Assorted Notes

FRIDAY, 19 SEPTEMBER 2003

I can’t sleep, and I don’t want to be awake. I want to be healthy and live forever, but I don’t want to quit smoking. I want to have enough money to do what I know is possible, but that’s not my current reality. I’m trapped in a life where I’m doing my best, whilst I suffer from the conviction that things are not working out the way I would like them to.

Despite my present condition, my fingers aren’t trembling as I type these words, and no blood is dripping from my wrists. The material I produce is external proof that I am alive, and it is precisely that which motivates me to write. What I produce are documents that state how I live at any time during my earthly existence, and that testify how I feel and what my particular experience of reality looks like.

(This, just incidentally, is why I don’t care too much whether or not my writings will ever receive sponsorship from an established commercial publisher. What does it mean to get “published” anyway? It means someone who arrives at the office nine o’clock in the morning, who greets everyone in a courteous manner, who slides in behind a desk and presses a button on the phone that will make coffee arrive within two minutes, has read my “manuscript” and considers that my words might turn a profit for the company that provides a paycheck every month that enables this person to buy groceries and at the end of the year take the family down to the coast. I can’t help but think of what the playwright says to the theatre owner in the film, Illuminata, “Who are you to decide on the legitimacy of my work?”)

For years now I’ve been trying to convince an audience of zero that I’m not part of this world; I’m just here on assignment. It sometimes feels as if I’m from another time or place in the universe. I – with the particular name in my passport, and with all the numbers that make me legally part of Civilised Society – am supposed to find certain things out, to answer certain questions. And at the end of everything I’m going to report back to those who sent me, and they’ll say: “Good job. Here’s your next assignment.”

I’ve been trying to explain these things to people who say, “So you write, hey? Why don’t you try to get your stuff published?” Or, “Why don’t you write a few short stories or some articles?” How should I explain to these people that cosmic reports are not intended for the masses to read on their way to work or in the evenings when there’s nothing on TV?

Only problem is, this cosmic assignment came with a few glitches (maybe I forgot to read the fine print). To properly complete the assignment I had to take on an earthly life form, species Homo sapiens to be specific. And like other Homo sapiens can attest, this means that I walk around with a hierarchy of problematic needs every day of this miserable life. For example, I have to eat, and you can’t eat the same things every day because then people say you’re boring (and that matters, long story). Also, you can’t swallow down deep-fried octopus with vanilla milkshakes every day, because then you’re going to end up with arteries so clogged up from all the cholesterol that you may expire one night on the way to the deep-fried octopus place. One also feels this irrational desire to “spend time” with other people on an almost daily basis. This need can at times become extremely annoying, because most people do not understand my highly delicate task on this little speck of the cosmos.

In addition to the need to spend time in community with others, there is also the desire – that gets worse as the person reaches a certain age – to reproduce with one of usually the opposite sex. To beget children is only the ostensible purpose of this activity, though, because the reproduction is usually accompanied by intense pleasure. It is this pleasure aspect that drives most people nuts until they become too old and they realize they’re no longer in the mood for such frivolous activities.

To convince one of usually the opposite sex to seemingly reproduce range in difficulty from the easiest thing on earth to nearly impossible. And to make the satisfaction of this desire really complicated, there are factors like morality, feelings, expectations, disappointments, and the possibility that seemingly-reproducing-but-really-doing-it-just-for-fun can actually lead to the biological result that is the primary purpose for the activity. And then you’re back to morality, expectations, doing the “right thing” and conventions like marriage.

There are ways to escape, for short periods at a time, this incredibly complex interplay between cravings (of which the sexual is but one) and satisfaction. A whole variety of chemical substances is available from people who usually stand on street corners, or at locations where people hang around for hours at a time to make life more bearable. For millennia, alcohol has also been utilized for this specific purpose. The problem – and by now it should be clear that there almost always will be a problem – is that these so-called narcotics can only be taken in small doses. If these substances are not enjoyed in moderation, it leads to messy consequences such as addiction, and a long list of highly unpleasant activities that one must then undertake to keep satisfying the intensified craving. And was the initial idea not to get away from unsatisfied needs?

