Author: Brand Smit

SUNDAY, 19 MARCH 2000

The church

I get the feeling, when I look back over the last months I spent in Korea and what I wrote and believed then, that I am still missing the point. I said then I was idling, that I was waiting for the light to turn green. (I kept myself occupied with reading and watching videos. Now I just keep myself busy more productively.)

Last Friday my scooter’s brakes failed. It could have happened at any time during that morning, and in 80% of the cases it would have had serious consequences. But at the specific time and place where it happened, I was in virtually no danger. And since this was not the first time that something bad could have happened to me but didn’t, I wondered: Why?

That made me think again of the idea of a calling … or more specifically, the idea or feeling that I have some special calling, that there’s something that I have to do – a reason for being.

I sometimes spend the best hours of my days and nights thinking – about the world, about life, about the meaning of things, the meaning of my own life, the mystery of why I am like I am and why I do what I do, and why I’ve made the choices that have brought me where I am today. It’s like I’m a detective who’s constantly looking for clues, whether I am aware of it or not. Sometimes it’s just a word that gets stuck in my mind. Sometimes it’s a monologue at the end of a movie. Sometimes it is something that someone doesn’t say. Other times something happens, or I do something that has no apparent value, and there it is again – another clue, another part of the puzzle, as if I need to understand.

I have often daydreamed about my ideal life, and usually it starts with money – to be financially independent, to be able to do what I want to do, where I want to do it, for as long as I want to do it. Perhaps having more than enough money is an essential part of the process, so you can devote your daily life to whatever might be the reason you are still alive, without depending on others for the fulfilment of your daily needs and without being forced to degrade yourself to honouring petty conventions to be accepted by a particular community.

Still I wonder if this is as good as it gets. Or am I still waiting for a sign, a word to which I would respond that I now understand, to then dedicate the rest of my life to what I will see as my true calling?

All this implies belief in a Supreme Being. If you don’t believe in the existence of such a being … well, then it boils down to you keeping yourself occupied in such a way that you develop and maintain an awareness of well-being. And to think of other motivations for what you do – perhaps to be remembered when everything is over, or to have no regrets in your last minutes about what you did or did not do.

If you therefore believe in a reason for your existence, what would this reason be? And if you are not convinced of any specific reason for your existence, how does this affect your choices and outlook on life?

The woman

The woman had already been in several relationships. Yet, each time, the relationship ended because her eagerness to get married had alienated the man.

Then she met a new guy. She took it upon herself to do everything right this time. After a few dates she invited him to dinner, cooked his favourite food, and made sure the music was something he liked.

While they were having dinner, she let him talk about his life. She listened attentively and asked the right questions at the right moments. He also asked her about her work, her family, and her life in general. Her answers were thorough but brief, lest she accidentally bore him. When he told her he would like to live in Eastern Europe for a few months or a year, she expressed surprise. She added that she would also like to live in Paris, or Rome.

After dinner, they moved into the living room. She served coffee and pie. She apologised that the pie was not homemade (which it was), but she expressed the hope that it would taste all right. Then she took her shoes off and sat down on the couch opposite him. Her legs folded in on the cushions, one hand resting on her feet, she watched with disguised interest while he enjoyed his pie. After finishing off his second slice, she suggested they go to the movies, or maybe rent a video.

They decided on the video. She found it almost tiring in the video store to find out what he liked in order to suggest something in his taste rather than just agreeing to his choice.

Back at the apartment she said something about being cold and went to her room to change. The jeans and dark blue tracksuit top in which she appeared moments later made her look … homely, and warm. During the first movie, she sat on the armchair, and he was on the couch. They didn’t talk much, and she tried to appear relaxed every time he looked in her direction.

After the first video, she asked whether he wanted something to drink. He joined her in the kitchen. Ten minutes later he emerged with a tray full of cookies and hot chocolate. This time she sat next to him. Shortly after the beginning of the second video they became comfortable.

The man did not return home that night. In the bedroom, as the woman boasted to a friend a few days later, she was sensational. Where his imagination showed possibilities, she gave him free rein.

The next morning the man was happy, and thought to himself that he had met a “great woman”. She listened to him – “not like some other people” – and she was actually interested in his opinions. They had the same taste in movies, and they even liked the same food. And, as he later told one of his friends, she had no hang-ups in bed.

