On being awake

Remember that well known phrase we have all used since we were young children looking for something out of a car window or elsewhere - "keep your eyes peeled".

How hard it is to keep our eyes peeled all the time in real life!

My older sister and her boyfriend have just left on an 18 month trip around Asia and Australia. My sister and I worked together for three years and recently even somehow ended up sitting opposite each other in an open plan office of 40 people. Her departure has left an empty office chair opposite me and got me thinking about change. Whilst she's sipping chai for the first time in Mumbai, I'm turning up to sit in the same room for the same 8 hours, five days a week. I don't mind it, the people are lovely and I can think of worse places to be. But how did we, so many of us, worldwide, get to spending 8 hours a day in one room, in the same chair, in front of the same screen? I still find it bizarre.

Albert Einstein described insanity as ‘doing the same thing, over and over again, but expecting different results.’ This worries me slightly, as it probably means we are all insane?

Groundhog day is ingrained in most of our lives. It's distilled in the 9-5 model. Even if we don't work a job that obviously illustrates this repetition, patterns are inevitable in our lives. We crave routine and we simultaneously despise it.



Einstein's observation reminds me of a drawing from David Shrigley's exhibition 'Brain Activity' (reviewed in a previous post). Forgive me for the distortion I'm about to make to your work Shrigley (my memory is hazy), but the drawing that springs to mind was a simple illustration of some zig zag lines in patterned formation with a caption that read something along the lines of 'You recognise all other patterns except your own'. So true. We have habits, thought patterns, behavioural patterns and an ingrained compulsion to do things over and over again, once we have learnt a certain way of doing them, even if it doesn't work. We recognise these repetitive models in others and wander why they do it to themselves, completely oblivious to the fact that they are probably watching us, with the same weary gaze, asking the same question.

Human history is, in itself, a long narrative of repetitions and eternal returns. The forms and models change, but most events are echoes of events or scenarios that have gone before. It would be impossible for things to always be different. Time is so infinite that it will be full of echoes. Humans are so limited and influenced by each other that our experience will of course be similar and mirror the experience of our fellows to some extent.

But every now and then we feel the promise of something new. Whether it is being plunged into a new environment, or an event that changes our every day reality and forces us to see differently. Nothing matches up to that feeling of newness. That clarity of seeing the same old world with new, sharp eyes. Every now and then something shakes us to this mode of clarity. It never lasts. We drift off into distraction again. But for a day, two, a week, or even a glorious month, the world feels fresh, new and we can do anything. The energy at our fingertips flows fully. Can we really hold on to this for prolonged periods?

Life is about endurance too. Sometimes it is boring and rubbish and things go wrong. It’s about riding through, for the next new moment; when a cool breeze billows beneath your t-shirt with the enchanting promise of the unknown.

Creativity allows us to make things new. It is a way of reacting to the repetitions we encounter and transforming them into understanding or an alternative mode. It is a natural process. Anything natural possesses its own rhythm and cycle. I find that when I write a story, there is an incubation period, a period where the piece grows slowly. Then it is formed and finished and remains static on the page. I must leave it for a long period of time before returning to it for editing. I also often encounter periods when I feel frustrated and uninspired to put pen to paper. I scold myself for being lazy and undisciplined at these times. But these times are inevitable, like being asleep and awake, curious and bored, creative and destructive. We swing between these forces.

Yesterday I happened to catch an interview with author Tony Parsons on Channel 4's 'The TV Book Club'. Parsons claims that the one fundamental quality a writer must possess, is curiosity about the world.

The Russian-born, French artist Marc Chagall also spoke similarly of the role of the artist:  
"The dignity of the artist lies in his duty of keeping awake the sense of wonder in the world. In this long vigil he often has to vary his methods of stimulation; but in this long vigil he is also himself striving against a continual tendency to sleep."

Having a big, long sleep is vital if we are to wake up at some point. If we didn't sleep, the feeling of being awake would fail to impact on us. It would cease being remarkable. Sleeping is great, it is just important to remember to set an alarm clock from time to time.

The Papaya Tree: a little jaunt into magical realism (includes childish scribbles)

The papaya tree had carved its way inside through the water pipes that lined the perimeter of the house. Intertwined twigs, leaves and the occasional papaya blossom sprigged from the cool porcelain sink basin in the bathroom. When you lifted the toilet lid you were confronted by a proud little offspring tree offering you green fleshed and sour tasting papaya. Ants crawled up the bark carrying their eggs protectively, building an empire in the foetal outstretched branches. Whenever Aunty or Kalpesh or Nikita emptied their bladders, their waste nourished the growth of this tree. It became something sacred; it was their family tree.

Soon the branches grew so wild that they twisted across the ceiling, down the four walls and curled back along the floor. The papayas hanging on the tree limbs grew orange and then a deep red. They were so pregnant with juice that they overflowed. Aunty mopped the floor twice a day, but the papayas dripped endlessly like lactating cows. The bathroom tiles were always sticky. When he was sure Aunty was not watching, Kalpesh got down on his hands and knees and licked the tiles. They were the most delicious, sweet bathroom tiles he had ever tasted. 

 

Little Nikita became too afraid to go into the bathroom. She thought that the branches were trying to strangle her, and the sticky floor was trying to root her there, like the tree, so that it could swallow her into the house forever.

Over time, the gummy bathroom tiles became a vast ant graveyard. The ants that marched along the porcelain bathroom fixtures found themselves abruptly crucified to the floor, coated and drowned in sweet, sugary papaya glue. Kalpesh stopped licking the tiles as he didn’t feel like tasting corpses.

Aunty also became afraid. The ceiling was starting to crack where branches forced their way towards the sky. Chunks of plaster crumbled and the sun shone through into the house.  

The family grew frightened of the power of their sacred tree. They had emptied themselves into its branches, allowing its thirsty roots to drink all that it could from their bodies. Now they starved the tree. They emptied their bladders into buckets and saucepans and bowls.

Aunty borrowed an axe from the neighbour and hacked the tree to pieces early one morning. When the work was done, she nailed the toilet lid shut. She plastered over the sink. She mopped her brow and then she nailed the bathroom door closed forever. When she went to wake the children they were gone. Nothing but putrid papaya juice saturated their beds, in place of where they had been sleeping.