So here I sit: I can’t sleep, and I don’t want to be awake.

Sometimes I wish – I don’t know if saying this is even allowed – that I can be done with my cosmic assignment. I wish I could wake up one morning and either be back where I came from, or to be just an ordinary man.

If the latter is the case, I would probably choose to be an office worker …

Truth be told, I wouldn’t want an important position in this office – in this imagined life as an ordinary man. And there should definitely be at least a few people I can call “Boss”. I wouldn’t want to be the one making coffee for everyone, but I would like to drink coffee all the time. And I would like a desk with stacks of paper, and maybe a few stamps.

When the clock on the wall hits five o’clock, I’ll be ready. I will close my windows, turn off the lights, shut the door behind me and joyfully shout, “Goodbye! See you all tomorrow!” to everyone still standing around with coffee mugs in their hands. I will crack a few jokes with my colleagues in the elevator, buy the late edition at the cafe on the corner, and patiently stand at the bus stop waiting for the five-fifteen.

After a twenty minute bus ride and a short walk, I’ll arrive at “our house”. I will push open the front gate and follow the cement path to the front porch.

By the time the mesh door slams behind me, two children will already be pulling at the legs of my trousers, each convinced of their right to be the first to tell me their stories. Then an attractive woman will enter the hallway from the dining room, put the magazine in her hand on a table near the front door and embrace me for a few moments.

We will all wash our hands, and sit down for dinner. I will recite a lovely prayer, and then we’ll tuck away at plates full of rice, vegetables and meat. After dinner, my wife and I will wash the dishes, and I’ll tell her what some or other colleague said or did at the office today.

Then my wife will show me the rose buds in the garden – because it will be spring, and the twilight will be just enough to appreciate the flowers, and to see the neighbours’ faces when we greet each other. After helping the children with their homework, we’ll all watch a little TV.

Round about nine or ten o’clock we’ll say “Goodnight”. I will embrace the children one at a time and lovingly kiss them on their foreheads. I will make sure they settle down properly in their cosy beds. I will draw the bedding up to their little chins, give each one a final peck on the nose, and walk to the main bedroom a happy and contented man.

A quarter of an hour later I’ll be lying in bed next to my wife. I will take her tender, warm hand in mine, put my lips near her cheek and gently whisper, “Remind me some day to tell you about my previous life …”

______________________

THURSDAY, 18 SEPTEMBER 2003

I am no longer in Taiwan. The fact that Neighbourhood-on-the-Edge-of-Town in Bronkhorstspruit (which I now call home) resembles Benevolent Light New Village to a speck of dust is a bizarre coincidence. I did not speak Chinese with the woman who sells tea on the street corner fifteen minutes ago. The newspaper I have just cast aside is not the China Post. I did not eat rice and vegetables with chopsticks last night, and I certainly did not teach English rhymes to Taiwanese children this morning!

To tell the truth, anyone who thinks that I am a 32-year-old man who has been stuck in Taiwan for the last five years – seven years altogether in the Far East – is a blatant liar who should immediately have his head examined! Such a person has an overactive imagination and easily believes sentimental stories and outrageous theories about the meaning of life to disguise boredom with his own life.

No, I am certainly not this cunning character who roams dark streets after midnight on a creaking bicycle in a desperate search for tofu kebabs and fried octopus.

What I am is … a lawyer. Or an accountant. I live in a nice house on the edge of a large town in Gauteng. I’ve been married for seven years, and we have two beautiful children. We also have a car, two cats, a dog, a lawn mower, a swimming pool, and a trailer. I play golf on Saturday afternoons, and every now and then I win a bottle of sparkling wine. I believe in Society and Civilisation, in Order and Security. I have three life insurance policies, and a few good investments. I also have several credit cards, and I dutifully pay my bills every month. My friends think I’m a little conservative; I always say I just believe what I believe.

