From Pere LeBrun, the website of Wayne Kasper, a very good writer I've only just chanced upon. Right at the end, he says, "Admittedly, this post is half-baked, anecdotal and impressionistic," but I found there's a hell of a lot in it that resonated with me very strongly (and I don't even live in Britain).
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29 May 2011
Their Cave (And Welcome To It)
The real creation myth of the west.
Here's some autobiography, a banal excerpt, far more dull than some things I could tell you: Recently I was employed as a Census Collector. The pleasant weather was conducive to working on foot, and I like to move around when working. I wasn't confined to a poorly-ventilated office, overseen by a David Brent, populated by nodding replicants of all ages. I doubt most would describe me as a 'people person' (I'd prefer to see myself as discerning), but working face-to-face with 'the public' has always been preferable; and I'm far more at ease doing so than most colleagues I've had. Moreover, compared to most of the shit on offer, the pay was quite good. I could choose my hours and decide how to use them. If you covered your brief within two days, or even one, you still got paid for five. So, whatever. I've seen much worse.
At this point you're probably expecting a tirade about precarious employment, government tenders or bad management. Or how my fine mind* was entitled to something more ennobling. Sorry, but no dice. I accepted all that as given as soon as I saw the job ad. To engage in such a critique would be as redundant as saying Big Macs smell like shit, or Saturday night TV is like a Nuremberg rally for eight-year olds. Let's just say what predictably poor training prepared us for wasn't reflected in actual experience. The media tried to stir up the possibility of a middle-class revolt (their favoured kind); or in training, anarcho-crusties binning their forms in the name of protest. Apart from one doorway bore who lectured me on why he shouldn't be expected to bother, even though he would anyway (I'd hate to be his son, I thought), it was a hassle-free process. I'd go so far as saying that it was rather enjoyable.
Those who 'failed' (keep that word in mind) to complete questionnaires had pretty everyday (that too) reasons. To wit: Old age, disabilities of varying severity, mental illness, extended stays in hospital, adult illiteracy, limited English, parents of disabled children, parents of many children, new mothers, underage mothers, sheltered accommodations, transient bedsitters, immigrant workers in precarious accommodation, overworked service workers like carers or nurses, or newly-independent young people unaware of what a Census actually is. In a nutshell, those that the government has decided to fuck over with extreme prejudice; with more popular support than many would care to admit. Here's the point where you expect me to Con/Dem the filth overseeing or enabling this; but I'm afraid you're in for more disappointment. I'm not quite sure where I'm heading here. Believe it or not, most of my posts are 'improvised' whatever the subject; so expect a ramble. However, at this stage I'm bored with attacking the government, in writing at least. It's something else, something that's been niggling me way before the last election; something in the corner of the eye that may only be clear at given moments.
In my designated area was a peaceful bar/cafe where I would organise my paperwork at the end of a shift. With that out of the way (give or take any other commitments) I'd sit, watch and listen to the other customers. Their accents, their body language, their appearance, and indeed their subjects of conversation, had little or nothing in common with those I had just visited. It's doubtful that any of them completed their Census more than a week late, if late at all. Although they weren't all white, healthy and middle-class, they were still unrepresentative of the surrounding area with which I had become aquainted. In the cafe, they weren't hipsters and they weren't the 'beautiful people', but as a micro-demographic they would be defined as 'normality'. For want of a better term, their proportional representation would be mirrored in an evening soap opera, or indeed polling booths. To all intents and purposes, they appeared very much at home in British society.
In younger days, this juxtaposition may have led to a vague sense of resentment or hostility; but it wasn't that. It was a sense of... not sadness (although I may have veered towards that, if forced to label my emotions)... but numbness, a sense of comprehensive distance; without any feelings of omniscience or superiority. I couldn't help but wonder if these feelings were shared by the clientele I observed. The chitchat, the greetings, body language, common reference points: to filter the content and pay attention to the styles, rhythms, structures and themes of communication (the treacherous rewards of studying English Literature), I couldn't help but conclude that this distance was shared around the room. It was even observable with parents of young children, families. I really hope I'm making sense here, but what came to define their interactions were the hard limits of what they didn't do or say. I'm not talking about Hollywood 'emotion' or Oprah-confession either. Many of the people I visited had a more openly conversational manner than the people socialising in front of me, despite their non-stop banter. Those I visited discussed the circumstances of their life (not negatively, I must add), their medical or family conditions, or if recently arrived in their homes (or country) how they came to be there. I assure you that as a lazy hack I made no attempt to extract this information from them. This was in stark contrast to the volume of discussion in the cafe about consumer goods, newspaper articles, films or indeed 'relationships'; largely discussed in terms familiar from any number of TV shows or lifestyle magazines. They probably saw themselves as working definitions of 'everyday people'. In a harsher mood, I'd argue that their mutual/self-image may be superfluous to life as it is generally lived; but I'm reluctant - if not unable - to make moral judgements. I'm struggling to define it as something else.
