A futuristic denial

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!

______________________

To be part of something bigger

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.

______________________

The criteria for survival (are getting tougher by the day)

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.

______________________

Factor X kicks in

[Briefly, the background to this piece: By September 2003, I was seriously considering leaving Taiwan for a large town in Gauteng, called Bronkhorstspruit.]

MONDAY, 15 SEPTEMBER 2003

Bronkhorstspruit is … a shit place, everybody knows that. But it is also the place where my youngest sister and her husband decided to establish themselves. The town has about fifteen funeral parlours, twenty “Eazy Credit” joints, a Wimpy Bar, and a stationery store that sells a few books. There is no music store. There’s no 7-Eleven that is open 24 hours a day. There’s no lively scene in the centre of town every weeknight at ten o’clock when people come out to enjoy a late supper at temporary pavement restaurants. There’s no coffee shop that stays open until after midnight. There is a huge temple and educational centre built by a Buddhist order from Taiwan. And in a neighbourhood about twenty minutes from town on foot, lives my beloved youngest sister.

Can you justify giving up everything that is familiar to you – or that has become familiar to you over the past five years of your life – just because you miss your family?

[…]

What is everything about at this point? What is the whole story of Taiwan, Bronkhorstspruit, South Africa, and the Far East about? What is the idea of “business”, and writing, and barbecue and dessert at “home” about?

It’s about being as happy as you can be. And it’s about regret, especially in my case not regretting later that I didn’t spend more time with my family. It’s about not just following a tedious script like a second-rate actor. It’s about being who you are (if you have finally sorted that out), rather than just being the by-product of all the measures that you implement to survive and to suppress your fear of the day when the gods strike you out of the blue with a bolt of lightning. (Or, realistically speaking, to express your real personality as much as possible after putting all the necessary measures in place. Everyone is afraid of lightning at the end of the day, aren’t we?)

Why am I writing this piece on this Monday at seven minutes past two in the morning? Because I’m moving to an apartment in Benevolent Light New Village in the Mountain of the Phoenix. Is it a bad place? No. Is it a bad neighbourhood? No. Is it a laborious irritation to scrape grease deposits off the kitchen walls with a potato peeler? Yes. Am I wasting valuable time having to suddenly pack rather than to work on my projects? Yes. But I console myself with the thought that I had to buy some boxes anyways to start packing; that I had to leave the dark dump I’ve been calling my home for the past almost five years at some point.

Why does my new apartment inspire me to write this particular text? Because I was reminded of the fact that my life in this country doesn’t follow a script; I write the story as I live. To name but one example, I most assuredly did not know two weeks ago that in two weeks’ time I would be sitting on all fours on top of a marble slab with a pair of surgical rubber gloves on, scraping off clots of grease with a potato peeler. (Sorry, I just had to mention that again.)

But this little insight, and the photographic potential of the view from my new kitchen is not what is really important (or it’s just part of the larger story). What really bothers me is the fear of what lies ahead for me when I no longer hope for the day I return to the land of my birth. I think I’m afraid my life in South Africa will become … ordinary, caught between the fear that someone will break into my apartment while I’m out shopping for garlic sauce or biltong, and the fear that I would suddenly wake up one morning and I’ll be thirty years older.

[…]

“Anxiety” is for me more than just a psychological term. As long as I run around and struggle for a better tomorrow, as long as I faithfully make notes on THE PROCESS, I feel like I’m doing what I’m supposed to do. Then I feel as if I am on my way. I think I fear the day I’m supposed to declare that I have arrived, and someone jumps from behind a bush and shouts: “Surprise! In the end you did follow the script! You (also) win the prize!”

Then again, maybe the prize is happiness. Maybe the prize is that you feel you belong somewhere, and your life has meaning because it has meaning to people who are important to you. Maybe the prize is that you feel you can go ahead with your creative work, because you did arrive, but it’s still important that you say what you want to say.

Or am I just afraid that, despite the wide availability of garlic sauce to enjoy over your barbecue, I will still get bored with Bronkhorstspruit?

[…]

Am I trying to run away from what I already know? That we are highly developed animals that must try our best with our fantastic, yet limited capabilities to serve Good rather than Bad, and to carry forward the flame of Polite Civilisation until our time is up and we must pass the torch to the next generation.

