Aweh, Dear Ruminants and Groupies,
Some people appear to have reached an accommodation with existence. They accept its disappointments, trust its mysterious workings and occasionally post inspirational quotations over photographs of sunsets.
I have an internet connection and unresolved objections.
There are the compliant and the awkward. People who accept an explanation and people who immediately begin dismantling it, usually while everyone else is trying to enjoy a perfectly pleasant braai.
I belong to the second group. This is exhausting for me and, I am reliably informed, considerably more exhausting for everyone else.
Everything Happens for a Reason
Someone announces this between the boerewors and the malva pudding. Heads nod. Wisdom has apparently entered the conversation.
Certainly, things happen for reasons. The pipe burst because it corroded. The municipality ignored it because everyone was waiting for a tender to be awarded to somebody’s cousin. We now have a swimming pool in Jan Smuts Avenue because gravity remains committed to its work.
But that isn’t what they mean. They mean there is a benevolent purpose behind the mess.
Missing a flight and meeting your future spouse supposedly demonstrates this splendid arrangement. An oncology ward presumably requires a more sophisticated explanation.
If everything happens according to a plan, I would like to inspect the fucking plan.
Preferably before approving the next phase.
The Dead Have Excellent Reception
Other people can apparently communicate with dead relatives.
I find this astonishing. I struggle to communicate with living people who have functioning phones and have explicitly agreed to call me back.
Yet someone has established a connection across the boundary of death.
And what has emerged from this extraordinary breakthrough?
“Your mother wants you to be happy.”
Yes. She wanted that before she died. Have you anything new? An explanation of consciousness? The location of the missing will, or the cash stash buried in the garden? Something sufficiently specific to justify the consultation fee?
Instead, the dead seem to specialise in reassurance and initials.
“I’m getting a J.”
In Johannesburg this barely qualifies as narrowing things down.
Passed Where, Exactly?
Then there is our reluctance to say that somebody died.
They “passed”. They “departed”. We “lost” them.
Lost suggests we might find them after a more thorough search of the house.
“Gone to a better place” makes death sound like semigration to the Western Cape.
I understand the impulse. “Died” is a hard little word. It closes the door without offering another appointment. Perhaps “passed” helps someone complete a sentence they can barely bring themselves to say.
This is inconvenient for my argument.
I was enjoying being right, and now somebody’s grief has introduced a requirement for emotional intelligence.
For the record, when my turn comes, please say I died. “Bruce passed” will leave people wondering which examination I finally stopped talking long enough to complete.
A Nation of Carefully Selected Words
South Africa offers extensive opportunities to study verbal anaesthesia.
We have “service delivery challenges”, “irregular expenditure” and “robust engagement”.
At work, people are “rightsized”. This is reassuring. For a moment they thought they were losing their jobs, but apparently, they were merely the wrong size.
I have sat through enough corporate meetings to appreciate the craftsmanship. Everybody understands the disaster. Nobody wishes to become the person who describes it accurately in the minutes.
At the braai we call it fucked. In the boardroom we establish a workstream.
Of course, the person softening the news of a death and the executive softening the explanation of a catastrophe have different reasons.
The first may need kindness.
The second may need a follow-up question.
Mind Your Fucking Language
We are told that people nowadays are terribly sensitive.
Apparently, there was a magnificent earlier age when everyone could take a joke. Unless it involved sex, blasphemy, the dominee or anything else the respectable people considered unsuitable.
Lenny Bruce was arrested and prosecuted over his performances. The guardians of decency had feelings too. They also had policemen.
What interests me is our ability to tolerate appalling conduct while becoming distressed by the words used to describe it.
A person can explain something vicious in immaculate language and remain respectable. Say “fuck” while objecting and suddenly the vocabulary requires urgent attention.
Still, before I appoint myself Bruce’s spiritual successor, I should acknowledge that I become quite agitated when somebody mentions manifesting.
Perhaps I am a snowflake.
Must I Say What I Think?
No, apparently.
This finding has emerged repeatedly during consultations with people who know me.
I can nod. I can change the subject. I can ask someone to pass the chutney without first establishing whether their understanding of the universe is defensible.
But how much nodding constitutes complicity?
If someone tells me a medium brought them comfort after a bereavement, must I conduct an investigation between courses?
Probably not.
If the medium is selling tickets, my interest in the evidence increases considerably.
Context matters. Unfortunately, context occasionally deprives me of an excellent line.
Sometimes I speak because something deserves challenging. Sometimes I have thought of something devastatingly funny and cannot bear the prospect of taking it home unused.
Am I Just a Horrible Nihilist?
I see no convincing evidence that the universe has a purpose, monitors my conduct or intends to reunite me with everyone I have loved.
I would welcome persuasive evidence. The advertised benefits are attractive.
But I cannot make myself believe something because disbelief is uncomfortable.
Does this leave me with nothing?
Well, there is affection, friendship, curiosity, music, laughter and the considerable satisfaction of a sentence that lands properly. There is also teaching. People are forced to listen to my pontifications and get tested on it.
There is also suffering, which bothers me rather a lot for someone supposedly convinced that nothing matters.
My indignation keeps giving me away.
I appear to care deeply about what happens in a universe I do not believe cares about me.
The Wind Remains Unpersuaded
So, I shall continue.
Retirement approaches. I intend to read, write, travel, and occasionally ruin a pleasant conversation by asking what somebody actually means.
I do this from a comfortable Johannesburg home, with coffee available and my investments requiring inspection. My rebellion has excellent facilities.
Will my objections achieve anything?
The abyss has supplied no feedback. The wind has declined to reconsider its direction.
But there is pleasure in saying what I think. In puncturing a little pomposity. In laughing at the absurdity, including the absurdity of an ageing man who still expects existence to respond to a carefully worded complaint.
I understand the prevailing wind.
I am unzipping anyway.
Until next time
Bruce
