Showing posts with label freedom. Show all posts
Showing posts with label freedom. Show all posts

Monday, 25 March 2013

Galway has a battle between bulbs and brains!


We are a magnificent species. Evolving from the primordial soup to become sentient beings with flare, imagination, spirit and initiative, we’ve rid ourselves of all predators but each other. Yes, great white sharks and tigers can eat us, but they’re not going to before next Tuesday.
 

Lacking a predator, we take on each other. As children we learn to beat up our brothers and sisters. As adults we go to war and kill each other.
 

Wars are not just those episodes we see on the news. There are many wars going on, permanently raging on several levels. Each war, in its own way, shows how brilliant and ingenious we are as a species, displaying the manifold methods we’ve dreamt of to screw ourselves up physically, mentally, spiritually and financially.
 

Each war has its own battles. In fact, there’s a small battle being fought around our lovely city at the moment. This war is between the realms of Order and Freedom, both ancient and noble causes. The battle, which sounds so mundane as to seem almost innocuous, concerns the replacement of roundabouts with traffic lights.
 

When I told you it sounded mundane I wasn’t kidding, but actually, far from dull, it’s a battle for the way our minds work.
 

Yesterday I left my mate’s place in Ballybane at 4.30 pm. I needed to drive right across the city, just when schools were emptying and workers were leaving their shifts (because those who today work in the engine rooms of the economy don’t actually have jobs with security and benefits, but mere shifts for which they are made to feel grateful ... don’t get me started!) and out the other side to the Clifden Road.
 

I know my way around Galway, so I zig-zagged, always aiming to be going the opposite direction to most of the traffic, and sure enough, I barely had to use my brake.
 

Crossing the river at Quincentennial Bridge, I took the right-hand lane for the roundabout. The left hand lane was packed with Ring Road and city centre traffic, but my side was clear, so I sailed around the roundabout and headed for home.
 

Hardly the stuff of Pulitzer prizes, but the point is that it felt good. I’d used initiative, knowledge and experience to avoid the endless (what is the collective noun? ‘Frustrations of’?) traffic lights. I’d been able to use my skill and judgement to drive smoothly, quickly and safely where, had there been a red light, I’d just have been stuck in a stagnant queue of traffic, staring at a completely empty junction, but unable to reach it.
 

I’m beginning to wonder if Geldof and his Rats weren’t spot on with their “Walk Don’t Walk” Rat Trap spittle back in ‘78. 
 

At what point do we lose everything that makes humans splendid, by simply blindly obeying the rules? Where once a car-free roundabout gave you the chance to sail through and feel human, you’re now sitting in front of a red light that’s forbidding you to drive through a completely empty junction onto an empty road.
 

Little by little, water through limestone, our free spirits are eroded into canyons of conformity.
 

It’s too simple an excuse to say this is making mountains out of molehills. It is of course a tiny squirmish (Thanks Sarah Palin!) in the great war between Freedom and Order, but it isn’t insignificant.
 

Brains are like muscles. They waste away if they’re not used. We need to exercise our spirits, our emotions and our intelligence. We need to get out there and have a go. We need to see and feel less red lights in life, and be awarded more trust and open roads.
 

Here in Ireland right now our collective self-worth has taken an almighty beating. We’ve been battling away in the background, quietly trying to make an honest living or often merely survive throughout an almighty financial collapse.
 

Even though there’s not vaguest notion of the public being culpable, we’ve seen our benefits and salaries and wages go to pay a debt we didn't create, to appease people who earn in a day what we dream of earning in a month.
 

Being forced to pay the debts of the rich doesn’t do much for our self-esteem. Those who govern and sell to us clearly think we’re worthless scum, and even though we know we’re not, there’s that water dripping through our limestone again, dissolving our pride and enthusiasm, alongside our will and desire to express ourselves.
 

Yet still we’re told we need more traffic lights, more roads, more ways for the people who live west of the city to go to work in the east. Apparently we need a fifth bridge, adorned doubtless with frustrations of traffic lights, and a new ring road.
 

I drove on London’s orbital M25 motorway the day it first opened, and instantly knew it already needed more than its 6 lanes. Even now, with 8, 10 and sometimes 12 lanes, the M25 is completely jammed. It always will be, because roads create traffic.
 

Here’s a thought: if so many people live in the west of the city yet work on the east, why not spare the kazillion you’re going to spend on that new bridge and ring road, and invest it in industry on the west side of the city?
 

That way people in Knocknacarra can work near their homes, saving petrol by eliminating their commute, and more importantly, increasing their leisure time and enriching their lives.
 

Meanwhile, on the eastern side of the city, the unemployed masses of Doughiska and Ballybane can fill the jobs vacated in the Ballybane and Parkmore industrial estates.
 

Hey, I think I’m onto something. Move the jobs to the people.
 

No, that’d never work. If things were done for us that actually improved our lives in any substantial or meaningful ways, it would make us feel far too good about ourselves. We might start gaining confidence and drive through red lights, and that’d never do.

Thursday, 23 July 2009

Armed only with Blue Bag, I’ll take on the world and win!

