans still have the will to protect their freedom of choice, hopefully they won’t sacrifice it in fear, so that the state can “keep them safe”. Hopefully they continue to insist that the Government support the right of the individual to be just that, an individual.

So. At the moment, I’ve got a bit of a man-crush on the US. Ok, I’m on holiday, I don’t have to fight others for a job, I don’t have to be concerned over my children’s education. My glasses are definitely rose tinted. But each day I find a dozen grins, a half dozen chuckles, and several stunned shakes of the head. Soon I’ll have to staple a bungy cord between my forehead and my chin to stop my jaw hitting the ground so frequently. As far as I’m concerned, this is an incredible land, and I can’t recommend enough that people come here and give these people and this country a big hug.

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On critters

May 31, 2013 reganbarsdell Leave a comment

A little more exciting than the walk up Mt Kau Kau... — A little more exciting than the walk up Mt Kau Kau…

Prior to, and soon after arriving in the wild west, I received earnest advice on what to do if confronted by a bear, and none of it seemed particularly satisfacory. “Don’t run”. That’s not particularly assuring, it merely eliminates one option. “Cover yourself in faeces”. Whose? Mine? The bear’s? It hardly seems a timely mechanism for avoiding having my head separated from my shoulders by a grizzly mother with PMT. But I was thrilled to be considering my options. PROPER animals to interact with. Over the first five days in Colorado I’ve encountered elk, deer, ground squirrels, prairie dogs, hummingbirds and wildflowers. So far bears, mountain lions and rattlesnakes have proven elusive, probably for the best when I’m wearing flip flops, whomever I’m hiking with will have a considerable advantage.

Some of the most enjoyable days of my life have been spent in the outbacks of various nations, and of these some of the very best were horseback rides with my sister. From early evening treks through the “fairy chimneys”, in Cappodoceia, to thrilling canters across unpredictable pastures in Rodez, I’ve found myself in novel environments on noble nags. And I feel linked again to that greater world which lies beyond the human enclosures of Paris, Prague and Budapest. I see one of our largest issues as a species as our separation of ourselves from “nature”. We forget our place within the natural world, that we too are animals, and that it isn’t the environment that owes us a living. We take, and forget to give. We look at the consequences of our actions and lifestyles without considering their impact on the rest of the world.

I am not a vegetarian. I’ve cooked beasts (ok, and vegan stews) for a living, and I take too much pleasure from being able to taste anything from any culture. Admittedly this may be tested when I head to Iceland, the home of the rotted shark concoction, Hakari. I’m an omnivore, I was born with incisors for a reason, and I really can’t think of a solid vegan alternative to a spit roast. I don’t see this as arrogance, a placement of myself above the creatures I consume. I see it as an understanding of my position in the food chain, and a respect for a natural order that has existed for several thousand generations. But I make efforts to choose to eat humanely raised and slaughtered animals where possible, and to educate myself further in how my choices affect my environment.

Societies that remain somewhat closer to their roots, the aboriginal tribes around the world, still tell the stories of our place within nature. They have a host of cautionary tales about what happens when we forget that we’re linked to the seas, the earth, the whales and the eagles. I think these should be told to more of our children, and that those children should be encouraged to interact with the natural world, rather than fear or distrust it. Through comparing notes with others I have grown to appreciate how fortunate I was to be chased by “horsey girls” across rolling farmland, hearts pumping for so many reasons. To be forced up trees to evade farm dogs, and then squat amongst the branches with my friends, eating Vegemite sandwiches until the canines below found new distractions. Come to think of it, maybe they were just after the yeasty treats. Many of the most exhilarating moments of my life have involved tangling with nature, and I think that these adventures helped me build a respect for the world around me.

Since the various empires of man spread about the world, and eliminated so many barriers to their growth, the arrogance of our species has swollen. And now commerce is placed before all other considerations, by all corporations, some governments and too many citizens. I honestly think it is good for us to understand that we are all part of something greater, that our actions have consequences, and that nothing is forever. The world’s most powerful economies have been rejuvenated by the instigation of wars for too long. If we treat the reversing of our environmental negligence with as much enthusiasm as we do for hunting down mythical weapons of mass destruction, we could eliminate national debts by doing something positive.

