Author: Brand Smit

In the service of an idea

MONDAY, 5 JANUARY 2004

I can say that it has always been in my cards that I would go back to South Africa. It can also be said that it has taken me eight years – from 1996 – to become familiar with and accept the fact that my return will be as a writer, with the consequent implications for my social status and lifestyle.

“Doesn’t have a car? Well, he is after all a writer.”

“Has to take the bus to visit his parents in Middelburg? Well, if he were an ordinary office worker, it would have been one thing …”

“Thirty-two and he’s not married, and he doesn’t even have a credit card? Well, it’s not as if he’s a bank clerk.”

“Ragged beard, old sweatshirt, blue jeans that probably cost him no more than R50? He’s not unemployed, is he?”

“No, he’s a writer.”

I am in the service of an idea. I am a Missionary for a Gospel of Another Sort. But what do I see, when I look at myself through another person’s eyes? It is true that people are sometimes intolerant; that they do not always have an open mind regarding alternative ways of thinking and living. It is also true that if you prove yourself as an artist (which traditionally means commercial success) you will be accepted by the community as such.

Am I willing to accept certain realities that will manifest in my life time and again over the next few years? For example, a woman says after one or two dates: “I enjoyed your company immensely … it’s just a shame you don’t have any money. I mean, you are a writer and so on, but it’s not like anyone ever reads any of your books …” Am I ready for this? It will be one thing if old-timers who drive around in BMWs shake their heads, but I’m just human. Am I willing to sacrifice things that are important to me and things that I need for the sake of my service to an idea?

(It’s another Monday, in another year.)

What I am saying here is nothing new. What has changed is the degree of my commitment to the Writer’s Occupation. For years, I tried balancing my literary ambitions with things that can make money. Money must still be made, nothing can ever change that. But I also know now that it’s not simply a case of me wanting to write. I need to write. I also believe that I have to write, that it’s something I am supposed to do.

* * *

You may have had daydreams about a conventional middle-class life since childhood. But what do you do if another desire compels you into directions that are not necessarily conducive to a typical middle-class life? These desires may find an outlet in social or political activism, missionary work for some religious organization, or the stubborn pursuit of creative ambitions. Up to what point do you give preference to a life that feels right deep down in your marrow?

As it is with missionary work or activism, so it sometimes is with the production of literary material where financial compensation is not high on the priority list. In these cases, it has less to do with a career choice than a choice for a life where a particular agenda is served. As a profession, it has certain implications for your social and financial status. It’s a life that requires you to make sacrifices. It could mean that someone like me would have to wait until I’m forty before I can afford to get married and have children and that I would have to wait another decade after that before I could afford to buy a house.

A person who is not willing to make the necessary sacrifices for missionary work or service to a righteous cause should not become a missionary or an activist. If you want to afford the expensive things in life, if you want to enjoy the luxuries of life, go into business or become a stockbroker. If you want to stand in the service of an idea, you have to be willing to sacrifice.

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Army of one

MONDAY, 5 JANUARY 2004

I am an army of one.

Then again, if I think about it, I am part of an army of thousands, hundreds of thousands, even millions. The only thing is, we all hide in our houses or apartments, or in backrooms, guest rooms, spare rooms, caravans, or homes for the mentally unstable. Some of us keep watch at night, and only go to bed when other people wake up. Some of us keep more regular hours. Sometimes we recognise each other on the street, sometimes not. Some of us have beards; some of us just have a head full of unkempt hair. We are men, and we are women. Some of us are rich; some of us will always be poor. Some own houses, and some only own the shirts on their backs. Some are known to millions; some don’t even always remember their own names.

We – are the Army of One.

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Three thoughts from the 16k

SATURDAY, 13 DECEMBER 2003

“You don’t have a house, you don’t have a car, you don’t have a real job, and you’re already in your thirties and you’re not married.”

“Yes, I know. But …”

“No buts. These are the things that matter when I judge a man. You might have spent seven years in Northeast Asia, speak broken Chinese, and have filled an entire literary project with your opinions. But you don’t have a proper home, you don’t have a car, you don’t have a job, and you’re already in your thirties and there’s not even a romantic relationship on the horizon.”

And that’s it. Case closed.

Does it matter? Not as much as it annoys.

TUESDAY, 30 DECEMBER 2003

Many people reach a point where they realise they don’t really count. Some people keep trying; others don’t.

