Anarchist in High-Viz clothing

In the process of writing, there always comes a time when the words flow independently of conscious thought - a kind of unfettered motion, if you will... as an automobile coasting towards its destination in neutral on a downward incline, smoothly and steadily realising the fruit of all the combustion and smoke and toil that came before, with the idea of its ultimate purpose now dawning at last.

If only the inexorable path of life could be similarly revealed.

Hardship and effort during the course of daily living become virtues only if they provide a clear mental image of the journey's end - with milk and honey and, hopefully, a comfortable armchair with a footrest and a good book waiting at the finish line. As an end in itself there can be nothing virtuous about menial labour - the passage of hours and hours occupied by singularly uninspired regret in one's own horrid company. I make the distinction, here, between solitude - a pleasant voluntary interlude where one indulges the illusion that he/she is bon vivant and engaged in a bacchanal debate with a rabidly fertile brain... and the act of actually engaging in being practically productive all alone, with hours measured against set targets that are remunerated for, depending on prevailing monetary norms and the economic demand for said labour.

And what of the journey's end, you ask... At a bare minimum, driving human beings to desperate exhaustion in the hope of an existence unmarked by a feral dependence on institutions and/or benevolent relatives is a system that can only ever survive in an unexamined and immoral world, a world that is fast being overtaken by calumnious denial about the cost of our collective efforts at providing all or most of us the means to fulfill that dream of a future independent leisure. The forests are fading, the seas are sweltering, the skies are scorching, the water is waning. Towards what end is this system driving itself? Is it actually possible that we covet our comforts, earned over generations and generations of deprivation, so much that we now contemplate our own devouring by the very processes we put in place to emancipate ourselves from the struggle for daily survival.

In an unexamined world the anarchists always die last.

Forced perspective

Having been exposed to so much material on the adult immigrant/emigrant experience in popular literature and now being myself an unwitting participant on the same odyssey, I suppose I should present my own jaundiced views on the peculiar trauma concomitant with having to view yourself from without, absent the known markers of a life half-lived.

First of all, you look different from the general population - there is no escaping this fact even if you tell yourself that this difference is what you have always experienced even in the society you grew up in. There is a marked difference in having the luxury of choosing to feel the way you do, and having the feeling of otherness thrust upon you from people courteous enough to look away when you notice them noticing you for longer than is a natural by-product of curiosity.

Cringe-worthy television shows on a culture left behind leaves you wondering for the first time exactly what it is you are cringing about. Is it the magnified lens of voyeurism focused on what you always knew to be universally shameful sights and sounds, or is it your natural defensiveness of ways of life that you believe you know more about than the presenters and/or producers of the show you are about to change the channel on, as a reaction to their reinforcement of stereotypes that you are sure they very well could have dug deeper into and exposed for what they are not.

The counter-assault on your sense of privacy and seclusion is something that nobody warns you about. Sure, the air is cleaner and the roads quieter and the parks emptier and the birds do sound somehow happier, but when there is no newspaper man come to collect at the end of the month, or a rarely-sighted neighbour dropping in to drop off a portion of a dish or a gift for your child, or the ubiquitous hawker or garbage collector taking time off from under the shade of the tree that stands within your compound to espouse forth on his/her philosophy of life to no one in their immediate vicinity as far as you can see from the vantage point of your hidden window, you begin to hear the tinny sounds in your head telling you that that surely cannot be an ant crawling up the inside of your cupboard door.

Lastly, the preoccupation with the drama of your own family life and domestic circumstances in relation to those of your neighbours and others you come in contact with cannot in any way condone what you very quickly realize is a result of your own frustrations unrelated in any way to how others behave within their own closed doors. Large living rooms leading on to larger open plan kitchens and massive landscaped backyards can only hide the muffled sounds of rage and remorse in so far as the current direction of wind decides to favour the source of those sounds. Man wasn't born to live alone and he has to learn to live with that. This applies to all men.

I'm sure I've only highlighted the immediately apparent and terribly mundane psychological mise en scène(s) that every recent migrant has to face up to along with the associated assaults of self-doubt at having perhaps made the most important decision of his/her life so far in a wretchedly frivolous state of mind. There is more to come, I'm sure.

