Travels

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I’m returning from a busy long weekend in Belfast, attending Reconnect: Eastercon, the annual convention of the British Science Fiction Convention. It was a pleasure to be present at such a relaxed and well organised event, stuffed with a mix of smart, silly and knowledgeable people.

As I type these words in the train carriage the green fields of Northern Ireland are rolling past my window and I’m suffused with the mellow afterglow of an enjoyable period spent in splendid company.

For many creative people, attending events like this is our chance to trek from our smaller turfs and merge with a transitory bubble of fellow enthusiasts. It’s an international community, and years may elapse before we can meet some of our fondest colleagues and loveliest chums. Thank goodness for instant messaging and video calls, which help fill the gap of in-person conversations.

I participated in, and observed, a number of discussion panels on a variety of topics, which offered opportunities to meet new people and engage in thoughtful conversation about subjects I ponder often. It is immensely valuable to hear the perspectives of other people, even if it doesn’t always align with your theories. If you approach the dialogue with a curious mindset, and hold your opinions loosely, it can provoke sparks of insight.

I usually come away from conventions inspired and energised (well, after I recover from the fatigue of cramming in many activities over several days, operating on low sleep and much caffeine, while overloading my brain with cognitive and sensory inputs).

The post-con blues can be a real issue. However, the delight of being among people who are fascinated by the same interests would not be as heightened if it was a regular experience. Their rarity makes them special.1

But as the weeks and months progress, a haunting nostalgic heartache can compound as you recall the passionate exchanges, ringing laughter and intense debates. Not everyone lives within close proximity of their best friends or dearest confidantes. This absence can become a resentment against your current arrangements. You can start to yearn for the next future event and view the present with grudging judgement (grudgement should be a word!).

But all we have is now.

I am here, zipping through the Irish landscape, where lambs are leaping beside their mothers on spring-quickened meadows, and heaveyset clouds shoulder out blue sky, while my fellow passengers chat about their voyages and personal stories, and I message my friend and con roommate about how much I valued our time together.

I am moving through space and time, already past my Belfast adventures. I will post this in a couple of hours, in another location; you will read this at a different point.

Soon, I will be in Dublin for a couple of hours, and later, speeding through central Ireland to Galway, where I will have a glad reunion with Martin.

I view photos of the weekend, frozen past moments, while comtemplating my memories, and my mind is background-recording the current situation. I am in flux; rushing to the next destination, sun slanting in, birds spinning outside, leaves bursting into spring finery, the warmth of past hugs lingering on my arms.

The whistle blows, the train departs for its next station. I see through my reflection in the glass and contemplate my good fortune. My throat constricts and tears well in the the corner of my eyes.

In this text I am on two different train journeys, in a Dublin café among other writers typing words, leaning back on the couch in the late night bar in Belfast guffawing at a terrible pun, and waving at my husband as I arrive to my local station.

We are time travellers, constantly slipping through memory and experience.

I am here, dashing forward, fondly remembering and hopefully anticipating what is next.

I am here.

And here.