I wonder who the Governor of Colorado is…

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On the first three days in Colorado

May 29, 2013 reganbarsdell 4 Comments

I love the idea of the United States of America battling my expectations. It’s the country on which I have the most opinions on, from the least reliable sources, from The Dukes of Hazard, to anything written in New Zealand newspapers. I’ve found that from the few opportunities I’ve had to engage with wandering US citizens, I’ve been left with reassessed opinions and altered prejudices. So how will spending ten weeks based in Colorado, and the resulting experiences, chats and observations, affect my views of this rapidly changing empire? Well, three days in, let’s look at three areas: food, just how many places I recognise, and hospitality.

Until recently my understanding of food culture in the 50 states, was that in general, huge unhealthy meals, and bizarre sounding snacks were king. I imagined travellers would be hard-pressed to find alternatives to chicken wings done 50 ways, corn dogs, and anything where they ask if you’d “like fries with that”. And that when they needed something to stretch overfull bellies between meals, they’d have to order snickerdoodles or Ding Dongs with a straight face. But within hours of arriving in L.A. (and before I had a chance to eat) I had relocated to Boulder, Colorado. This state is an enormous, beautiful, natural playground, and has the lowest levels of obesity and sedentary lifestyle in the nation. I’m prepared to confront other sides to the “what American’s eat” story, but here I’ve been enchanted with the foods, and a passion for “good” eating. The edible options I’ve been tasting and cooking with so far are frequently organic, carefully selected, and genuinely delicious. Mexican ingredients seem to take centre stage (adventurous salsas are a favourite so far), and game foods are far more prevalent than back home. For those who decline flesh, there seems to be substantial vegetarian delights, indeed the predominant incisor despisers are reportedly vegans and raw food zealots. So for now, my US diet has been more healthy, more tasty and contained less high fructose corn syrup than expected. Prejudice adjusted, to be reviewed over my next hundred meals, and after a weigh-in.

We travelled from Boulder to a cabin in the woods near Mount Evans, over memorial weekend (think flags, flag pants, unrelenting patriotism). On the way we passed Red Rocks Ampitheatre (where U2 recorded “Under a Blood Red Sky”) and Dinosaur Ridge, an incredible mecca for Jurassic nerds around the world. The next day I was unexpectedly taken to South Park (the very same), where I walked a section of the Colorado Trail. All of this within a radius of under fifty miles (local slang for 80km). I had no idea just how packed with recognisable locations America would be. What are already entertaining road trips (trailers boasting 80 flavours of jerky, scenery out of Road Runner crossed with any John Wayne Western), become events in themselves, as reference packed as a wander through central London. I’m discovering that this ridiculously huge landscape is fair over flowing with must see, wouldn’t-mind-seeing, and funny-to-note destinations. Ten weeks is looking a little weak, for even one state.

I was warned by a number of people over the years, that Americans were friendly, welcoming and hospitable. So far this is an unadjusted notion. I’ve been humbled by the warmth with which people (three in three days) have welcomed me into their homes. My third and briefest host invited us up for a chat after spying us walking the trail under his mountain perched cabin. John and his friend Eve gave us the grand tour of his self built timber paradise, from the humid greenhouse, to a koi carp pond that frequently hosted bears and other wildlife (evidence provided via an always on “Game Cam” mounted above the fish filled pool). They then plied us with travel tales, local gossip, beer, and a feeling we’re not intruding on their privacy. We walk away not quite sober, with photos of the wild turkeys stalking his garden, slideshow CD’s, and a copy of Eve’s world beating photo of a “sad squirrel”. Bless.