I, like everyone else, know, or know of people who live abroad for years, “searching” for themselves, or whatever people search for in foreign countries. Personally, I think they’re wasting their time; that there is nothing abroad that one cannot experience in our beautiful country, or that you cannot search for if you insist on searching for something. I also believe that many of these people don’t have the guts to stare reality in their own country in the face. And I’m not talking about crime and violence in South Africa. I’m talking about growing up and getting on with your life when you’ve reached the age when you’re no longer a child.

I have also been to London, and to the Maldives once for a holiday. I’m no idiot when it comes to what goes on beyond our borders. I watch the news every evening, and read the newspaper at least a few times a week. I am also not nearly as conservative as my wife and my friends mock me for. I believe that everyone has the right to choose the lives they deem fit … and then to pursue that life. I also believe that everyone has a right to their own opinions, and that everyone has the right to say whatever they want, as long as it doesn’t give unnecessary offence.

It is true though that I have a dislike in people who live in foreign countries and then voice criticism of choices that I have made; choices they call “bourgeois” with arrogant contempt. These people don’t have the faintest idea what my life is about. They don’t have a clue what is important to me, or what the motivations behind my choices and actions are.

I wish they would come home. Then we’ll see who the real winners are and who will lose in the end. Yes, then we will indeed see who scoffs at who!

______________________

TUESDAY, 2 SEPTEMBER 2003

I will start this piece with a fact: There are things in this life that are bigger than any single individual.

Now, everyone should already know that their entire existence depends on things that are bigger than them, that they could indeed not even have come into existence were it not for the fact that there were people before them, all of whom also depended on things bigger than they were. Everyone knows these things, right? Everyone knows there are things bigger than any single individual!

My original statement, still amazingly profound despite the fact that everyone knows it, needs a little red pepper to give it sufficient kick to be the focus of an essay.

(Two weeks later. Wednesday, 17 September 2003. Small hours of the morning.)

Regardless of whether or not you consciously think about it, everyone belongs to the Bigger Picture in some or other way – that includes the psychologist, the philosopher, the poet, the preacher, the Hells Angel on his Harley Davidson, the member of the Mafia, the inner city gang member, the president of a large company, the peasant in China, the hobo in the alley, and the politician blabbering into the microphone. Most people have a reasonable idea of how they fit into the Great Puzzle, even if they don’t have the right vocabulary to formulate an intelligent thought on the subject.

The way you fit into the Bigger Picture is like a passport you could show to a cosmic immigration officer who wants to know, “Who are you?” This “passport” contains information on the species to which you belong (“Mr X falls under the species Homo sapiens and should not be viewed as a household pet”), your age, and your name, or names (the one your parents gave you, the nicknames your friends call you and/or the name you have chosen for yourself). It contains information about where you were born, where you went to high school (if you ever got this far), and whether or not you attained a tertiary qualification (and if so, where). It also contains data about your likes and dislikes, your talents, your interests, what you’ve done with your life so far, what you still want to do with your life, your dreams, your ambitions and your failures. Other relevant information includes whether you consider yourself a member of any religious community; if so, what particular religion, and even what sub-sect or denomination. Where you live, what socio-economic class you can be placed in, whether you are married or not, your sexual orientation, whether you have children, and what you do on a daily basis to survive, are all further particulars that determine your individual cosmic code that makes you a “legitimate” part of the Bigger Picture. Another determining factor is associations, which include family, friends, acquaintances, business partners, even enemies (“ABC is the son of EDF, husband of GHI, father of JKL and MNO, best friend of PQR, business partner of STU and archenemy of XYZ”).

Two final thoughts deserve mention: You need to know as much as possible about yourself and you need to be this person who emerges from all the bits and pieces of data to be able to legitimately claim to yourself and before others the Unique Cosmic Code that makes you a part of the Bigger Picture.

To not know “who you are” and with that how you fit-in-and-belong to the Larger Reality is to feel alienated from the environment in which you find yourself. This lack of membership, this failure to belong, leads without many exceptions to one or more of the following conditions: loneliness, a sense of isolation, possibly anxiety, and an aggressive attitude towards your environment and the people with whom you are in daily contact.

