Jessica McFarland

Well, it’s been a while since my last post. Life happens. Whatever.

To be honest, during this hiatus, it wasn’t just life-in-general that was happening: my very amazing and very wonderful parents graced me with a visit to London. They saw the sights and spoiled me in the process, as parents should do occasionally. It was a fantastic 10 days.

It also got me thinking about America. I’ve been living in the UK for four years now, and I only get back to the States a maximum of twice a year. This year I’ve skipped my summer trip, so it will have been at least a year since my previous visit when I get to go back again.
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Starting to write has reminded me of something.

I used to go alone to open mic nights on a regular basis. And I used to meet all sorts. Once I met this guy. His name was, I want to say, maybe, Joe, or something? He seems like he could have been a Joe. But it was a long time ago and I’ve completely forgotten. Actually, it probably wasn’t Joe at all. So let’s call him Joe.

Joe was a musician, or maybe a poet. He did something. So I’ve forgotten pretty much all the details of this occasion, and it’s turning into not a very good story. But there is a point, I promise.

I chatted to this guy for a bit, though not ‘like that’ because he was quite a bit younger than me. He was an angsty, artsy teenage guy. Possibly he was ‘emo’ but I don’t think the term had yet gained popularity.

Now I’m getting to the point. We both had websites (the internet having already gained considerable popularity) and exchanged these details. When I looked at his, boy was I in for a shock.

Endless, stream of consciousness writing, devoid of coherency or formatting. Details of people and interactions, events, thoughts, feelings, that had just happened. Copious expletives. I was mentioned, I remember realising with a shudder.

It was difficult to read, and slightly painful, and hella creepy. And it’s the sort of thing that, when I thought about it, kept me from writing, a bit. Cause, I mean, whoa. I don’t wanna sound like that. I don’t want the world to witness the full extent of the chaos. There are plenty of train wrecks and earthquakes and never-ending volcanos in the news. And that’s what it was like as well: the disaster that keeps you glued to the news as it unfolds, just to see how horrible it can get.

But, however many years later, I realise that there’s something a bit beautiful about that kind of thing as well, even if it’s also a complete mess. It takes a very specific kind of courage to display such a vicious tangled catastrophe in public. I wish I could find that “blog” again (that word definitely hadn’t gained popularity yet. I feel old). Or remember that kid’s name. If it’s you, hey, what’s up? I hope things eventually got better.

Anyway, I couldn’t do what “Joe” did. I’ll always edit. ‘Cause that’s what I’m like. But that’s not the only way. Joe What’s-his-face showed me that.

So. As I write this, Eyjafjallajokull (no, I can’t pronounce that, yes, I had to look it up) is spewing a cloud of ash into the sky which is grounding all planes in Northern Europe. As I didn’t have any holiday plans and don’t each much exotic fruit, this has hardly affected my life at all.

However, a friend of mine has suggested that this somehow means that the world is ending, soon. I’m not sure if he meant in a sort of Psalm 46 hills-carried-into-the-midst-of-the-sea sort of deal, or just the collapse of Western Civilisation. Either way, it’s clearly an overreaction to being stuck abroad for an extra week or couple of years or whatever. The world’s not coming to an end. I can’t believe that Iceland could screw the rest of us over so badly.

But this did get me thinking. The world is going to end eventually, and my friend could still be correct, I mean, nuclear disarmament talks could break down or there could be a big famine or maybe even daleks. It could be soon. And here’s me, wanting to write a blog for ages. Wouldn’t I be disappointed if England was vaporised by a rogue solar flare before I shared with the world my random thoughts about life, love, literature, London, and laundry? (I suck at ironing, apparently; my clothes keep mysteriously getting destroyed.)

Yes, yes I would be disappointed. That is my answer. So I’m going to write about these things, until I run out of things, or until the apocalypse gets here. Any day now. Maybe.