Desperately Seeking Situations

Times are tough... Reality bites... Hang in there... It's the economy, stupid... A little struggle is good for the soul... The only way from here is up... Dig deep... Desperate times call for desperate measures... It'll happen soon...

I really don't know what's worse - taking comfort in the mantraic repetition of well-worn cliché or stumbling along day by day in a horrifyingly obtuse optimism dependent on your conjuring up employment via the bare and useless hands that you wring and wring and wring in front of you to little avail.
If I have to be cloyingly honest, I should admit (at least to myself) that I have never been good at finding work. Times past, employment has magically appeared as of a misty morning clearing up to reveal a beautiful day ahead. Of course, I have been aware of the many personalities working behind the scenes to make that timely employment happen, but the act of conjuring up something from nothing, when I have heard it expressed in biographical accounts of successful and not-so-successful people, has always escaped my understanding at the fundamental level of cause and effect. What exactly do I need to do to make work happen so that life in a new country can begin for us, instead of counting down the days till our meager savings run out? How do I go about looking into my beautiful daughter's eyes and listen to her begin to express herself so imaginatively in so disarming a voice and know that the means to allow the fulfillment of the promise of that amazing future standing right in front of me is nowhere on the horizon? What else do I need to do besides constantly revising a hateful and suffocatingly inadequate-looking résumé hoping it will catch the eye of a compassionate recruiter sufficiently impressed by a, likewise, much edited cover letter for application after application posted on site after site? Do I need to solicit my services door-by-door in the neighbourhood and, if so, what services can this overweight and overwrought, wrong-skin-coloured, diffident visage offer kindly souls without? Should I practice a pleading, subservient, wholly desperate put-on air in front of the mirror before I go out for the umpteen time to meet host after host who after listening patiently to our tales of woe promises to do nothing more than take our dirty plates at the end of another useless dinner in the pursuit of that mystifying art of networking?

These and other existential problems take up my days these days.

Parallel worlds

I suppose everyone has had a certain experience of life wherein the primary occurrence of the moment is so weighed down by monumental and paradigm-shifting cataclysmic import, built up over months and years to hysterical levels... that almost every other important incident that happened at the time is over-shadowed so completely that, except in the dark recesses of an old-age memory, all traces disappear leaving one feeling the loss of an intimacy never remembered but which nonetheless did occur. That is not the case with me and 'The Wire', thankfully.

Introduced to it by the same close friend who once introduced me to Facebook, it did take some time before I found the time and the inclination to download all five seasons of the show in an area of the world where I can't imagine it appealing to a wide audience that would justify the television syndication. Hence the jugaad in access, though I doubt that David Simon or Ed Burns would mind. It is a piece of online piracy that has least affected my sense of propriety, and for a show that thrives on the depiction of an almost elemental face-off between the forces of an enervated Jekyll and a resplendent Hyde in the human condition, I admit that a sense of ironic vindication does assault me when I do care to think about it.

'The Wire' is everything filmed fiction should aspire to be. It is omniscient, omnipresent and fantastically layered within the universe of tortured souls it creates, and it is a story told through the eyes of the uninitiated, wide-eyed, uncool, wannabe, opaque, sentimental, foolishly naive and dangerously earnest characters that all of us might very well have been in a parallel universe. There have been reviews of the show where the writers warn the viewer that one must be prepared to invest oneself psychologically and emotionally in the fiction, forgetting the clock and leaving one's fast-food television habits behind, but I suspect that advice appeals to a certain audience that will never understand how crucial fiction is to the lives we lead. There are other reviews I have read where the writers elevate a particular season over another and discuss the historical and enigmatic significance of a particular episode or character portrayal, but all that amounts to, I believe, is a grasping at straws in the aftermath of a forest fire. There is nothing in The Wire that is superfluous (except some of the sex scenes) and how that reality accommodates such complex explorations into the dreams and hopes of an entire city both at an individual and societal level is a mystery best savored when the rest of the world is asleep and you are alone in a dark space in absolute silence pondering the depths of human nature.

I moved countries during 'The Wire'. I left my extended family, my culture and a fair few significant graves behind in my migration from the third to the first world during the second half of the third season. I set up home all over again in a continent where the only thing standing between oblivion and despair is a plethora of walkways and children's playgrounds and the anguish of a girl not yet three at being forced to leave them when it gets too dark to be out, as I relished the fourth season. I can't wait to see the fifth.