Author: Brand Smit

SUNDAY, 10 SEPTEMBER 2000

Qwert yuio plkj hgfdsa zxcv bnmn …

I wish it could have worked like that. Unfortunately, for the umpteenth time in my life I’m forced to employ the vocabulary of an actual language to express my feelings, and to use the limbs called fingers to set down words on paper so I, and perhaps you, can see how I feel.

I do it in the language known to the world as Afrikaans. I can do it in a different language, but it would have the same effect. Someone else will look at it and say: I think I understand.

Right now, you are on the other side of this text. I hope the process works as it should.

How do I feel? Anxious and lonely. Anxious because, oddly, I still believe in the god my parents presented to me with good intentions; the god about whom I learned that he was like a good father – the best of fathers any child can ever hope to have.

Then, in my early twenties, the suspicion took root in my mind that this god had been made up by people, like the golden calf the Israelites had made while Moses was on the mountain. I became convinced that people created this God of Words over the course of centuries for the same reasons the people of ancient Israel made the golden calf: They wanted a god they could see, whom they could worship, before whom they could lay down sacrifices. The god with whom Moses went to confer in the Bible story was too far – too far, too invisible, too mysterious, too untouchable. The God of Words, like the golden calf, is not mysterious. He is called mysterious, but only because it is a characteristic that people like to ascribe to their god. How can a god be mysterious if the people who call him mysterious also claim to know what he thinks and know what he has done and what he will do? (“But we know nothing of these things,” people will say with indignation. “We don’t know what God thinks! We don’t know what He will do! We don’t know a fraction of all He has ever done, and we can never understand His plans, or His intentions!”) This God of Words can also be felt. In the right circumstances, it must be added, which usually takes place in churches with plenty of instruments on stage, and a preacher who walks around with a microphone in his hand. (“Oh no,” people will say, “you can feel God in the privacy of your room, too.”) And, like the golden calf, this God of Words can be made content, and his favour can be curried for your cause by the magical power of a series of rituals. You can sing and fall down, and clasp your hands together, or do Bible study, or say long prayers, and so on, and so on. And the aggrieved will accuse me on every point that I distort everything, and that I clearly don’t know the first thing about their god, and may they pray for me, right now, I don’t even have to close my eyes.

What all of this boils down to is that I no longer believe in the God of Words. I have spelt out the case in my own version of an official declaration. And I felt better afterwards because words can make something look so official.

As time went by, though, I realised that you don’t get rid of youthful beliefs that easily. I don’t believe in the detail anymore – the Personal Salvation doctrine is one example. But every now and then, in a quiet moment, I have this vision of the god I don’t believe in anymore: an all-powerful king sitting on his golden throne, staring at me in pensive silence. I will know the way he looks at me is not that of a loving father figure. This figure will not utter a single word, but I’ll have a good sense of what he’s thinking: that I just have to wait – my day will come. “Then we’ll see who’s boss. Then we’ll see what you do with your well-thought out arguments. You want to criticise me? Because I didn’t do what? Because I said I’d do what? Who do you think you are?” And I will swallow my words, and become acutely aware of the fact that it’s all true. Who am I, after all, to stand before this majestic figure and throw around allegations? I’d want to turn around and sneak away, but he would lift his finger ever so slightly, say something that I wouldn’t be able to decipher, and the next moment I will find myself in a terrible pool of everlasting fire.

So much for my arguments.

Loneliness: theologians of a certain mindset might say that this being alone – this is my hell. To which I will reply that I felt alone even when I still believed in the God of Words!

Punishment hell or just everyday hell, by now I’m tired of this loneliness business. I believe that if a man just had someone in his life, that this person could tell him that he need not worry, and her hands on any of several places on his body would convince him it was true. It would be all that would matter.

Still, as things stood yesterday, and the countless days and nights before, I am alone. In a different time of my life I would have been praying hard every day for this god to send me someone to make the waking hours better, and to let me sleep better at night. Since faith is a requirement for someone to apply this method to find redemption from his personal hell, I am left with something much more ordinary: “Hello, my name is Brand” – or the more desperate, “Former believer now in hell of loneliness looking for someone in a similar position.”

