You’re on this forum finding scraps of information that you thread together in the hope, that you’ll create some kind of comfort blanket to protect you on your travels – a patchwork quilt of colours, thoughts, designs and ideas sourced from the many anonymous people in your world.
‘I’m going backpacking around Europe, no Asia… no, the world!’ you chimed that night. ‘When?’ says your friend, ‘why?’ says your mum. ‘WHAT!’ your girlfriend gasps. It just seems right, you fool yourself, it’s just so me. Suddenly, you’re not the soldier, you’re the sergeant. You’re the leader. You wear brand new badges of respect+ and +admiration every time you gather your troops to tell them of your battle plan. ‘From here, to here!’ you gallantly declare ‘via this, and that’ with this you slide your pint through the bar tops pools of stale stench. Each soldier’s ears are glued faultlessly to your bold ambition.
Then tomorrow comes; Beckham moves to Beijing; Barry bought an Xbox; C5’s gullible Greg marries the evil twin. ‘I’m going backpacking round Europe, no Asia… no, the world!’ you sigh, but the fridge isn’t listening. Next month comes, you glean more priceless patches for your quilt, and things are taking shape, taking colour, you have an itinerary. ‘I’m going backpacking, backpaaaaaacking, backpackiiiiiing!’ you sing. As you flip a coke out of the fridge, it whirs in the same heartless manner as before.
One month to go, the patches are neatly stitched together, you twirl around playing melodies with your fingers on things you’ll never need; the fridge, the bed, the bookcase. ‘I’m going backpacking… around the world’ you say, ‘you are?’ they say, ‘when?’ they ask, ‘I know, you said’ she sobs. ‘Next week’ I gleam, ‘I know, you said!’ she sobs some more. To attention troops, to the pub! Hut two, three, four, hut, two, three, four.
The moment comes; you grab the padded quilt of patchwork pieces and wedge them in your bag. ‘Goodbye my friend, my fridge’ you sigh ‘don’t cry’ you tell her (knowing it’s in vain and wishing she would wrap herself in your quilt, your colours, your dreams.) ‘Goodbye…’ you murmur to your land, your nation sinking away below the belly of the plane, you realise at 10,000 feet it’s morphed into a patchwork of memories, and then it’s stored away beneath a neatly ironed sheet of pale cloud.
‘Hi, I’m backpacking, around the world’ you say, ‘me too’, ‘…and me’, ‘…and me!’ they say. You drag your quilt from train to tube, mountain to monastery, from village to valley. A few months in, it’s torn and tattered. You come back to the Thorn Tree, for forum thread and stitch together faults. It leaks warmth, it's moldy and faded, it’s edges frayed. Subject: It’s me!, “I’m backpacking around the world!” hit send then drag the blanket, now carrying patches of beliefs you know you do not need. Subject: RE: It’s me!, “You are! We know”, they scribe, and “I’ve got your fridge. She’s fine, I think”. Your inbox now a loom, a line of love, a thread of friends, a ball of “when?" and “why?” and “WHAT!” You stare at the column of email, they blur, you stir, you muse ‘a patchwork source, again?’ You take a piece, then two or three.
‘Hello’ you type, ‘I’m coming home’ you tap. ‘So, when?’ ‘So, why?’ they cry, ‘so what’ she carves. You ditch the tatty, torn and telltale blanket at departures. You wipe your face with wisps of pale cloud and descend toward the familiar patchwork lawns of memories. ‘I’m home’ you cry, ‘that’s great’ they say. ‘Beckhams back as well’ they crow and ‘Barry broke his Xbox’. Ah, uh huh. You clutch the edges of new patches, ‘and...’ you sigh 'Greg?’ ‘He’s fine, the twins both died!’ ‘Uh huh’, you smile. The patchwork pieces slip downward from your clutch, a feeling floods you and you feel like it’s actually you that’s rising upward. You flip a coke from the fridge; it warmly whirs. You sit down in front of this, the Thorn Tree. ‘Lets start again’ you sing. Once again, you start to sew.
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A tale of interpretation, that travelling is both a comfort and a burden where raw realities are faced and overcome through learning from the unconscious ignorance of others. It’s food for thought to all you heading off around the world, to whom I say adieu, Godspeed.
Ant