My cautious optimism has been boosted to unbridled enthusiasm by a country which I hadn’t yet visited, because I didn’t know where to start. An opportunity to have my introduction led by Francoise has proven one of my life’s great decisions. She has a truly adventurous heart, and I have already been spoilt with daunting landscapes, fascinating commentaries, and the promise of brewing beer together. It’s always the people that make a country for me, and based on my experience so far America is a beautiful, eclectic country, hopefully finally taking steps towards self reflection. I’m glad I got to meet her now, and I am eager to explore further.

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On fatalism versus taking control of your life

May 12, 2013 reganbarsdell 1 Comment

I’ve always resisted the idea of fate, of pre-determination. For better or worse I like to think that I have a degree of control in my direction. Take a simple (hopefully universal) example. When I was in Northern Ireland, I frequently used a coin toss to help me make decisions. “Ho Hoooo!” some of you may cry, “That’s fate right there, boy!”, but wait a second. I’d toss the coin, and call tails. And I found that where I may have thought I wasn’t sure about which result I wanted, if the coin toss result felt wrong, then I’d make it “best two out of three”. It was the only way I sometimes found, to determine what my heart was trying to tell me.

I’m not sure what it is that enables/disables people to put their trust in some divine force or energy plotting a path for them through life. I can’t get away from the thought that it’s merely an excuse for not trying to make the right choices, and of course accepting the blame for when you choose poorly.

I have to admit though, that I haven’t always attacked my goals with enough gusto. In hindsight though, that was usually due to misunderstanding what it was I wanted. I was pretty keen on being a Rock God at around 19-21 (ok, maybe 19-35…), so I bought a guitar, learnt a few chords, and joined a band. Over that brief period of attempted musicianship, I put a degree of practice in, but it was the trappings that I was enthused about. There were so many things to master, and growing my hair took considerably less effort than endlessly practicing scales. I realised some time later, that the issue lay within hoping to be a Rock God, rather than wanting to be a musician. Yeah, you got me, I haven’t always been the conscientious, aspiring writer philosopher. I blame my hormones. Bless ’em.

What if we don’t aspire to lofty goals though, are some of us destined to merely support the ambitions of others? It is possible in societies with relatively low levels of poverty, high levels of employment, and a tendency to promote moderation, to amble your way through life. From high school, to the first office job that doesn’t decline you, to the first girl or boy that doesn’t laugh and point. From there it is so, so easy to impregnate the female in a romance free coitus. And then wheeeeee, you can shift the entire responsibility achieving anything significant on to your children. But as those little critters grow, they extract moral structure, a desire to improve, and belief in achieving their dreams from (amongst others) their parents. And so your hopes at living vicariously through your children’s fulfilment of your own unexpressed desires…it ebbs away before your eyes.

Ok, so that’s a pretty dreary interpretation of a life lived simply, but that’s what I see happening if too many of us decide to let the universe dictate. Without the struggle, without the strive towards goals more ambitious than mere existence and reproduction, we’re gradually reversing Darwinism. And unfortunately there are too many people happy to jump on the bandwagon, to profit from helping you eliminate any need to struggle. From drug companies pushing pacification by pill, to a media that too frequently seeks to entertain rather than inform, we’re at risk of being coerced towards mental neutrality, and being left with dwindling decision making powers.

Not this boy, and not those I admire. I need to actively live my life, to strive, struggle and fight my way to the things I believe matter. If we raise children, we owe it to them to provide them with role models who hold onto their own dreams, while inspiring others to discern their own. We can all achieve so much more if we realise we have the freedom, and the power, to make choices. If we meekly relinquish control of our existence, if we leave it in the hands of fate, I think we do ourselves a disservice.

I never made it to the stages of Glastonbury or Coachella as a guitarist, nor have I sold a painting for a Damien Hirst thrashing sum, but I don’t dedicate my failures to fate. We deserve the things we focus on, and struggle for. So understanding what sorts of things bring you happiness, should allow you to set goals that are positive for you, that improve you as a person. Unless of course the accumulation of capital at the expense of others ACTUALLY makes you happy. In which case I’ll happily close my eyes, whistle a tune, and let karma king-hit you in the balls.