I have seen many people in Taiwan who give the impression they’ve stopped trying. They lie on a chair, bare feet baking in the morning sun, waiting for someone to buy a soda, or for other Mah-jong players to arrive, or for the cigarette between their fingers to burn out so they can light another one.

Is it possible that I just don’t understand these people’s outlook on life? Maybe not everyone is so bothered with “counting” in the greater understanding of things.

* * *

One of the positive effects of the Industrial Revolution was the emancipation of the serfs, and the ending of a system that had bound them to the soil and to their landlords. This emancipation, together with a policy shift which resulted in a significant percentage of public land not being available anymore for agricultural purposes (as was the case in England), however, ensured that the former serfs soon found themselves, for the sake of their own survival, bound to the needs of new industries.

The Industrial Revolution also meant more freedom for the individual – in theory – and gave them more choices. Money does sometimes make things equal. More than just capital bound the serf to the land and the landlord under the feudal system. Today, by contrast, money buys almost anything you need. If you are an industrial or corporate serf today and you win the lottery, or if you think of a good idea, you stand at least a chance of calling the shots tomorrow in your own little kingdom.

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The last exile

It is Monday, 22 December 2003, seven minutes past twelve in the afternoon. I got up about an hour ago, had breakfast, and then read about the relationship between Russia and Europe up to 1856. Then I took care of my laundry, washed my dishes, brushed my teeth, and turned on the computer. First, I counted the words of two pieces I wrote last week, and then I started playing a game of FreeCell. The latter became too complicated, so I thought it might be better to write this document about the changes that have to be made in my life in the new year.

Actually, I just wanted to put a few things on paper, and I wanted to type rather than write. My intention was specifically not to write a piece – I just wanted to gather my thoughts.

The moment I typed the first sentence, however, I knew what was coming. This type of text is how I express myself these days. I can’t help myself anymore. I sit down at the computer to write a harmless note to myself, and when I open my eyes, THE WRITER has rudely pushed me of the chair and has manically started throwing his two fat fingers across the keyboard.

My plans vary between two extremes. On the one hand, I am desperate to go back to South Africa at the end of February next year; on the other hand, I would like to stay in Asia for another seven years. Between these two extremes lie all my desires, my fears, my interests, and my hope for a life that is better than the one I now call my own.

I have to force myself to stare some facts in the face, though: a) I am not 25 years old anymore. b) My problem with a permanent position at an institution or corporation in my homeland has been well documented by now. The fact remains that I need money to survive and carry out plans, and I need to take steps to ensure that I can continue to buy food for – who knows? – the next forty years. c) My big dream is a three-bedroom house with a garden and a patch of grass, in a quiet suburban area in a town in South Africa (the country where I was born and where I grew up, otherwise this book would have been written in French or German, and my name would have been Dieter or Pascal).

Of course, it’s not good enough just to say you want a three-bedroom house. Of course I need to take certain steps to obtain such a house. But sometimes I feel like these things are all preordained, and if it’s not in your cards, you can try until you’re blue in the face. So, if it says in your tea leaves, “Apartment in Kowloon until you die of loneliness,” it won’t help if you scream back in desperation, “Three-bedroom house in a quiet suburb!”

It usually helps if my mind rushes in such a direction late at night when I’m considering lying down for a few hours anyways.

This morning I got up, and after my usual piece of history (the uneasy relationship between Russia and Europe until 1905), I decided that just because I apparently can’t be a socialist any longer doesn’t mean I can’t establish my own social system and associated relations through the use of rational thought and action. Which is a cumbersome way of saying that I don’t think I’m necessarily doomed to a lonely existence on a subtropical island in Northeast Asia.

But does this mean I can go back to South Africa next February – in a little more than two months? Can I go stand in line for a three-bedroom house in a quiet town or suburb? Clearly not.

The other day I was reminded again that one must be patient. It’s all fine to sort things out and to seek answers, but answers don’t drop from the blue sky just because you asked an intelligent question. Same with our ambitions. Just because I’ve been able to mutter the words “three-bedroom house in a quiet area” after all these years without thinking I’m betraying myself is not to say that I already have title deeds for a toilet and half a bedroom.

Anyways, I can carry on dancing in circles, talking about how I smoked a cigarette, about thoughts I had on the train about the beautiful mountains, how I eventually went to pay my phone bill, and how I came home to continue writing this piece. The intelligent reader can surely guess what’s coming next: I need a plan.

* * *

I’ve been thinking for years that this profession of teaching Asian children the lingua franca of the world is better than sweeping the streets or moving papers around on an office desk. I also know all too well that the tedium of it can dry out your soul.

