Angels, Cereal and wasting time.

I think perhaps the greatest loss of my relatively short life is my sudden disregard for cereal. Once- recently in fact- cereal was as god to my morning routine- I was infamously unconscious, and frequently still in bedclothes as I stumbled towards my manna- the stuff which somehow made monday mornings bearable. Chocolate flavour, weetabix, fruit studded, honeyed- you name it, I devoured it as I dragged myself out of my dreams- contemplating each spoon before savouring it in private bliss.

Sadly- I've forsaken this. I'm afraid the temptation of my duvet overcame my cat like love of milk in my breakfast- and now its fallen to the bottom of the priority list. This all came together when, after several attempts at trying to wake me- with light, hairdryers and strawberry laces (or so I'm told) my roommate proclaimed my likeness to a brick and gave up. Blearily, half an hour later I rolled out of my bed's embrace, and realised I had five minutes to get ready. Not good. What was worse was realising that it was Thursday, not Wednesday. No- this did not happen straightaway- in fact, it took a double lesson of french grammar stabbing superlatives into my sleep muddled mind for me to catch the glare my teacher was giving me. Because I missed my mandarin lesson. Because I thought it was Wednesday. Ever been glared at by a french professor? Because honestly- that particular breed of educator has honed it to an art. Still- it made me wonder, had I been having my regular installment of some cardboard wrapped wonder, I would have paid attention to the day of the week. That way I would've known when I would be able to get some more. Maybe- this whole missing breakfast thing was even worse than I'd first imagined.

Then I remembered that I rarely knew the day of the week, and promptly forgot. Even if I'd had any further doubts, in the chapel that morning our chaplain proudly announced we had a new angel in school, and everything was alright again. Cue doubletake. I mean- everything was a bit new- but angels? Was that going to be part of the establishment confessed oddity of routine? Within seconds my gaze was drawn, with the dozens around me- as if by a collective magnet, to the back of the chapel where the chaplain was pointing proudly. I felt my heart sink. A somewhat 'abstract' angel- which was less conceptual or philosophical than a traditional angel shape made in white painted squares of balsa wood, hung at a precarious angle from the whitewashed wall. Well- so much for heavenly host- it was more discount at B&Q. I mean, I know Angels/Christianity should be to do with humility, building up wealth in heaven rather than on earth- but this looked like something taken from a scrapyard, lacking even that rough redeeming charm.

As the week went on- my disappointment began to change into something else, and it all started with time wasting.

We had a talk- as promising adolescents, on how to spend time doing the right things to get into ever more competitive universities. We were told not to worry- our social life would not be sacrificed, but our freedom would. Or rather our free periods should be spent under the college's academic watch. Having just read 1984- this thought already gave me an irrational shudder, and when the biology teacher went on to combine the elements of a timetable with molluscs (no I still don't comprehend how) this transformed to full on horror. Organising my time? Knowing the day of the week?! Giving up my free period chocolate??? Horror of horrors- let it not be so. But all this came afterwards, and even now only lingers at the surface of my consciousness- mixed up with merlin, myth, strawberry laces and straps, and chocolate. All things important- but then, underneath it all- the honest stuff. The stuff that you know makes you who and what you are- be it a chemical cocktail, a bias of external opinions, or something some people would call a soul.

There was one thing that the biology teacher said that really stuck with me. 'Let your time be spent, not wasted.' A bit cliched yes- but ponder it a second whilst I go on a relevant tangent. Angels, according to Saint Thomas Aquinas- are semi-contingent. They have a beginning, but no end, they are immortal. For an angel- maybe even for our odd little balsa fellow, time should be spent wisely. It is, one would suppose, the reason for their existence.

On the other hand, returning to the point post haste- can human beings waste time? Please don't point out the obvious, 'if you have an exam/commitment/job/time to wake up you can't spend time chilling/eating/ sleeping- or my personal favorite, 'whatever it is you lot do these days'.