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On acknowledging (and thanking) your influences

May 7, 2013 reganbarsdell Leave a comment

I talked a little earlier about how useful it can be to understand where (and who) I draw your influences from. But I think it’s also valuable to take the time to thank those who have helped me, and contributed positively towards my outlook on life. I’ve found that very often these people weren’t aware that I took note when they explained their philosophies, or complimented their boyfriends kindness, or ranted capably about the insidious impacts of lawyers on societies.

One of the most influential women in my life, especially early on, was my grandmother Zoe. My father’s mother grew up in a rural environment, on the Western edge of New Zealand, spearing flounder in rivers, and luring eels with rotten eggs. I think the tomboy side of her nature made her easier for her grandsons to relate to. It also meant that she believed in boys being boys, and if you were the younger sister to two boisterous elder brothers, she believed in girls being boys too. Much to my sister’s glee.

Zoe encouraged adventures, from hunting for freshwater crayfish in streams, to tracking down and harvesting aquatic life in tide pools. I can’t remember if she actually encouraged us kids to set more and more elaborate traps, for the birds that (for 360 days of the year) dwelt peacefully in her beautiful gardens. No doubt she figured that the blackbirds faced little chance of imminent extinction, despite beer crates balanced atop pencils, tied to 40 yards of string, held by the twitching hands of excited children.

Zoe also travelled. She spent time in Europe with my Uncle Brian, back in the days when him and his hippy mates used to get mistaken for the Bee Gees. No doubt a more exciting prospect in the 1970s than it would be today. When she returned, she was armed with tales of grand squares, enormous galleries, and statues taller than giants. She had a way of explaining Paris that excited even my eight year old mind. Her gentle enthusiasm for all she’d seen no doubt contributed to my sister and my nomadic aspirations.

I’m not sure if her love of painting came before or after her visits to the great galleries of Italy and France, but as long as I remember, she encouraged our fledgling artistic talents. She had a room full of easels and canvas, and though we tended to be let loose with water colours and charcoal, occasionally I got to dabble with the rich smelling, sumptuously coloured oil paints. She explained to me what she’d learnt in her latest art classes, and after a while it wasn’t as a grandchild, but as a fellow artist.

As importantly as any of this though, and probably the one lesson I try to value above all others, was that she never judged us. She didn’t try to push us grandchildren in a particular direction, and she was supportive of whichever goals and dreams I chose to share with her. When I went through difficult things much later in life, she took the time to let me know she was thinking of me, and she didn’t express disappointment. She was the only person that still sent me letters, which somehow found their way to me in far off lands. And she was one of the only people to whom I wrote them, when I thought I had tales which she’d enjoy.

I took Francoise with me to visit her a few weeks ago. She was smaller and more frail than I remembered, but told stories of her past with a twinkle in her eye. And she was as ever, interested and engaged in our own tales, especially of travel. I told her how much we’d enjoyed our time with her as young children, and how much she taught me about art. I told her that despite all my cooking experience I’d never dared try to replicate her famous banana pancakes, for fear of failure.

Zoe passed away on Sunday. One of her most important art lessons was around distancing yourself from your subject. If I was struggling to draw from a photo, she showed me I could take the picture and invert it. You could then forget about trying to draw an elephant or a unicorn, and instead concentrate on drawing the shapes. In trying to come to terms with her death, I’ve found it easiest to do something similar. I’ve turned my sorrow on its head, and I’m starting to draw from the shapes that form it.

I think I’ll look out for over ripe bananas when I go shopping tomorrow.

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On incorporate my writing into my living

May 6, 2013 reganbarsdell Leave a comment

When I decided to replace my painting non-career with writing, it was always with the intention of working towards a novel. It’s at least partly my Dad’s fault. Every wintery Saturday morning down at the Ngaio library, I’d end up lost amongst shelves of books that smelt like wisdom wrapped in parchment. My Pa introduced his three children into incredible new worlds, for the price of an occasional lost book. I know it’s unlikely that my book will shoot to the top of best seller lists, get optioned for a film, and in two years I’ll be turning down Ryan Gosling and Reese Witherspoon (shudder) for roles. But as the lovely couple who sold me a reconditioned typewriter on Paekakariki Beach explained, the most important thing for me is going to be self belief.