After a few weeks, he introduced her to his parents. Although his father took an immediate liking to her – she laughed at his jokes, his mother was not impressed. She told her son he must be careful lest the woman catch him for a sucker. He came to her defence and mentioned things like she also wanted to live abroad for a while – like him.

A few months later they were married, though his mother’s opinion of her did not improve much.

Six weeks after the honeymoon, he told her they shouldn’t get too comfortable in their new apartment. After all, they still want to go abroad, he reminded her – in such a way that it wouldn’t appear that he wanted to start an argument about it. She said she wasn’t sure; they’d have to see how things go. With that, she picked up a magazine and started browsing through it.

Then it hit him: this noose was going to pull a whole lot tighter.

The house

[…]

The hang-ups

I wasn’t even properly awake yesterday morning when I realised I still had the very same hang-ups as the previous night. It’s like when you go camping with a group of people. As soon as everyone wakes up in the morning, they recognise each other as the same people they were the previous day. So it is with my hang-ups. The moment my alarm goes off and I realise it’s not a nightmare or a sick joke, it’s as if someone also woke up my hang-ups. And what do you know! There they are – all in place, ready for another day’s service!

What am I talking about? What exactly is my problem? Mainly the fact that I think I don’t make an impression on people I meet. I always wish I can deliver a better performance – be a sporty guy for the sporting types, an amateur musician for the wannabe rock stars, an experienced traveller to the travellers, a capitalist for the capitalists, and a communist for the communists. I wish I knew more about more things, so I could join the discussion around more campfires. I wish I have experienced more than I have actually experienced, and have seen more than I’ve seen. I wish I could do more things, and in such a way that people would refer other people to me, or refer to me in their conversations.

Then everything changed. I thought, who are these people I want to impress so badly? Who are these people with whom I oppress myself so much? There are six billion people on this planet, thousands of cultures, millions of subcultures, countless numbers of back rooms and crannies and corners in dark and dimly lit corridors. There are basements and attic rooms; almost as many spaces as there are people. Why on earth do I oppress myself so much with a few people who in actual fact mean nothing to me?

Free yourself, one is almost tempted to say.

______________________

THURSDAY, 16 MARCH 2000

(Alternate title: Reasons to consider doing it)

1. I’m relatively healthy.

2. I have two girlfriends.

3. Neither of the two knows me.

4. I can afford peanut butter.

5. I have a computer.

6. I don’t work tomorrow.

7. I have three loads of laundry to do.

8. There are too many people.

9. Theoretically speaking, two people had to have had sex for each person on earth, which makes regular sexual intercourse between two people relatively normal.

10. I am abnormal.

11. I want to be a writer.

12. I have no inspiration.

13. I have a few ideas.

14. I want to be rich and live in Stellenbosch and eat breakfast at McDonald’s every morning.

15. I want a couple of prostitutes as friends, but I think my mother would mind.

16. My cigarettes burn out too quickly.

17. I can’t manage to win the third player on the TV tennis game.

18. It’s five to three on a Thursday morning, and I’m 28 years old.

19. The twentieth century is over.

20. I still want to go to Moscow to look at Vladimir Lenin.

21. I still want to spend a few days in Paris in the autumn with a beautiful woman.

22. Rodney Seale doesn’t choose my music anymore.

23. There’s always a possibility that I can hit the jackpot.

24. The chances are slim.

25. I’m getting fat.

26. Cheeseburgers, pizza, Pringles, and chocolates.

27. Perhaps life never gets any better than now.

______________________

SUNDAY, 20 FEBRUARY 2000

Tradition was a hallmark of the high school where I spent my teenage years. And as it befits a school priding themselves on tradition, photographs of six decades of first rugby teams hung in a place where every young boy would be confronted with the possibility of his own face against that same wall. Sometimes, if you were curious enough and you had time, you could pause for a few minutes at a photo to put names to faces. If one had this opportunity, you’d notice a strange term appearing here and there, among all the John Steyns and Louis Bothas: “Another One”. I could never figure out how it could happen that the names of these guys were somehow forgotten, for they must surely have had names! This notion that not everyone was remembered, stuck with me.

A person is born, and as time goes by, he begins to discover the world he lives in. He starts learning how things work, what he must do to survive, what he shouldn’t do to stay out of trouble, and what is generally expected of him. Eventually this person realizes that everyone is, to some degree, like him; as he is, to some extent, like everyone else. Everybody eats, wears clothes, brushes teeth, gets angry sometimes, laughs and speaks in languages that most people in the vicinity understand. He realizes if he wants to survive and stay out of trouble he should follow the example set by others. He should fit in with his surroundings. He must try to be like other people who are part of his world.