It has also not escaped my attention that the times I have been the happiest in the last few years were the times when I only had to spend two or three hours a day making money, with the rest of the time spent behind my computer working on my own projects.

When I do spend an hour or two in a classroom and cash exchanges hands shortly afterwards, I cannot ignore the implication: To be an expatriate English Teacher in Taiwan is ideal for people with unresolved issues that cause them to be unable to find peace in a nice middle-class suburb (or unable at the current time, anyways). There are other advantages to this way of making money – you can master a foreign language, first-hand contact with other cultures, and sometimes you meet people you never would have met otherwise.

In short, where else could I teach English for twelve hours per week and earn enough money to cover my basic living expenses? Where else could I, without having to draw a single line on a contract, move into an old apartment and nail my pictures to the wall? Where else could I eat even my oatmeal in the mornings with chopsticks – which doesn’t work, by the way, and have a conversation in Chinese with a beautiful woman outside the supermarket in the evening when she throws a fresh chicken thigh on her grill for me?

Where could I do all these things … while writing the one exile essay after another full of melancholy and longing for my people?

I have to finish up. I see short stories in my tea leaves, and Chinese dictionaries in my coffee beans, and if I cast my eyes to the stars, at least another seven years of teaching in Northeast Asia. The benefits have already been mentioned; the disadvantages are spread over this entire literary project.

One thing, however, has to go in the struggle that lies ahead: Exile!

For years I’ve been suffering from this feverish hope that the life I now call my own will not be the best I can ever bring about. This hope fuses to my fears and my desires through the burning fires of frustration and longing. That is what has driven me to write exile essays since June 1999. That is what has kept me from looking beyond the next six months. What else if you’re constantly looking, with narrowed eyes, for ways to get away from an unsustainable situation?

I am tired of exile.

* * *

Are you as reader as confused as I am? It should speak of talent to say so much, and at the end get away with so little that is new. Am I going back to South Africa on flight CX1749 departing from Hong Kong on Thursday, 4 March 2004 at 11:50 at night? That is certainly what my travel agent believes.

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Let’s write something

Let’s call it, The Piece I Wrote on Sunday night, 14 December 2003 at … or, Monday morning, 15 December 2003 at 02:03. What would this still unwritten piece be about? Will it be about when I will return to the country of my birth? Will it be about my criticism of the world, post-industrial revolution? Will it deal with my plan, only written in pencil, of course, to go to Mainland China next September? Will it be about how I miss my parents in Middelburg and my younger sister in Bronkhorstspruit and my older sister in London? Perhaps this piece I have not yet written will be about the meaning of life, or about the question of what a human being really is. Maybe it will be about the purpose of my own life, or perhaps whether or not I will ever get married and produce children. Will it deal with Creative Nature, or Creative Process? Will it be about the fauna and flora of Taiwan, or maybe about the trip that I will make to the nearest 7-Eleven in about eight hours to buy milk and a newspaper … or maybe even about all these matters? Will I use paragraphs in this piece? Am I going to click on “Tools”, then “Language”, then “Set Language” and then (no proofing) so that the red squiggly lines under the Afrikaans words that Microsoft Word is trying to interpret as English, can disappear? Will I scratch the side of my nose, or will I go smoke a cigarette in the living room? It is now 02:15. I have so far spent twelve minutes on this piece. The reason why there are only … {“Tools”, “Word Count”} 285 words, is because I usually only use two fingers to type, despite the fact that I spend hours behind the computer every day typing. From the bathroom I hear water dripping into an old bucket I placed under the cistern. The fan in my computer is making a noise. My left knee is pressing against the edge of the mahogany table. It is now 02:18, and I think I heard a vehicle outside. I think I just saw a mosquito. Except for the computer fan and the water dripping into the bucket, and the promise of a vehicle in the distance, there are no other sounds in this neighbourhood at the moment. Except of course also for the sound I am making on the keyboard as I type these words. On the table stands the Toshiba laptop, with a green cloth covering its screen, and a matching cloth covering the built-in keyboard (which doesn’t work anymore). Then there is the USB 2.0 Hub to which my new mouse, my printer and my 20-gigabyte portable hard drive are connected. Also on the table is the Monix monitor that still dates from my first computer purchase, a long, long time ago in 1999. Right in front of the monitor stands a 3M anti-glare filter that makes the screen a little darker, almost like a pair of sunglasses. Because the brackets of the filter broke off, already in 2000, it is held up by five old Chinese books packed on top of each other. Next to the monitor is a coffee or tea mug with Chinese calligraphy painted on. Inside the mug is a collection of pens and pencils. Most of the pens have no ink, and the pencils are blunt. There is also a hand fan in the mug, which I would have used to cool off my face if it were a hot night. Other items on the wooden table include my Citizen calculator (to calculate the words I have written over the past five years, as well as the money I should have saved), a large eraser, a green fluorescent pen, a black pen left by a friend in my apartment, my new blue mouse, a ball of putty-like adhesive, and a paper coaster on which I never place any beverages. Finally, there’s the mouse pad with a piece of white paper on which I use with the new mouse. I have on a pair of white Nike socks which I think was actually designed for gymnasts (or for people who do yoga), a pair of khaki shorts, a white T-shirt that advertises cheap whiskey, and a black sweatshirt, because it is indeed quite chilly in the evenings nowadays. My throat is slightly dry. My tea is finished. It is now 02:36 and I’ve already typed … 757 words.