To be in a relationship with someone means you belong somewhere. You’ll be missed if you fail to come home at the end of a day. Commitment to someone else should also be conducive to keeping your mind away from eternal damnation. And this kind of companionship can also lead to satisfying one of our strongest desires – the desire to perpetuate life. To go through the proper procedure, and then after a long wait to hold a third person in your hands – that is not you, and not the other partner in the relationship, but a separate living entity. And you will stare at this miniature version of a human being and you’ll know, you were part of a process that has given life.

Bottom line: I can think of plenty of good reasons I don’t want to be alone anymore.

Enough for now. Did I manage to communicate with the limited medium of words what I feel on this Sunday night? Does it matter? The reason I started typing in the first place was because I was a little anxious, and to a greater extent felt alone. The process of choosing words and arranging them in sentences was what had real value in the end. As is usual with these things, I feel a little better.

Why does it matter that you, the reader, understand how I feel? It will only matter if you could convince me that I no longer have to fear the god in which I no longer believe. And if you know a kind woman with an open mind that’s been hoping she could meet someone who will save her from her own hell of a lonely existence, that will be an especially happy coincidence.

Few things are ever so simple, so qwert yuio plkj! Or, so it is …

______________________

WEDNESDAY, 16 AUGUST 2000

“There’s so many things going on at the moment in my life, but how do you express that in an email? There are big things that happen to a person, as in your case, and you simply express them as facts …

What matters is that it’s going well. I wish sometimes we could take a walk on the beach, so I could try to explain my life in a way that would make it easier for you to say, ‘I know what you mean.’

I might take a train this weekend to the other side of the island. Or maybe I’ll stay at home. Maybe I’ll have a date, or maybe not.

I don’t know how to write a normal letter anymore. And I think maybe I want to lose my ability to communicate in a normal, understandable way.

I think I’m getting increasingly alienated from places that are familiar to me, and to some extent that’s how I want it … and not want it.

I always said I was born a normal guy who just wanted the usual things and who would have been satisfied with less. But my life has made other turns and now I’m stuck between the trunk and the bark. I want everything, and I know I may end up with nothing. I’d have to either continue with my life and the highway I’m on, or I’d have to make a turn at some stage and hope it works out.

It may not be too late to say, ‘It’s really all very simple. Just do this and that, and then everything will be as you thought it would be ten years ago.’

I need a beacon, someone to serve as a lighthouse to show the way back to the harbour every time I made my rounds in the storm.

This might look like a cue for someone to drop a point about religion, but that’s not good enough.

I can even choose to delete this text, and to write things about my life that are more understandable and more according to the convention. But you know me better than that. And you always write back!

And to think you only wanted to hear if all was well, and if I was eating regularly …”

~ From an e-mail to a friend

______________________

SATURDAY, 5 AUGUST 2000

The poem, like a note in a journal, is to me a reference point. It describes how I got where I am today; how it happened that I am what I am, at this particular moment of my life.

As long as I have a pen and a piece of paper I can give expression to who I am, at a certain time, in a particular context, and therefore know that I’m alive.

I am also aware that every day is a continuation of one life, and that this life includes everything that has ever been recorded – in notebooks, on scraps of paper, on the back of telephone bills, and things that happened but that remained unexpressed or unrecorded.

All the verses and stories about love, faith and hope, and about disappointments, doubt and despair, eventually lead to the most important of all knowledge: the knowledge of who I am.

______________________

TUESDAY, 18 JULY 2000

Introduction

Lately four wicked constellations have positioned themselves above my planet: Loneliness, Bad Weather, Too Much Work and Too Little Money. Any of these constellations on their own can have a negative effect on my mind. But good weather or a good work schedule, or enough money to entertain myself usually compensate for the negative effects of whatever malady is plaguing me at that moment. Even if two or three of these constellations take position at the same time, one of the others’ opposite incarnations can still have somewhat of have a balancing effect. If, for instance, I am lonely, and the weather is bad, and I have too much work, it would help if I have enough money in the bank to spend on something that would make me feel better. But if all four factors cast their dark shadows over your doorstep at the same time, like your four most hated acquaintances simultaneously knocking on your door, well … then you’re in trouble.