Imagine the following situation: Bob X from B. Town meets John Z at a barbeque. John Z introduces himself as “John Z from Pretoria” and holds out his hand. Bob X smiles politely, shakes John’s hand and introduces himself as “John Z from Pretoria”. The real John Z will probably shoot a quick and somewhat annoyed smile in response to what he’ll assume was an attempt at humour, but he will quickly move on to the next group when he realises that Bob X is quite serious – the latter is convinced that he, too, is “John Z from Pretoria”. Later that evening Clare K from Cape Town introduces herself to Bob, and once again he replies with genuine sincerity that he, too, is “Clare K from Cape Town”.

By the end of the evening everyone, except perhaps Bob X, will be convinced of the fact that Bob is in big trouble. Why? Because you have to know who you are to survive and to function in an environment outside institutions for dysfunctional people.

* * *

What do these insights have to do with whether I’ll go back to South Africa early next year, or stay in Taiwan? Everything.

If I’m “Bob X from B. Town”, I want to introduce myself as “Bob X from B. Town”, and I want to be convinced of what it means to be “Bob X from B. Town”. I also want to know if “John Z from Pretoria” feels good about what it means to be “John Z from Pretoria”, I want to feel good about who I am. And if “Clare K from Cape Town” introduces herself to me, and I come to the realisation during the conversation that follows that she is convinced that she’s not “Linda Q from Johannesburg” and she also does not want to be Linda Q, then I want to know deep down that I display the same belief about myself.

Am I currently convinced of who I am? Am I furthermore convinced that “Brand X, formerly from Taiwan and Korea, but now from B. Town” will be able to proudly recite his Cosmic Code at church meetings and sport gatherings? Or is it more valuable to maintain my membership, for now, to a group of people who live … outside?

(Still Wednesday, 17 September 2003; late afternoon.)

So, it seems that I’m currently experiencing one hell of a Bronkhorstspruit backlash. Fair enough, I did not spend seven years in the Far East to just suddenly jump on a sentimental bathroom mat one day, and whilst the mat flies out the door, to wave at everyone like some crash course Zen guru and say, “OK guys, I’m buggering off then … come fry some meat with us in Bronkhorstspruit!” No, this whole idea should be pelted with rotten cabbage and old eggs like any other plan. If the plan does get up the next morning and, with a cabbage leaf still clinging to its forehead like an uncombed strand of hair, appears on the porch and declares, “I’m okay! Howzit?!” then I know, I’m onto something.

I did wonder what has caused the backlash against B. Town. As I dusted off and packed away my fitness equipment, I went through the list of things in my mind that would fill my life as “Brand-of-Bronkhorstspruit”: my commercial projects, visits to the local supermarket, barbecue and dessert with the family, and of course my writing. I could even consider registering for an academic course or two in fields in which I am interested, including the Chinese language.

I asked myself what the difference is between this list and what I’m doing now. Obviously the environment plays a vital role in one’s experience of everyday life, and Benevolent Light New Town in the Mountain of the Phoenix is unquestionably a more stimulating environment than Apartments on the Edge-of-Town in Bronkhorstspruit. But how important is it really when you do your calculations at the end of the day?

Ultimately it was the image of me sitting in my apartment, writing, regardless of where in South Africa, that made an internal alarm go off. My identity as a writer is of utmost importance to me. It is to a large extent who I am. It is what I do. It’s not just a noble and meaningful occupation to pursue, it’s a life that inspires me to get up in the morning and to face the environment outside my front door – wherever in the world that environment may be.

I took my seat at the dressing table, ready for a bout of serious contemplation. Then it hit me: More than ninety percent of everything I put on paper in the past five years has to do with my life in self-imposed exile! My identity as a WRITER, at least at this stage of my life, is an irreplaceable aspect of my COSMIC CODE, and WHO I AM AS A WRITER, IS INEXTRICABLY INTERTWINED WITH MY LIFE ON THIS ISLAND!