I need to stop dancing in circles.

[Later on Monday, 15 September 2003]

I’m worried that I would feel my purpose has been served and I that I am rewarded with a “normal life”.

Why is my current life to some extent still okay, even if I want to get away from it? Because I am still fighting for a better life. But what happens when you reach that point of which you dream? Or do you keep moving the point further away?

What if someone were to tell me that life is never “normal”, and that a “normal life” is a dream beyond most people’s reach? “Everybody is constantly struggling for something better,” the person would say, “even though their lives on the face of it, to observers like you, might appear normal and ordinary.”

Still – I would ask, for what do they struggle? For financial security? That’s not good enough for me. The struggle for financial security is to me just a way to give a greater struggle a better chance of success.

Perhaps my opponent in this debate would then give a sly smile before he played his trump card. “You know what man,” he would say, “you’re just grumpy because you don’t have someone to brighten your day a little bit.”

In such a case I won’t have much of a choice with my counterargument: Is this the best we can do? Fifty thousand years of evolution since our ancestors huddled together in caves and bludgeoned each other to death with mammoth bones, and that’s the best answer that we can come up with? You just need a little love?

The question is simple: Am I on the right track with my current plans? Or is my face in the right direction, but my feet not quite on the right path? (Do I still reckon there is only one path that goes in that direction?)

I recently did some research on ways to make money without having to work for someone else. I concluded that even I might be able to be successful with a few ideas. Now, maybe it was all that scratching off grease in the new kitchen, or the fact that I was going to have an apartment with proper windows for the first time in nearly five years in Taiwan. Perhaps it was inevitable that I would have thought about it at one point or another. However, earlier tonight it struck me as I pedalled through the dark streets on my creaking bicycle, that I have never been in a position where I could say I knew how I could make money in South Africa, which is important considering that I have always regarded money as the main reason I couldn’t go back. I’ve never been in the position where I could ask myself whether this is truly what I wanted to do without any reservation; if I were truly ready to plant my feet in a piece of South Africa full of fresh cement; if barbecue and Sunday lunches with my family would truly be a panacea for all my ills.

These thoughts are the reason I’m writing this particular piece on this Tuesday morning, 32 minutes after midnight, rather than packing the dozens of pieces of junk I’ve accumulated over the years that I exhibit as “ornaments” in my living room.

[Tuesday, 16 September 2003, almost one o’clock in the afternoon]

As I was riding back last night from my new apartment, I asked myself an administrative question: Do I really want to stay in Taiwan? I was mildly surprised at my immediate answer: No.

A short distance down the street, past the general store where the beautiful woman hits the till, past a few old gents sitting outside someone’s miserable home drinking rice wine, past the deserted morning market area that smells of rotten tofu, comes the follow-up question: Do I want to go back to South Africa? The tentative answer: Yes, but …

Beyond the military base with the overgrown wall I first thought was a castle, into the last stretch of road before you’re back in a part of town where fruit sellers are still open shortly before midnight, and where lonely men chant songs about lost love in cheap KTV parlours, I repeated the answer: “Yes, but?”

“But,” I said out loud under the leopard skin mask covering my mouth, “two weeks after I had found an apartment in Bronkhorstspruit, after I had unpacked my books and hung sheets over the windows, I want to go to Mainland China. For three months.”

Back at home I was annoyed because it seemed as if I had come up with a new plan. I got comfortable behind my computer and wrote the previous page (including the fact that I’ve never been in a position where I could say I know how I could make money in South Africa).

Just as I was considering the merits of last night’s final paragraph, my phone rang. When I saw it was an international call, I realised it must be my friend L. I knew why he was calling. Fifteen minutes later I chucked the last drops of gin from the little airline bottle down my throat, lit up a cigarillo, and repeated the words to myself: “Born at eight minutes past three … a little blue in the face, but doing well … four kilograms.”

I felt happy for my friend, his wife, their families, and especially for the little guy who finally saw daylight. I thought by myself the timing was interesting. Suddenly the whole idea of being a grown-up and having your own children, and the huge financial and moral responsibilities thereof were no longer just an issue that could fill up a piece of writing. It happened to my best friend! And I had no choice but to mumble through the cigar smoke, “It’s fucking profound.”