As life is, at some point he also becomes acquainted with the phenomenon that people die. He sees, and possibly experiences, the great grief: people crying, and an atmosphere that hangs over the house that he has never before encountered. This young person can certainly not be blamed if he thinks this is how things are going to be from now on – a member of the family has died, and no one will ever see him or her again. But, the weeks and months pass, and he realizes that his mother and father have again started laughing every time the dog does something funny, and the lawn still gets mowed every other Saturday. The life of this youngster also continues in a way similar to his life before the Big Event.

These occurrences make a deep impression on the young child: Someone who had always been there, was one day no longer there, and life continued.

The same thing might happen again – this time a grandmother or grandfather or an uncle or aunt, perhaps even someone who had been running around on the playground with him the other day. The same drama plays itself out again: people cry, whispered conversations, and the silence that muffles even the dog’s barking. But once again it does not escape the child’s attention that the adults still go to work every day and every evening the family still eats dinner – just like before.

The impression that people die and that the world continues without them – like a train that offloads passengers before continuing its journey – is entrenched in this youngster’s mind.

At this point, it’s only a matter of time before the child realizes that he, too, will someday not be here anymore. And as with all the others who have died, the world will also continue without him. Then, too, someone will read the news on TV, someone will crack a joke somewhere, and all the dogs in the neighbourhood will continue barking at anything that moves during the night.

As the child grows older, he’s also exposed to the names of people long dead, but for some reason remembered. In one community, it’s Abraham Lincoln or Martin Luther King, Jr.; in another, Elvis Presley or Marilyn Monroe; and in yet another part of the world, Bruce Lee or Mao Zedong. The child realizes that there are some people who didn’t just die to be forgotten after a while. He realizes some people do things during their lifetime that causes them to be remembered. They’re remembered in school books, in magazines, in newspapers and on TV. Perhaps they’re preached about Sunday in church. Someone might talk about them on TV or around a campfire. And he may read in a magazine how people still celebrate their favourite singer’s birthday decades after his death.

The child looks at himself and at those around him, and the time comes when he wonders where he fits into this Hierarchy of the Remembered. Will his face someday appear on stamps? Will people still remember his birthday, years after he had died? Will his name still be mentioned in the occasional conversation?

The average person knows he or she is important to a small group of people. They know the woman who reads the news on TV won’t shed any tears when they die, but their parents and siblings will certainly be sad for at least a few months. For some people that is enough – to know they will be remembered by a small but significant group of people. Others hope at least a few hundred people will one day pitch up at their farewell party. And then there are people who won’t lost any time thinking about these things, but whose funeral will bring an entire city – even an entire nation – to a standstill.

On one side of the spectrum, we have the man who was a capable leader, perhaps the hero of a political revolution, whose ideas will still be studied centuries after his physical demise. This man may have co-produced a few children who may have given him many grandchildren and great grandchildren. The man on this side of the spectrum may die at an old age surrounded by his large family. His ideas and his well-documented words and deeds will live on in institutions, libraries, and as part of people’s general knowledge. On the other side of the spectrum we have a man who had no brothers or sisters, he never married, never had any children and not many people called him a friend. He never wrote any books, never produced any musical hits, never built anything, and never designed or invented anything that would still be useful long after his death.

The one person’s name will live on. He will be remembered. The other guy will be remembered as … just another one. People would later refer to him as the one who worked in Capacity X in Office Y, or as the man who lived in the Red House. Ten years after his death not many people will still remember his name.

Many of us cherish a desire to be remembered for things that we value. But is this anything more than a quest to feel good about ourselves? Some would say it is precisely this desire that drives humans to do things never done before, or to accomplish something that requires a lot of hard work and dedication – something that will ultimately have value for more people than just a single individual wanting to feel good about him- or herself.

What is it that makes people seek recognition? Why do people hope to be remembered long after their seats on the train had become cold?

Whatever it is, it drives people forward. It drives them to break new ground, and sometimes to give hope when others need it most. It motivates people to acquire skills that put them in unique positions; to improve their own lives and perhaps also the lives of everyone around them, as well as those who will come after them. Unfortunately, this quest for recognition is also the fire that drives people to unleash wars, and to destroy rather than to build.