Really- our days are numbered, fair enough. Our experience throughout this life is limited- every choice we make closes as many doors as it opens. But when we get to those last few seconds, afterlife or not- surely our lives have been worth every second? Surely then we can realise that? Because no passing fad- be that a job or an education (ha! such useless things) can define our perception of the times of our lives. We have lived them- and surely that's the key. That in each of those seconds- be they spent in sleep, study, invention or indulgence- we have spent them. We have breathed the air around us, our hearts have beat to the dance of our emotions- we have seen, not seen- felt, not felt- experienced life and time and the earth around us. In that sense, though time may be used wastefully, it is never wasted- always spent as we progress through our lives, and let every moment- consciously or not, shape who we are.

There's no need to worry about the loss of cereal epiphanies or vengeful french teachers with chinese as a side- no need to panic about which day you've reached. You reached it- you lived it- you spent the time as yourself. Let the angels worry about wasting time. They're far less likely to slip up.

Even at the End of the Road-

You can't find Cafe Java. You can find Sea Gypsies, shark teeth, tsunami escape routes and golden buddhas- but the elusive cafe likes to switch cities, and is, as a result, impossible to find- even if you spend two hours searching for it last thing at night in the back streets of Thailand. But hey! I guess that's life.

On the other hand, at least neither I or my hypothetical ox were killed horribly by a curse from the vengeful half buried buddha we visited- maybe it's because of my brand new protection charm. Maybe it's because the buddha decided to take a vacation. Either way as of yet I have not yet fallen into terminal illness after the inexplicable appearance of a piece of gold leaf (normally put on the buddhas as a sign of worship) on my thumb. I'm sure that's some kind of omen- I'm hoping it's a good one, because as the days before I get my gcse results dwindle away painfully slowly, I'm developing a sort of bipolar disorder.

One minute I'm hiding in my bed till midday feeling sick every time I check the date on my possibly waterproof watch. The next, I'm laughing madly whilst flying down zipwires 50 feet above a jungle canopy. Maybe it's just me- but really, these examiners seem to have devised the perfect slow torture for the hordes of normally indifferent teens- it's like payback for all those years of missing half the lesson because of a lie in- or just savouring a chocolate bar- or once talking to my headmaster having dinner with my parents in Hong Kong. What can I say? Time is immaterial to me- it brings neither snow, strawberries, yorkshire puddings, bubbles or puppies when I want them. Why should I obey it's namby pamby laws?

Ok, scratch that- it's impossible not to, but it doesn't mean I have to pay attention to the fact.

Regardless- time is most certainly at a standstill when you're having a fish spa. This quaint custom involves you putting your feet in a tank full of fish for a period of the afore mentioned T word and having your feet nibbled and groomed by several dozen small fish. Yes, I am incredibly ticklish, yes, I went through with the fish spa, yes, I screamed and laughed like an idiot for the first ten mintues- and no, I'm not entirely sure it's a good thing that these fish are being raised on human flesh. But it's an experience I can scratch off my 'bucket list'. (The list of things you want to do before you die, nicked from the excellent film by the same name.)

If only time stretched the same way whilst I'm lying with a cocktail, 'far from the madding crowd', and the azure ocean stretching out before me whilst lying on a sun lounger on a beach in the sun. Really dislike me yet? (apparently hates a strong word- incidentally, what does that make love?)

I suppose it doesn't matter the situation, circumstance, country or gibbon reserve- time and monsoon rain will carry on regardless. You don't have to pretend to pay any attention to it (I doubt I ever will), but sometimes, maybe- it's best to make the most of it. After all, no one ever knows how much 'time' they have left- but nor do they often realise any 'time' they have is infinite- and therefore, to steal a cliche, full of endless possibility.

