There are a number of stock phrases for it – familiar from Vesaas, Hamsun, Jansson, Nabokov, many Scandinavian and Russian writers. Here, we are far enough in the north (far north of any of the major Canadian cities, for instance) that we have the same light that they do – sometimes, at least, including this evening.
Pale sunlight. Sun slanting through storm clouds, northern sunlight, bleached light. Pale, birch-tree light, clear, wan light, pallid sunbeams, rays of alabaster, and so on. It is that distinctively white but bright light – you know it – I was fascinated when I first saw it in Kiel, in northern Germany, about fourteen years ago. Part of the fascination of travel is seeing that which is truly different: for instance, I've heard about the light in Greece, but despite one wonderful week in southern Crete, I haven't really seen what they mean yet – I think you need to get onto the mainland to see the depth of the blue they speak of there. This northern, pale light is indeed beautiful; my father would have loved it (he was a photographer, professional in quality if not in career choice) – he would have tried to capture it, preferably reflected sun against clouds, that probably would have been his first choice. A difficult technical feat, but he would have spent hours, perhaps days, concentrating on it, if allowed.
It is, however, a light that is especially beautiful when you either are seeing it on a visit, or when you grew up with it, when it is a part of your world of comfort. For me, it is still beautiful (that can't be changed – the special sense of it, when there seems to be so much of it pealing through the clouds, and yet it has such a bloodless, un-sunny quality), but it isn't such a matter for fascinated wonder any more; instead it more simply reminds me that I am far from home (wherever that is), far from whatever place I should be. Nice place to visit, but....
The response to that is, obviously: if I'm not satisfied, if I'm not home, where would I be happy? A question based on a problem-solving context, a businesslike mentality: how can this be fixed?
I'm not sure it can be, any more. The possibility of living in Sydney five years ago seemed practically perfect – exotic yet made out of many of the more enjoyable of familiar, California-like elements; a lively place made up of what I used to tell friends, 'the people of San Francisco with the weather of Los Angeles'. They would ahh in wonder at such an idea: that one might have bizarre, charming, sexy, friendly, funny people, and at the same time live around them in a wonderful climate – because in California, unfortunately, one typically has to choose one or the other, and then live with the choice.
That door was of course slammed shut, and painfully. The aftermath was painful too – the chaos, the financial disaster, the feeling of being thrown down somewhere that wasn't chosen. My current story is that I've finally gotten over it, over the past year: but that merely means that the feelings of rage, loss and depression have faded into something quieter – it doesn't mean that I have any sense of being at home which would replace my shattered dreams of Oz, or any directed longing for another place. I think sometimes of New Zealand, but feel warned by A–'s telling me of his experience – he returned after several years of what should have been bliss, feeling too bored, and too isolated from the greater (i.e. urban, or American, or simply north Atlantic?) world. (Of course, he also had a long-time partner leave him – and he probably missed his vast crowds of fans, who milled around him last weekend in Manchester – so his reaction might be suspect.)
The uneasy quality of my life these days has much to do with its aimlessness: short-term goals don't seem terribly interesting (promotion? publication? clearing out the front room? – they all have about the same status in terms of joy and fulfillment). And long-term goals are just, well, they've all gone sort of shabby, cracked and bent, until I can't quite recognize them as such: I wanted to come to Europe – and now I'm here, but not in a terribly fascinating part of it, and with few prospects for becoming a Continental. I wanted to live in a small house, with a partner, and a garden: but not in any neighborhood I've seen around here. I wanted lively city streets, cafe tables and gardens, laughing people; interesting things going on, the pleasures of the table and stage. Those things aren't utterly absent here, they're just, well, not terribly remarkable in this part of the world; and if they are elsewhere, they don't seem quite worth fighting for, working towards. And the many intense ambitions that drove my life so hard until the late 1990s all seem a bit silly now – a young man's narcissistic fantasies, mostly simple and unrealistic prestige- and art-oriented bids for attention. Publishing has devolved into a thing one does to get a promotion, and the disappointment of realizing that my work doesn't have to be particularly good to succeed (nor does it have to be bad to fail) gives professional writing a slightly bitter, unappetizing aftertaste.
I won't go in for dramatic depression, as I know too much about it from long consideration of so many modernist products – that is just another pose, the result of reading too much Beckett and Sartre (or Amis and McEwan, if you prefer) and inflating one's problems until life seems to be a a terrible, tragic failure. Mine isn't, and it isn't even awful in any particular way: it's just a bit too listless, more shapeless than it should be, a bit lifeless, really.
A bit like that light, I see: pale, wan – almost bloodless....