Who am I, in other words, if I’m not “Writer in self-imposed exile in Taiwan”?

(A creepy Japanese thriller in the local theatre later …)

“Through brilliant detective work, the Internal Service has confronted the prime suspect, and by using outstanding interrogation methods forced him to plead guilty. It is thus my humble privilege to announce to the nation that the culprit is … the Writer! The Writer, ladies and noble gentlemen, is the one who has infiltrated and polluted the People’s morale and willpower with … ANXIETY!”

Loud cries of shock are muted, as usual, without an ounce of civility. The inspector continues as if he has just cleared his throat.

“After further investigation into the motivation of the writer, it came to light that he has followed the past few weeks of negotiations in deep contemplation. By Monday evening, he was convinced of what he had only suspected at first – that he was going to lose his job in the Planned Return To The Home Country; that he was going to get fired, terminated, get the axe, forced to go on early retirement. The writer realised that if he was going to bite the dust, he was not going to eat alone.

“Fortunately, our State is decidedly leftist and highly liberal, so the Chief Open Mind was immediately called in for repairs to the writer’s morale. And of course, noble and polite members of the public, to assure him that he is an irreplaceable part of Our Noble State! After all, we won’t be able to formulate a proper purpose for our existence without the profound material that our sensitive and angst-ridden Foot Soldier Number One in the Battle for the Soul so often throws in our faces!

“So, long live the Writer! Long live Our State! Forward Warriors for Our Struggle! Now, if I can just find those cursed keys to liberate the Writer of his handcuffs …”

* * *

To be part of something bigger than the single YOU is a need central to the human experience of life. It is one of the primary reasons people are attracted to religion, especially the institutionalised version. It’s the reason people prefer to be part of a group rather than to be alone. It’s the reason people are patriotic. It’s one of the reasons people support a particular sports team. It is also one of the reasons a new member of the Hells Angels will appear in certain clothing, and swing a chain at motorists rather than shooting them with dry peas through a straw – the latter choice of weapon will not qualify him as part of the group to which he wants to belong; same goes for riding around on his steel stallion in a suit with a white shirt and a red bow tie.

Because people need to be part of something bigger than just the individual who he or she is in his or her skin, people define their identity – their “cosmic code” – to a large extent according to the groups to which they belong, whether it’s a company or organisation for which they work, a fan group of some sports team, nationality, being part of a family, active participation in some or other subculture, or a combination of all the aforementioned.

Relationships are a fundamental aspect of this system of identity-by-association, of knowing who you are by knowing how you fit in through membership to something bigger than yourself. Relationships confirm membership: “You’re one of us.” Relationships reduce anxiety: “I’m not the only one.” Relationships confirm identity: “Here’s Bob X! He knows me better than I know myself.”

Relationships also sometimes keep an individual hostage when a person is manipulated to conform for the sake of membership to the group. Sometimes relationships destroy faith in good things. Sometimes relationships lead to destruction of what is good. Sometimes the stubborn maintenance of a relationship – for the sake of the benefits of membership, or presumed benefits in some cases – leads to the death of the self, or to the death of others.

But relationships are mostly good. In many cases relationships lead to a more enjoyable experience of life. Relationships strengthen when the individual is weak. Relationships provide comfort. Relationships create new life. Relationships are irreplaceable in the quest for belonging to the Bigger Picture.

It can furthermore be speculated in this piece that I, the Author of Pieces, am experiencing a serious lack of defining relationships.

______________________

TUESDAY, 16 SEPTEMBER 2003

The criteria for survival are getting tougher by the day. As usual, the perception of my person is one of the biggest problem areas – but not necessarily how others see me; I judge myself. If I find myself too light, I wear it like a billboard around my neck. I’ll be a walking morale and self-esteem crisis ready to explode in an innocent bystander’s face.

Take my friend L. as an example. When I returned to South Africa from Korea five years ago, he was sharing a house with a group of working twenty-somethings in Johannesburg. At that time he was the publishing editor of a magazine that he largely started on his own (other people had also made a contribution, but it was mainly his idea, and his responsibility).