Let there be consensus: let those who deserve it, be rewarded with a postage stamp after their death, and let their birthdays be remembered. And let the names of those who seek fame in destructive ways (and in some tragic cases find it) be remembered as the result of the dark side that sometimes overwhelm the light.

Shall we say seeking recognition is a good thing then, as long as it produces a mostly positive legacy? To thus be remembered for a good contribution – whether a heroic deed or a life of devotion to a good cause.

Each one of us is ultimately confronted with questions: Where in this Hierarchy of Being Remembered do you fit in? Where do you want to fit in? And finally, for what do you want to be remembered?

______________________

SUNDAY, 6 FEBRUARY 2000

“What do you want to do with your life?”

“I want to write.”

“What do you need to spend most of your time writing?”

“A place of my own, a good computer, and a job that will force me to get fresh air from time to time and provide me with enough money to cover my expenses. It shouldn’t take up too much of my time, though. I’d say no more than three or four hours a day.”

“When and where exactly do you intend to make this life your own?”

“I’d say in two or three years’ time when I’ve paid off my student loans and when I can establish myself in the Western Cape, or somewhere along the coast.”

“Describe your current situation.”

“An apartment in a city in southern Taiwan. I have a TV and a VCR, a computer, a good radio, some music, books and so on. I’m only working about ten hours per week for the school I have a contract with, but I’m also teaching at other schools. Actually, I only need to teach three or four hours a day to fulfil my obligations and cover my basic expenses.”

“What would you say stimulates your creativity?”

“The times when I’ve written the most and produced the kind of material I have a preference for have been times when I was bored – when I not only had a few hours every day to think and write but days and weeks of doing whatever I wanted. Of course, those times were unfortunately also when I had the least amount of money, when I couldn’t even afford proper cigarettes.”

“So, you have the apartment, the computer, the small luxuries that make life comfortable, and your work situation is such that you can have a lot more free time if you were willing to take the risk of exchanging fewer of your hours per day for cash, while still earning enough to pay your debt each month and live fairly well. What prevents you from now leading the life you hope to make a reality in maybe two or three years’ time?”

“Well, those student loans and the fact that I want to pay them off first. And then I’d want enough money to establish myself somewhere.”

“I can’t argue that it’s important to pay off your debt, but this thing that you want to establish yourself first and only then get busy writing, you know what that sounds like to me? It sounds like someone who’s looking for an excuse to not take the leap required today to begin the life they dream of.

“Why would such a man look for an excuse to not already take steps today to start living his ideal life, even if it’s so clearly within his reach? I’ll tell you why: Because he’s afraid. He’s afraid he’ll fail. He’s afraid of finding out he can’t really be a writer. He’s afraid he might have to admit to himself that he’s fake, a pretender at the gates of the Society of Authors and Thinking People. He’s afraid to pull at these gates only to see his efforts thrown back in his face as too insignificant for serious consideration. That he’ll be asked to look elsewhere for a home. That he shouldn’t pretend to be what he can never be.

“He’s afraid of finding out he’s nothing more than just an ordinary guy. That he will ultimately have to find his way back to the ‘real world’ with his tail between his legs, where he’d have to get a ‘real job’ like everyone else. He is afraid if he takes the leap and commits himself to the life of a full-time writer, he may discover his faith in his abilities was nothing but an illusion.

“He’s afraid he will realise that everything he’s always hoped he was, and what he can do and accomplish in life, is beyond his reach. That he overestimated himself. And if he fails in this grand ideal, he’ll have to admit that without his illusions he is so much less than he always hoped he would be.

So now he procrastinates. ‘Tomorrow,’ he says. ‘In two or three years when I can establish myself somewhere,’ he says.

“But what if he takes risks – like exchanging fewer of his hours for cash and spending more time writing every day, and he discovers there is substance, that his hope was not built on illusions? What if he discovers he not only finds the realisation of this ambition enjoyable and fulfilling, but that the financial risks he would take now may bring financial rewards on the long-term? Will he not then commemorate the day when he also finally said, ‘Tomorrow is too late for me’?

“What if this man … what have you got to lose but any illusions you may have? And don’t you have so much more to gain if you take this risk?

“I don’t have to tell you life is precious, and sometimes much shorter than you expected. That you have to exploit opportunities, like the situation in which you find yourself now. That you’re still relatively young, and if you have illusions about yourself to lose, you will only be a better person without them.”