Here's a less (?) banal slice of autobiography, which may or may not be relevant: One winter I became hooked on Mad Men, in a way I no longer would on a TV series. This was during one of my periodic bouts of lonely alienation, at levels so acute it can feel almost purifying, if not vaguely mystical. It encouraged another, but far less periodic, tic of mine; something familiar to anyone who's heard of 'chaos magick' (or watched Seinfeld): the decision to behave and conduct oneself in a consciously superficial manner, according to an image you want to project, protect, and in some senses believe. Yep, that's the embarrassing truth. I wanted to be Donald Draper for Christmas. I set myself strict rules about how I would dress, what I would discuss and how I would discuss it; with a view to maintaining this image at all times in almost every situation. I never lied, but what I would 'reveal' would be subject to strict boundaries. I reshuffled my persona according to how familiar I was with the company I kept. This wasn't with a particular goal in mind, and socially I've always been quite lazy (see above - I'm not offering advice on how to get laid here), but you know what? It 'worked' in a way that still freaks me out. How it did I'll leave to your imagination, but the problem(s) arose from a gradual, unavoidable, revelation of depth. Those drawn to this deliberate 'emptiness' became hostile to much of anything beyond that. I never 'cheated'. Nor did I make a sudden turn to the 'dark side'. I just eventually relaxed. Nonetheless, initial plasticity was rewarded with what's regarded as 'good' according to mainstream mores. My minor downfall came from discussing life beyond the spectacle. Where my error of judgement occurred depends on one's relationship to said spectacle; so I'll leave you to make up your own minds about this episode, or seasonal arc. You may even find it creepy, if not a little Mr. Ripley-psycho, but in my defence these adjustments were actually quite minor; little more than an 'edit' of sorts. And anyway... how many of us do the same throughout our working lives, friendships, even marriages?
OK - maybe I'm still not being clear, so let's return to those I was paid to visit. Despite being an 'official' presence in their homes, many of them interacted (with me, with each other) and behaved with far more ease and candor than anyone I saw in that cafe over six weeks (or since), however drunk they got. For reasons practical or social, most of those visited would be invisible, if not absent, from public spaces; particularly the indentikit retail spaces of most British city centres. The way such areas are designed, policed and operated has accentuated this 'absence' since the 90s. This isn't just the case with shopping - nightlife seems to conform to this pattern ever more, whatever the venue. Gone are the days when beauty (or rather excellent grooming) would stand out in a run-of-the-mill bar or restaurant. It's a common standard that isn't explicitly demanded, but agreed to as much as contemporary codes of behaviour and conversation. To get dystopian about it, I'd argue that the spectrum of clientele in these spaces rarely ventures outside what their flyers, adverts and billboards insist it is. Even how we 'let it all hang out' offers no contradiction to how it's marketed. By this I don't just mean beauty or fashion, but the general way our relationship to capitalism's spectacle can be a mutually affirming, but for one party reductive, process. As the political mainstream (or 'centre') contracts its discursive boundaries, I've found this to be the case with political discussion too. Not just in newspapers and TV, but in the online jungle and the meanderings of daily life. Conversation has become as formulaic as Hollywood genres, but I just know this wasn't always the case.
'Our' imaginations, 'our' public life, even 'our' emotions - can it be they've been subjected to a rapid** segregation, gentrification and enclosure, as severe and asymmetrical as it's been for those late with their Census? As a lifelong pedestrian, I claim a certain privilege: I can stop, look and move through society as it may actually be, if regarded in terms of its majority. The majority that doesn't speed past society in cars from A to B, huddle together within property/career cliques, or use leisure time get drunk or buy tat in designated 'centres', or indeed participate in the great wall of noise known as 'public opinion'. This became particularly apparent to me when I stopped following pop music, watching TV and movies, or reading newspapers much. Being left with little to talk about except politics or personal relationships/gossip just left me with little to talk about - to discuss those matters in depth seems to have become increasingly unwelcome (all plot and no character). Which may be the main impetus behind this blog. Those unwilling or unable to participate in this aren't so much the 'silent majority' as the invisible majority; perhaps only clear and present to each other, or those paid to work with them (itself subject to the requirements of the spectacle - listen to a policeman, teacher or social worker discuss themselves/'them'. Chances are you'll hear a fair share of TV cliches, however ridiculous). I've done that kind of work myself (and I wasn't immune to cliches, either). When I did, something became apparent: what are designated as vices, social problems, emotional issues, circumstantial difficulties, cultural barriers, family dysfunction, 'risk factors' - it's all just life to the vast majority of us. It was this that bothered me far more than levels of bureaucracy or managerial control. This is a living, breathing world of difference, trouble, surprise and experience. The mainstream, the spectacle, the 'centre' - it has less and less room for any of it. Why do so many people expect it to have room for them? Why fight for space in the coffin before it slowly closes?
Admittedly, this post is half-baked, anecdotal and impressionistic. I offer no manifesto, nor any moral assessment of 'how people are'. Or I at least hope not. My feelings on the above may just be a symptom of some undiagnosed mental illness; and if it is, I'll be far from alone in that. It's just something that seems to lurk around what I see, do, and discuss these days: a culture of full spectrum surface, a quiet 'singularity' that really has had profound effect on how those identified as 'normal' relate to each other. A deliberate - and relatively recent - exclusion of depth, any attempts to entertain it, or identify things for what they are (why this need to find so much significance in empty product?). A consensus imposed without (much) violence, but no less aggressive in its demands. How this has occurred remains unclear. I may even completely change perspective, and happily immerse myself in it all; as so many seem to have already done, following a voluntary lobotomy. So much so that I may even delete this post very soon. Saying that, comments are even more welcome than usual. It's not as though my 'worldview' is as complete and tidy as that colonizing the public mind. If no comments are forthcoming, it remains to be seen whether I rest my case, or make an urgent doctor's appointment. I doubt either option would put my mind at rest, but maybe 'rest' is the last thing our minds need under present circumstances.
*Not a boast. I assume most of us have one, in one way or the other.
**I can't help but see this process as having accelerated, and consolidated, over the past decade.
ADDENDUM
Dismiss not, however, the genuine concerns of our most vulnerable volk. If we call them pricks, do they not bleed? Or at least command their audiences (and advertisers) to share their pain?
http://perelebrun.blogspot.com/2011/05/ ... to-it.html