This was the situation when I joined the company as a glorified secretary in July of that year. By October L. had purchased a house in a nice part of the city. The office also moved to his new residence. Since it was slightly too far for me to reach by bicycle every day, I accepted his invitation to make the servant’s quarters in the backyard my temporary abode.

Slightly more than a year later, L. was on the point of entering the next phase of his life – marriage. By then I had already been back in North East Asia for eleven months. I had an entire three-bedroom apartment to myself. I was working full time, and I was earning enough money to live reasonably well. (Vague assumptions about exactly what I was doing suited me, because that meant I didn’t have to explain to anyone that I made money teaching the alphabet to toddlers while clapping my hands.)

It’s almost four years later. My friend has sold his magazine to a large company, which also offered him a position that he “couldn’t refuse”. He and his wife now live in a larger, more luxurious home, and as I mentioned in the previous piece, they had recently become parents of a baby boy. According to the community’s criteria, my friend is successful in all respects – he is a homeowner, he’s a married man, he’s a father, and he has a job that requires a great deal of him but the monetary rewards make it worth it.

I, on the other hand, still rent the same apartment from a friend of one of my employers (although only until the end of this month). I am again commuting by bicycle because I don’t want to replace the scooter that is dripping oil on my front porch (and because the cycling is better for my health anyway). I still teach English. I am also working on a few projects that will hopefully generate a long-term income one day. And I write. And study Chinese. As long as I stay here in Taiwan I can visit my friend once a year, go to an Italian restaurant in his car, and even afford to pay the bill of R200 or so.

But where will I stand if I go back to South Africa? Gone are the days that I could rent a room from a friend from university. Gone are the days when I could sleep on a piece of sponge in a shed in a friend’s backyard. Gone are the days when it was good enough for me to work in an administrative capacity in an office. Also over are the days when it was okay to tell my pal I’ll go and have a drink with him as long as he can give me a lift – and possibly pay for my drink as well. It is therefore obvious that the criteria for survival – at least for myself – are tightening by the day.

Should we all compare our lives with those of old friends to judge how well we’re doing? That’s not my intention. But I do subscribe to certain criteria for a good life, and I am aware of how, at this stage of my life, I would have fared in a world similar to the one in which my friends in South Africa are living out their existences.

My identity as a writer who lives alone in a windowless apartment somewhere in the Far East, who has learned to speak Chinese, and who has learned how to ask a few questions about life is firmly rooted in the reality in which I have found myself the past five years. The vision of myself as an entrepreneur who hopes to make money in South Africa “next year” while I dust off my Chinese books from time to time to see if I still understand some of it is rooted in faith. I don’t know if it will work out. I might fail. And if I fail, I feel miserable.

I can certainly say that I don’t have to compare myself with anybody. I can say that I don’t have to be a homeowner after six months or a year. I can say that I don’t have to be married within a year or eighteen months. And I might add that I don’t have to work according to anyone’s schedule. My life, after all, is not a series of scenes from an already written script.

The problem is that I have some ideas of what success looks like. In the world of the conventional middle class success looks like my friend L.’s life. With regard to the world of the free-thinking, solitary writer, my current life meets the much more modest criteria.

But is it enough?

Sometimes I feel like fleeing – to Mainland China. To pack my bag full of books and a few pieces of clothing, and let the rest of my belongings store dust in my apartment. I’d live in Beijing for three months and go on photo trips every day. I would study Chinese in parks and in tea shops, and practice it in small eateries in narrow back streets, and at onetime forbidden palaces.

I sometimes want to forget about Bronkhorstspruit, business, the meaning of life, getting married and having children, success before you reach 35, place in the world, and myself on the edge of the socio-economic middle class. I want to grow my beard and work on a project titled, “Lotus flowers of Red China”.

And I want to stop writing pieces like “The criteria for survival are getting tougher by the day”.

I also want to stop trying. Because no matter how hard we work on something, things don’t always work the way they should. And sometimes we miss the point, because we try too hard to figure it out.

______________________