Summer, TV,

And volcanic ash too- it's funny what randomly jumps into your mind when you sit down to write a long overdue blog update. I'm sorry, again, but seriously, there was this volcano in Iceland... Well, you know the story.
So, whilst sitting in my business class seat on my week late flight back from Hong Kong, I thought quite a bit. I also slept and watched Dorian Gray (creepy movie!) It's funny how much can cross your mind without you really thinking anything. And how a day flight can still leave you dog tired with jetlag...
Anyway, when I got back to England, it was cold. I mean, really cold-what's with that?? It IS summer right? Luckily it warmed up pretty quick, and thanks to our schmancy business class seat, me and my bro managed to get off the plane and out of departures in about 45 minutes, which is a record time in a life of airline travel. We saved a heck of a lot of time, and managed to get back in time to catch up on Doctor Who and play games with our family, AND eat roast chicken.In terms of time won and saved it was a win- win situation, and as we lay, digesting our delicious meal, raging over Rummikub and wishing that sleep would come before sunrise, i'm sure my brother and I shared a sense of quiet satisfaction that just this once, everything had gone smoothly.
But then it's funny, how time works. Because originally, we were supposed to be flying back to England on the 17th April- before we got a call saying it was rescheduled to the 4th May (some rubbish about glaciers melting and funny clouds) Cue panic about GCSE's, getting back at all, and the idea of my Mum home schooling us- but secretly me and my brother were glad- not just because we were getting to spend school time in a tropical country swimming in the pool or sailing in the ocean. No it was much....'deeper' than that.It was time with family, a little freedom, a gold and chocolate extra bit of holiday dropped straight into our laps, with an extra coating of volcanic ash. So that when we got another call saying we now had to fly back on 27th April,a week earlier than planned, my Mum and I spontaneously burst into tears- and it didn't feel particularly triumphant. I'm not (much of) a teary person- unless Black Beauty, Bridge to Terabithia, or Hamlet is involved. But it was something like a line Lemony Snicket once wrote- 'it's like arriving at the top of the stairs in the dark, and there's that sickening moment where your foot falls through space, missing a step that isn't there'. Or something like that; it's all a half real expectation that seems all the more of a loss when it's no longer held to be true. All those moments half dreamed up already, time with family and being home, suddenly made to be nothing more than an impossible fantasy.
And then I get back here and it turns out I've missed nearly all of Spring too- the daffodils are withering, and there's no raspberries anywhere! And suddenly it's all less win-win and more lose-lose. I've missed all these televised debates, almost the whole election, and 4 episodes of Doctor Who (caught up on iplayer, didn't bother with Gordon Brown calling someone a bigot though). It also turns out that what I, stupidly, imagined as a small favour for a friend has resulted in me standing up in a mock election for the Green Party next Thursday- whose manifesto I'm barely aware of. (A friend recommended I bring a fake spliff, and that was about where my research ended.) All my time, all these things that have happened, should happen, could happen, will happen have escaped my grasp- like fishing with a handreel and feeding those annoying little fish on the end rather than catching them. There's a niggling sense of their existence- a tug on the line, ripples in the water, but when you reel it in, it's just- empty.
In spite of all this, it's actually sort of comfortable.Sad, yes. A little bit painful, yes. 100% bewildering- without doubt. But when it comes down to it, it's a lot easier to deal with than you'd think- almost enjoyable. I've, often, said that I'm generally unaware of my location in the space-time continuum. But that's a lot more difficult than it sounds, because you are made to be constantly- presented daily with your timetable, calendar, diary, whatever it is. Even the seasons themselves dictate things to do, clothes to wear, food to eat, places to go. Everything is under some kind of influence. Being detached from all of it, and watching yourself slowly sink back in, is pretty fun. It gives you a chance to feel more certain of yourself- because that's the only thing you're certain of, and let you get your own perspective sorted.
So, if any of you (DFJ) are in the pursuit of a sense of liberation, freedom, or true equality, I'd recommend taking a break and getting stuck in a country six thousand miles away- because there's nothing like a bubble of chaos to yank you out of the order of things and let you sit back and watch- if only for a little while.