A couple of years ago, the nice man who works in the launderette was worried about me. He thought he’d done me a favour, but I was acting very strangely.

The big plastic bag into which he packed my clean clothes was usually the one in which I returned my dirty ones, but that week it had torn, so I’d stuffed my dirty clothes into my old beloved Blue Bag.

I never gave it a thought, until I went back to collect my clothes.

“Howya doin’ Charlie!” he smiled, grabbing one of the regular plastic bags off the shelf. “Here’s your clean washing, now!”

“Bu-bu-bu- but where is my Blue Bag?”

“Oh that old yoke? Sure, it was filthy, so I threw it in with the rest of your wash!”

“You washed it? You washed it? You washed my Blue Bag? You, oh, you, oh my god.”

"You all right Charlie?”

My face had gone white, my eyes rolling around in their sockets, as my brain hit the express return journey back to some place hundreds of thousands of miles away, decades before.

It’s November 1984, and a 24 year-old version of your colyoomist has just spent ten quid on a blue Cubmaster sausage bag. I’ve just quit a lucrative but soul-destroying job in marketing and I’m off to travel around the world.

In the 1970’s I’d hitched around Europe with an A-frame rucksack and a small satchel bag, but I’d been young and ignorant.

When The Guru went off to India, all he took was a small sausage bag. He explained that in the Third World they put rucksacks on top of buses and somewhere else on trains, and he didn’t like to be separated from his stuff.

Being a less frugal packer than himself, I bought a slightly larger version than his: dark blue, with white straps, it was hanging on a hook alongside a hundred similar cheap bags, above the doorway of a tourist shop in Oxford Street.

Best money I ever spent.

Regular colyoomistas will know that your scribbler is not a man into ‘things’. My pulse does not thrill at the thought of owning stuff, but my Blue Bag I love, unashamedly.

Now, as I celebrate its 25th year with me, its effect upon me is as strong as ever.

Recently I was over in England celebrating a brace of 50th birthdays. It was going to be a decadent few days, involving a marathon of train rides, planes and pubs, beers and breakfasts.

Fearful of being out of practice, I hoisted Blue Bag onto my shoulder and immediately felt a shot of power run through me.

All was good. Nothing could touch me.

Together Blue Bag and I have travelled twice around the planet. We have hitched over 200,000 miles.

When about to hit the road, I buy one of those bright orange plastic mountain survival bags, into which I pack a complete change of clothes for keeping warm and another change for cooling down. Add spare footwear, a few creams and potions, and then I roll that orange bag into a tube and place it into Blue Bag.

Everything I needed to survive is now safe and waterproof inside Blue Bag, and yet it’s light and easy to carry.

Wherever I was, whatever the weather, be the terrain tropical or tundra, I’d always have a dry set of clothes. At night I simply put Blue Bag inside the huge orange bag, and then slide in myself.

My paranoia does not allow me to relax in a tent. Whilst out in the immense wonders of the universe I prefer to see it, to look up at the stars and know what’s going on around me.

I never understood tents. The entire wild world is just outside, but you are crammed into the teensiest space you’ll ever sleep in.

No, if I’m out there I like to be part of it and not apart from it. If it lashes rain, then all I need to do is slide down further into my orange bag, and roll the top over.

Come morning I am dry, as are all my belongings, and I’ve no tent to pack up.

In fact, as I sit here now there are probably confused folk all over the world who at some stage drove through the rain past a large orange plastic ball sitting by the roadside. Little did they know that inside lurked a mad scribbler, crouching inside a waterproofed ball, my hand holding the orange bag’s scrunched top to let in some air.

Blue Bag and I have have been through all manner of madness and tribulation, but always it is by my side, and with it I feel safe and complete.

In the Cadillacs of California, the buses of Bali and the 24-wheel rigs that master the English motorways, Blue Bag stood on its end between my legs, taking up no more space that I do myself.

In strange bars Blue Bag’s handles are hooked round my bar stool so that no stray hand might whisk it away. And before the ridiculous limits of carrying of liquids in airports, Blue Bag used to be my hand luggage, allowing me to be off the plane and out into a new country while all the other passengers were left behind, waiting at the baggage carousel.

Metaphorically and practically Blue Bag was my fast track to freedom.

“Charlie? Charlie? You okay?”

Woh! I’m back in the launderette, ripping open the plastic bag to see if my old friend has survived the rigours of the washing machine.

In all those years it never had a wash. Blue Bag bore the dust of 4 continents, the sweat of a quarter million miles hitched to my side.

It had been thrown from ten thousand trucks onto the dust, gravel, mud or sand below. It had been infested by giant wood lice in Noumea, and somewhere between Sydney and Melbourne it had come under attack from thousands of bull ants.

Now all that dust, all those grubby souvenirs were gone.

Had it disintegrated into tatty ashes?
Was it now a useless piece of old cotton?

It was not.

Blue Bag looked grand. Clean, yes; not as good as new, but then again, nether am I!

And together with Blue Bag, I still feel ready to take on the world and win!

 

 

©Charlie Adley

23.07.2009.