The few drops of gin weren’t really enough to celebrate the great news, so I jumped on my bike and raced to the 7-Eleven to buy a half-jack Jim Beam – which they no longer had in stock. Fifteen minutes later I was sitting with a can of Qing Dao and another cigarillo at my dressing table. Good thoughts about my friend and their firstborn led to renewed speculation about my own life.

I wondered again if I had come up with a new plan with the three-months-in-China remark. Meaning to spoil my fun, I wondered what I would do after the three months.

I was hoping that I would say I would go back to South Africa then, to plant my knees – rather than just my feet – in some fresh cement. But I realised that I was still not sure about “what then”.

That’s when I lost it and whispered menacingly in the direction of my reflection in the mirror: “Your life is a wheel! It’s going to continue turning and turning and turning! Round and round and round!”

My life is a wheel. And it will keep turning until I throw a spanner in the spokes. Or until someone else does it for me …

______________________

Thirteen minutes on a Saturday night

SATURDAY, 13 SEPTEMBER 2003

Sit down at the dressing table in the living room. Put the cup of Med Lemon down on a coaster and pull a cigarette butt out of the metal thing in the ashtray designed to more effectively snuff out cigarettes. Fold your right leg over your left leg. Pick up the cup and blow on the contents. Whisper-sing, “I’m in hell without you!” Blow two or three times more then take a sip. Remove the second last cigarette from the pack of Nat Sherman Naturals, take the yellow lighter and light the cigarette. Blow out the smoke then blow a few bubbles. Transfer the cigarette to your left hand, get a grip on the cup and blow on the contents. Take two or three sips. Put the cup down. Transfer the cigarette to your right hand. Pull on the cigarette. Throw your head back and blow out the smoke. Blow another bubble. Look at your poster of Vladimir Lenin. Tap into the ashtray. Stroke your right foot. Blow a few bubbles. Transfer the cigarette to your left hand. Take the cup, blow on the contents then take two or three sips. Put the cup down. Sniff. Rotate your foot in anticlockwise motions. Sit back. Transfer the cigarette to your right hand. Pull on the cigarette. Blow out the smoke. Blow bubbles. Gently massage your right foot. Look at the Korean poster under Lenin that says, “Deconstructing Toward Creation.” Pull on the cigarette. Blow out the smoke. Blow bubbles. Swallow. Thump your ankle with the palm of your hand. Transfer the cigarette to your left hand. Pick up the cup, blow once, slurp two or three times. Put the cup down. Look at the statuette of Confucius on a nearby bookshelf. Transfer the cigarette to your right hand. Tap the ash. Pull on the cigarette. Blow out the smoke. Blow bubbles. Massage your foot again. Rock back and forth then say aloud: “I think of death every day. Not a single day goes by that I don’t think about death. When Charmain said it to me the other day, I laughed.” Stop rocking. Place the cigarette in your left hand. Now you want to blow a bubble, but you pull on the cigarette instead. Blow out the smoke. Now blow a bubble. Pick up the cup, blow on the contents, then slurp; slurp again then put the cup down. Transfer the cigarette again. Try to gently brush the ash off onto the metal thing in the ashtray then tap it off after a few seconds. Sit forward. Tap your feet to the rhythm of a tune in your head. Pull on the cigarette. Blow out the smoke. Caress your foot again. Sniff. Swallow. Move the cigarette deeper in between your fingers, take the cup at its handle then take a sip. Take a bigger sip. Put the cup down. Put the cigarette in your left hand. Rock back and forth again. Pull on the cigarette. Blow out the smoke. Blow bubbles. Pick up the cup, take two sips, and put the cup down again. Sniff. Tap the ash into the ashtray. Stick your big toe in the air. Wiggle your toes. Take the last … second last puff of the cigarette. Blow out the smoke. Pick up the cup and take a sip. Put the cup down. Scratch your head. Break wind. Blow a bubble. Take the last puff of the cigarette. Blow the smoke out. Snuff out the cigarette in the metal thing. Take another sip of your Med Lemon. Slide your feet into the blue plastic sandals. Get up. Walk down to the studio. Press the spacebar. Sit down. Double-click on the Microsoft Word icon. Wait until a document entitled “Document1” appears on the screen. Click the Maximize button. Place your fingers on the keyboard and type: Thirteen minutes on a Saturday night.

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