I needed help understanding my strengths and weaknesses as a fledgling author, so I took on a freelance writing course. I aimed to use magazine articles as a way to make money from the research and character development I was doing for my fiction. One of the key elements of my first tale is a very special vodka. I spent a month investigating vodka marketing, vodka production (first hand) and vodka history. And doing just a little sampling. Just a little, because to tell the truth it tastes universally shite. I ended up with an entertaining article on New Zealand’s vodka marketing stories, and a solid understanding of why you don’t challenge a Polish woman to make a distilled spirit from courgettes and boiled sweets. I found it was very easy to get side tracked investigating and researching.

I guess some authors wouldn’t need (or want) to employ “method writing” in order to communicate informatively and persuasively about Afghanistani heroin production, or the Modolvan slave trade. But without my time in Northern Ireland I wouldn’t feel comfortable writing of the effect of “The Troubles” on tourism in Derry. And without a confrontation with Hungarian gangsters in Budapest, it’s unlikely I’d develop a plot involving the Eastern European mafia. Admittedly Mr McKinnon and I would also be 3000 Euro better off, but even the naive decisions made fumbling your way through foreign lands inspire new ideas. Excuse for further travel…tick!

Locations and ideas though, are just the framework. My stories are fundamentally about people, particularly people who find themselves displaced. My characters have to be unique, interesting and truthful, or who would want to spend four hundred pages with them? I need a way to access other people’s perspectives, or my characters will end up as just different versions of me. Fortunately my writing course provided a solution, a set of assignments requiring that I conduct interviews. Now some might shrug their shoulders at this, but I had my share of shy times as a young fella, and the idea of attempting to pull intimate stories from strangers was difficult to get my head around. But over the years I’ve grown bolder about attacking my anxieties head on, so I procrastinated for only a couple of months. I conducted my first probing question-and-answer session with a talented New Zealand artist, Greg Broadmore. And of course my fears were unfounded, he proved more than happy to explain how he managed to develop his own opportunities in a country with negligible arts support. We downed pints and a couple of roti bread, and my only issue was remembering that it was an interview, not a discussion. Nerves eliminated.

Interviews have turned out to be not just an incredible source of character ideas, but also a tool for countering my misunderstandings. I’ve been developing a blind character, so I decided to write an article on how the visually impaired deal with social media. I imagined they must struggle socially every day, having to do without such useful social tools as winks, colour co-ordination and carefully applied lipstick. And I presumed that interaction had become all the more difficult with the gradual shift from face-to-face chit chats, to technology based relationships. I mean have you tried using Facebook with your eyes shut? Exactly. So I set up an interview with a blind gent who teaches people how to use “adaptive technologies”. I’d seen a picture of him in a newspaper article, and he had been photographed wearing a Metallica t-shirt for the interview. I thought either his Mum had played a cheeky wardrobe prank, or he was a metal fiend, and we’d click. I met him at his workplace, and click we did. I found he was ridiculously capable, and I was embarrassed by how much this surprised me. His Uncle and Father had been raised blind, so he was brought up as a kid that bumped into things, rather than an incapable, lolling eyed burden. And over a couple of hours of conversation, my character developed a voice that wasn’t just mine.

So now I listen much more closely when an old man in a pub tells me of the day he realised that maybe God had never listened to him nor his younger brother. I try to understand at what point a friend abandoned her hopes and dreams as something she might one day achieve, and began instead to project them onto their daughter. And I sit and share a coffee every morning with the homeless girl huddled with a border collie, because I’m trying to understand why when she speaks of the father who beat and abused her, she describes him as if he’s the next messiah.