______________________

SUNDAY, 30 JANUARY 2000

The whole episode started Saturday morning when I received a call from W., a local businesswoman who had helped me find a job when I arrived in Taiwan. She had just returned from a trip to South Africa, she said, with a South African woman who was now working for a partner of hers in a neighbouring city. But the woman had a few problems, and could I please go with her and her husband to talk to the woman. I was obviously excited. I always thought it would be nice if there were a few more South Africans in the area. And W. mentioned the woman was blonde …

So I went along to meet the woman.

The moment I saw her, I knew something was wrong. Her hands were shaking, she was pale, and she was clearly overjoyed to see someone who could possibly help her. She explained that she was unhappy with her work situation, and that she wasn’t keen on staying in the same house with her boss and his family. And these and those promises were made that haven’t been met.

Other people might have seen dollar symbols flash before their eyes (a lot of money can be made if you introduce a foreign teacher to a school looking for one). While she was talking, I saw the Rider in Black. I fantasised how my mouth turned into a well-oiled revolver, how I fired a few arguments in the direction of the villains, and how by sunset the blonde woman and I would be on the train back to Fengshan.

After spending an entire afternoon arguing back and forth, we came to the point where W.’s partner, “Honest” Jimmy, made a suggestion: If I guaranteed they would not lose the money they had paid to get the woman to Taiwan, they would “release” her in my care.

By that point I had been speaking on behalf of the woman for hours, and I realised if I did not agree, my whole effort to help her would appear as ridiculous as an empty Colt in a shootout. So I agreed: I guaranteed that, if she ended up not working for them, I would personally make sure that they get back the NT$40,000 they had already spent on her.

The blonde woman packed her bags, and a few minutes later we left.

Back in Fengshan I phoned my friend O., the only other South African I knew at that point in Taiwan, and informed him of the growing number of compatriots in our town. Fifteen minutes later he was standing in my living room, and while still shaking hands, he almost surpassed my own heroism by agreeing to lend her the NT$40,000 and to help her find a new job.

The blonde woman was on the verge of shedding tears of joy. Two heroes! In one day!

On Sunday we made a few calls, and I criss-crossed the city with her on the back of my scooter to organise an alternative position for her. By nightfall, we had made some appointments with schools that she would visit on Monday. We also paid O. a visit. He collected the promised amount of cash from his drawer and handed it over.

Monday lunchtime I took the woman to W. to inform her that we had managed to find some other work for my compatriot, and, as I understand it, for her to hand W. and her partners the forty thousand. W.’s husband, who doesn’t speak a word of English, listened carefully to what we were saying, and to W. as she translated. When he reckoned we had finished talking, he got up from his chair and started screaming at us with a fury I had not known he possessed.

I turned pale, and the woman turned pale, and in the few moments of silence that followed the eruption I tried my best to work out what we had done wrong. W. explained it was not what they had expected of me. Because they had asked me to go along, I was supposed to be on their side. And they had done so much for me, and they were my friends, and I don’t even know the woman, and how could I have betrayed them like that.

As I came to understand it, I was supposed to use the Sunday to persuade the woman that W. and her partners were good people, and that working for them would be the right thing to do. And Mr S., W.’s husband, was angry at me because I had given my support to the wrong side.

The situation took an even worse turn. I was informed that I couldn’t expect any more assistance from them in my application to renew my work permit and residence visa. That they would go even further and would obstruct my application in any way they could.

I wanted to tell them if it were about the money, the woman could repay them on the spot. But she herself said nothing. Only later did she inform me she was “keeping her options open”. (Her plan seemed to have been to borrow NT$40,000 from a school where she hoped to get a job and then return the money to O.)

The next few days were stressful. I had to replace certain documents, and the only people who could help me were the very people I had alienated – W. and her husband, the screaming Mr S. refused to provide any assistance, as per their threat.

The blonde woman had since moved in with O., as she was of the opinion that the atmosphere in my apartment had become “negative”. Both O. and I had by then become aware that she had a bit of an esoteric outlook on life. She regularly studied the alignment of the stars, unpacked her Tarot cards on her bed to see how the situation would work out, and often sat on her pillow to try to make contact with the Silence That Reveals The Truth. The atmosphere in my apartment was therefore more than the expected result of a tense situation; it was negative in ways an ordinary mortal would not understand.

By the following week, I had had enough. I called her and told her that she had to hand over the forty thousand to W. and her husband, so I could replace the documents I needed. She casually responded that she had no intention of giving them the money before they gave her the return ticket they had bought for her in South Africa.