I’m back. The first cigarette I lit broke off at the filter, so I had to light another one. While I was standing there I thought, “The Personal Agenda of Brand Smit” should actually be one book, not two as I have recently considered the case should be. Then I thought, no, it should be two books, but in a single volume: Book One and Book Two. (I forgot to mention that I am also wearing my blue beanie, not so much because it is so cold but because I think better when my head is warm.) Yes, two books in one. It should be a hefty book, a few hundred pages long. It should be thick enough so that you can use it to prop up a bracket-less anti-glare filter at the perfect height in front of a computer screen. It should also be heavy enough to use as a weapon on uninvited guests. It should, therefore, also be heavy enough to serve as a book stand, to support other books. (It’s much cooler now, or maybe it’s just my imagination. My knee is again pressing against the edge of the table, the fan is cooling down the computer again, the water is still dripping into the bucket, and I can still not make out whether there’s a car in the distance, or if it’s merely the computer’s fan making a car-like sound.) It is now one minute to three, on Monday morning, 15 December 2003. Next Thursday is Christmas. I have a tree, but it’s still in the spare room. I have already received three Christmas cards. Both of my sisters said they would send me cards, but I’m not optimistic that the people at the post office will understand what the romanized Chinese words mean that I spelled out to my sisters as my current address. They both may therefore receive their own Christmas cards back; which means they will have cards to display on their dining room tables which they did not mail to themselves, and for which I will partly be responsible. This year is almost over. This year is actually separated from next year by a mere millisecond, although I do already have a new calendar hanging behind the front door that will make it seem as if it is indeed a different year. (It is definitely a motorcar, even though the computer fan is also making a noise again.) I would have liked to ask a question in this piece, like what purpose does the life of the woman who works at the local supermarket serve, but I am getting tired of questions I cannot answer. Even to say that makes me tired, or depressed. I’d rather be tired than depressed because then I can always go to bed and wake up tomorrow morning and not be tired anymore. If, however, you’re depressed … I hope I can sell one of my projects before the end of the year. I will then surely return to the Republic of South Africa early next year. I was born in the Republic of South Africa. I understand two of the languages that are spoken in the Republic of South Africa. One can buy pecan nut pie at the Spar in the Republic of South Africa. You can also buy Afrikaans newspapers there. You do need a car, though, if you want to go from Middelburg to Bronkhorstspruit, or vice versa. You also need a car for other reasons. If a man is 32 years old and he doesn’t have a car, it wouldn’t make a difference that he has lived in Northeast Asia for seven years, nor would it matter that he can speak broken Chinese, or even that he has written a two-in-one book that can prop up a bracket-less anti-glare filter at just the right height against a computer monitor. All that will matter is that he does not have a car – which means he’s not much better than a tramp. It is now 03:15. My knee hurts, and I’m cold. In all honesty, I can continue working on this piece until it’s time to go to the 7-Eleven to buy milk and the morning edition. To write is a wonderful experience. It’s certainly better than watching TV. This kind of writing is also useful if you later forget that you had existed, and had been aware of your surroundings on Monday, 15 December 2003 between 02:03 and 03:19 in the morning. However, I must go to bed now; otherwise I might just get depressed. And if I get depressed, this piece will most certainly lose its spark. So I solemnly say “Good night” – and I promise I will write again, tomorrow. I can say this with complete confidence, though: I am glad I’m a writer, and not an accountant or a dentist. I’m also glad it’s winter and not summer. Finally, I am glad I’m not Saddam Hussein, who may be ordered to shave off his beard.

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