The writing process

What method or process do I prefer when it comes to writing? I have identified three methods to which I have either given preference in the past, or that I currently prefer, or that I believe might be successful in the future, under certain circumstances.

One method is what I call the 1995 Method. Features include the luxury to be responsible for, and answerable to, no one; to get up when you wake up and to go to sleep when there’s nothing left to watch on TV. In other words, to have a routine that can be varied at any time, and to write when the desire strikes. (You can of course be more disciplined and write every day, even if the desire is not with you.)

The second method is the Johannesburg Method. It involves working full-time, to have what would appear to be a relatively conventional work, social, and domestic life, and to spend your evenings writing until midnight. This method may not produce as many aimless fragments you scribble on pieces of paper while you lie on your back, but precisely for this reason your writing may be more productive. You will focus on one main project, and perhaps one or two secondary projects. Problem is, your working days may fill you with such anguish that you sit around till midnight before you can get yourself so far as to look at a pen again, or to venture even close to a computer.

The third method is the one which I am using at the moment, namely the Taiwan Method. I work an average of four or five hours a day, earning a respectable income, and I have enough free time to spend behind my computer.

[…]

The other thing is that a writer is not a machine. Writers live and work in their own little worlds of needs, feelings, frustrations, small pleasures and fears. My little world is very unsatisfactory at the moment. I am alone. I am overweight and I don’t exercise enough. In short, I am not satisfied with what I see in the mirror or in the reflection of shop windows when I waddle past, and this is compounded by the total absence of intimate contact. Oh, and I believe I work too much. And I’m broke.

And the weather is terrible. It’s the worst when you take a nap in the afternoon, and you wake up with a sticky sweat clinging to your body. Then you look in the mirror, you see your forehead glimmering like a polished table top, and you know it’s not just from sweating but from all the fat that your body stores so feverishly. And your apartment doesn’t have enough windows for fresh air to flow in like fans at a rock concert. And while you’re staring at yourself in the mirror with all these thoughts dancing in a haze in front of you, you are reminded yet again: You’re alone.

A routine question

[…]

End

This brings us back to the real reason for this survey of where I am in my life right now: EXILE. The term has always referred to the belief that this is not my real life; that I am staying away from another place for an indefinite period until I am ready to return, after which my life can begin with all the fanfare it deserves. Perhaps it is significant that even in the extended blues in which I currently find myself, a lifting of my exile in the conventional sense does not get much attention.

The real exile in which I find myself at the moment is rather one of being on the outside of an environment where I would find my own value, where I will feel I belong and where I can dedicate myself to something. As was the case in Korea, it is about people. But the environment in which these significant others can be found doesn’t necessarily have borders, and are not necessarily defined in terms of geography.

* * *

Back to the immediate reality. Because I spent the last hour writing, I don’t have enough time before my next class to do my laundry. Which means I would have to spend another night between sheets that are affecting my health – and as it turns out, my morale.

And it’s still hot and humid, and the freakish sweat still clings to my overweight body. The fresh air is also still screeching to a halt outside my apartment, like someone who’s suddenly come across a dead ox. And I have to pinch my New Taiwan dollars. Until next week. Until the proverbial tomorrow comes.

The four constellations are hanging like low-budget movie decor over my planet, and unless a renegade army of comets storm headlong into them very soon, I’m still going be on this Planet of Exile tomorrow. Meanwhile I’d better keep the sweat of my soul, and do my laundry very soon. Because, as I always say, if everything goes wrong in your life but you’ve at least got clean underwear, all is not lost.

______________________

SUNDAY, 19 MARCH 2000

The church

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The woman

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The house

[…]

The hang-ups

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

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

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

Free yourself, one is almost tempted to say.

______________________