I explained that I had helped her to get out of a bad situation, and the least she could do for me was to resolve her business with them. She replied that she was not going to harm herself because of me, and that she had in fact not asked for my assistance. And to illustrate that she was done talking, she hung up before I could continue debating the point with her.

By the end of that week, O. flew to South Africa for a holiday, hoping of course that the woman would find a job in the meantime so he could get his money back.

Less than a week later she was also on a plane back to South Africa – with a ticket she had bought with the forty thousand.

He later told me she had gotten in contact with him in Cape Town. She gave him a cheque for the money she had borrowed from him, and immediately asked whether she could borrow the money again so she could go back to Taiwan. He kindly refused the request.

I have only heard from her once since her escape. In a bizarre, cryptic email she expressed her surprise about how things had worked out.

* * *

The episode reminded me of a few things. You meet someone in need. Your first instinct is to help the person. Noble, right? Complicated as the situation is, it causes trouble for you with other people. Three days later your nerves are shot. You decide to take steps to improve your own situation, and the person you tried to help sticks her finger in your eye. She’s surprised that you expect anything from her. And to rub salt in the wound, she reminds you that it was after all your choice to get involved. And then she hangs up on you.

All you can do is to sit on your chair and flick though fifty TV channels looking for something else to think about.

So it came that I found myself on my own meditation cushion, ready to be filled with Insight That Is Revealed To One Who Pities Himself. Legs crossed, hands in my hair, I wondered: Why am I on my own?

It is certainly true that to a large extent we are responsible for our own situations. Was it not, after all, my choice to get involved in the blonde woman’s predicament? The conclusion should then be that I am responsible for my own isolation, my own loneliness.

Like everyone else I meet new people every now and then. But it is as if a higher power only causes people to come into my life who cannot or do not bring comfort to this seemingly eternal fate. And this higher power knows with what I was confronted again this week: my own vulnerability – how weak and helpless I truly am.

I have managed to work out a few things in my life. If I have to make preliminary conclusions, the bigger picture is not exactly rosy. It seems as though the divine judge of my father and mother’s religion is not really involved in the world he created (according to legend). Is it everyone for themselves, then? On this point there is also no clarity.

So here I sit, trapped in a paradox: on the face of it no justice, but don’t dare do what you want, because “Karma’s gonna get you.” And if it’s not karma, then some or other form of justice to even out the scales.

I am tired of this puzzle where none of the pieces fit. For years now I’ve been sitting with a hammer under my table. Because no matter what I do, the pieces just won’t fit like puzzles are supposed to. And I tell people my ambitious effort to make sense of everything on my own is making good progress. I cut my pieces carefully, and my puzzle is not as big as it was when I believed like a child, but it’s coming on. And this time it is my puzzle.

But every time I return to the table with my puzzle, the pieces have pushed themselves apart! That’s when I bring out the hammer. Because if it isn’t these pieces in this way, then how? For god only knows I can’t do without a puzzle! I must make sense of the world outside my window. But I’m tired of rhetoric and argument! I’m tired of theology and philosophy, and fancy explanations!

Just give me a little comfort, for once! Like the waitress in the diner on the Roger Waters CD who asks if the guy wants coffee, and who then apologises because she woke him up, or talked too loud.

I’m working on plans that could possibly give me an okay life two or three years from now. That speaks of hope, doesn’t it?

Or are things like they’ve always been? You get older, you learn more about life, maybe in a few years’ time you can buy something you don’t even know about now, and life goes on. And it’s never as good as you constantly tell yourself. And yet, we continue rowing like fools until a wave smashes us against the coast, or until we float to the middle of a vast ocean.

Perhaps Nero had the right idea. Instead of trying to save Rome, he played the violin. Maybe we need to dance more, and make more music. Maybe we should spend even more time thinking about things. Maybe we should keep meditating until we imagine an entire table filled with a puzzle where all the pieces fit. “What a nice, colourful picture that is!” we’ll eventually mutter. A bottle-blonde answer to the drabness of our reality.

I finally fell asleep on my meditation cushion, and dreamed of a blonde woman standing on the street corner selling second-hand violins. And I dreamed I borrowed money from “Honest” Jimmy, bought myself one of the violins, and played a tune to W. and her husband while O. chased them down the street with burning plane tickets in his hand.

______________________