I hope that through my attention to the lives of others, that my characters might earn a readers sympathy, their empathy, or their disgust. So next time I meet you for a pint, and ask how you how your new relationship’s going, be wary…

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On trying to be different versus trying to be the same

May 4, 2013 reganbarsdell Leave a comment

As a young lad I once read something about how difficult (impossible?) it was to have a “free and independent thought.” This became an unmeasurable goal. I’d squint my eyes, push hard and come up with a thought, and then I’d examine it to try to determine where I might have derived it from. This introverted pastime soon merged with a wider desire to do things differently. Think Natalie Portman’s character in “Garden State”. From taking random missteps as I walked down the driveway at home, to making up new words each day (complete with pygmy clicks and space whale groans…), I set myself up to be a perpetual victim throughout my younger years. Fortunately I was socially adjusted (or societally adjusted?) enough to keep a little of this under the radar. Ginger lad plus imaginary friends equals a lifetime spotting locomotives and collecting other peoples cats.

Many years later I proudly explained to Kara (the anarchist-Canadian) that I’d spent my life attempting to think differently to anyone else, to come up with thoughts and ideas that few had considered before. She replied that this was the first serious thing that we didn’t have in common. She’d spent her life trying to find was in which she thought like the rest of the world. And on inspection I realised that was the truly different one in our particular and peculiar relationship. Oh shit.

So my attempts to separate myself from the crowd have at times been a little pretentious. But I honestly find that in many ways I struggle to fit the mould society shapes for its citizens. Just after University (now there’s a while other blog topic…) I flirted with the idea of fulfilment through acquisition, the quest for happiness through stuff. Despite “Religion 201: An Introduction to Buddhism.” But it wasn’t for me. I found that I could fit all the things I needed to live happily in a 60 litre backpack. I’m content with photos of me with friends, music, and a notebook with enough free pages for me to sketch a characterful face, or write of my feelings for someone five thousand miles away. And though I love the cosy feeling of a home, I feel a constant urge to discover new lands and experiences. I dreamt of visiting Ireland from a very young age. And since discovering a slice of cold pizza and a “welcome, I’m upstairs downing Guinness” note from my sister in a backpackers on my arrival in Dublin, I decided to always set my sites on a new destination. That’s grown into an ever changing wish list of new destinations. Most governments build their structures around an ageing idea of everyone settling in one spot for their existence. But nomadism is back on the rise my friends.

On those years that I’m back in New Zealand I also find myself struggling with the concept of a “polite society”. The unwritten rules whereby we avoid inflammatory conversational topics, the “not talking religion, politics or trans-gender operations” at the dinner table. Recently I explained to a small group of people I didn’t know, that I was “line blind”, so they would have to excuse me when I frequently over-stepped it. Of course I know, I just don’t often choose to care. I don’t like the idea of restricting conversations based on minimising the chance of a difference of opinion. It prevents us from having our less worthy ideas and beliefs challenged. If you abide by all this convention, you’ll end up recycling the same 38 “ideal adult conversations” repeatedly between the ages of 24 and 67. So try not to ask me about the weather, or “how I know Judy” when we meet for the first time. Instead, ask me if I’m as aloof as I appear, or whether I think buddha could take Jesus in a UFC matchup.

There are deeper, more difficult differences within this boy, which I’ll discuss in the near future, but I know now that differentiation may well be the rule rather than the exception. I’ve met enough people from a variety of backgrounds to realise how important it is not to think I have the monopoly on new ideas. I’ve been humbled by the sheer variety of experiences I’ve had related to me. Many of situations and upbringings that others have endured have been uncomfortable to listen to, they’ve brought tears to my eyes and rage to my heart. These people sometimes emerge stronger, and more capable. But it’s not all happy endings, sometimes they’re left terrifyingly damaged. So now I’m disappointed by those who dramatise the difficulties they face, which endanger only their pride, or their societal standing. But all of these encounters help me understand myself, and as someone who wants to share stories of outlandish lives, they are an essential part of my education.

I think the one thing that is important, is that we take the time to understand each others differences, and to learn of other ways to live. It is intolerance and ignorance that conspire to push many of us to the fringes. I hope that eventually my writing will help at least a few people understand the value in living differently.