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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I am writing this post by hand, and I have therefore decided to write about writing by hand, in a dizzying circle of meta-analysis.

I don’t normally do this by hand, at least, not for anything that will eventually be typed. I do keep a hand-written journal. Or two, or ten. Actually one could say that I am obsessive about journalling, as there is a large box full of notebooks at my parents’ house, each meticulously scrawled with what was, I’m sure, important at that time. But none of that will ever see the light of day, unless of course I marry a Prince of Wales.

So it is a bit strange to be using a pen now. Granted, it does have its advantages: a pen is not as heavy to carry as a laptop, with the added bonus of not worrying if it is smashed or stolen (incidentally, this is why I think the Kindle will never replace books).
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My internet is being slow.

I’m talking, really slow. Like, 1990s dial-up slow. Like, click on a link, go to the kitchen, get a drink, put dinner in the oven, and come back to find that the page still hasn’t loaded. That slow.

And it’s driving me up the frickin’ wall.

In contrast to when I lost my smartphone, I’m finding I do not have the ability to rationalise this loss with memories of a simpler time, for example, when using the internet meant leaving the house and going to university, the library, or an internet cafe. Before Facebook, with its continual stream of trivial but somehow necessary information. Before wi-fi, when the computer needed to be connected to the “house phone line” (I’ve pretty much forgotten what that is; I certainly don’t have one). Or before internet at all. Yes, I remember those times.

I remember that they sucked. (more…)

…I went to a pub.

I had a glass of red wine.

And some cheesy chips, mmmm.

I wouldn’t ordinarily mention this, as it isn’t anything out of the ordinary. However, there was one very slightly remarkable thing about the experience:

I was there alone.

Yep, me, myself, a girl, alone in a pub. A pub full of blokes, having an after work drink, chatting, watching “the game” (I don’t know what game, because I don’t generally pay attention to such things, but I think it may have involved kicking a round object), generally, being blokes.

I sat alone at my table and had a good long think about the situation.
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Now, I’m not throwing that out there as a blanket statement. I love words. Of course I do; that’s why I write so many of them. In fact, I would never have been able to come up with a sentiment like that on my own, so I stole it from Depeche Mode.

But it’s late, very late at night, after a long, long day. And just now I went into a room, alone, and I heard it. The silence. And it was sooooo nice.

The reason I needed it so badly was because of things that are all lovely on their own: music, people, even a bit of television. It’s been great but…to layer these things on top of each other, with no break between them…I didn’t realise how tiring it was until it all stopped just now. And then it was like, aaaaah. I’ve missed you, and I didn’t even know.

I need to be able to listen to my thoughts. I need a bit of space. Or I go a bit…not right.

But what does this have to do with dolphins? Well, I’ll tell you. Noise pollution. From ships and sonar and the like. It’s bad for them. It confuses them, and they end up on the 10 o’clock news.

It probably makes it difficult for them to write, as well. In fact, were it not for oceanic noise pollution, perhaps dolphins would be writing plays and stories and symphonies, and building venues in which to perform them, and changing the world with the beauty of their oceanic perspective. Humans would travel underwater to cetacean universities to learn their advanced art forms. It would be the foundation of a new, trans-taxonomic-order Renaissance.

But now, every time the first few strands of melody or the opening lines of a poem begin to assemble themselves, they are interrupted by a shipping container full of ipods, never to to be found again.

Dolphins, I feel for you.