An Introduction to the Coffeeshop

"Good day to you all, the Honourable Master is now presiding, and as we are now convened, we can get on with the day's meeting."

Ethan: "Rather stuffy, isn't he?"

Kurt: "Sounds rather like Stuart, if you ask me. Stubbornly determined to remain mired in the constraints of English public school"

Stuart: "I speak, as I always do, for posterity. I do not wish to be recalled as an uncultured fool, debasing my history and upbringing."

Kurt: "More like a pompous twat, if you ask me."

Ethan: "Twat? Who says twat anymore? Why not call him an ass, if you so please, or a prig? Are you gay on this fine morn?"

"Now, in my extraordinarily vane desire to be the Wilde to your Auden, I shall now humbly present to you some of my thoughts in the hope that it shall perhaps illicit a starting point, as mundane and pedestrian as some of those thoughts may be. We are all, I suppose, simply seeking an exercise in thought, nothing more, so, of course, all opinions are welcome, however ill-advised they may emerge to be. I furthermore offer my apologies for the rather formal nature of the following, as I find it best to articulate my thoughts as a written document."

29/10/2009

Joining the queue of commuters is the one predictable event of every working morning, replete with the rusty prickling of tired eyes, and caffeine jolted systems. On this overcast day, the music careening through my stereo, perhaps being played a little too loud for the early morning, is the new band Thieve, one that is readily identifiable as being from Bellville. Although it is good, there is an uncomfortable sense that they have earnestly consumed the recording career of Johnny Clegg and carefully picked the poppiest of eighties guitar rock to colour their cheerful rhythms. They gleefully slide off these riffs that seem desperately familiar, as if off the Top Gun soundtrack, which are artfully plastic and neon-coloured- they have the desired effect but I always experience some notion of discomfort as if something intangible has been lost.

It is the same feeling that I get from the art of Andy Warhol or James Rosenquist which play on an ironic recycling of our excess, and redeployed with a quip on society. It is a soundbite, and a cruel joke, making the statement, and saying as much or as little as the viewer has imagination or expression, even if this comment can be made equally applicable to all art. The intellectuals will wax lyrical on the "inner meaning" of the art, and the brilliance of the artist's eye, whilst the layman can see only someone else's picture of Elvis painted a primary colour. The sequiter to a shark in formaldehyde, somehow depictive of an idea in a cartoonish Frankenstein world- a little shop of horrors- and worth a fantastic sum of money. We have made Hirst a wealthy man. I guess only some people are privy to the joke.

The notion seems to have emerged over the years that there is rarely anything new, but only a circle of existence in an eternal cycle of reincarnation. To speak of an overwhelming sense of loss, the splinter in the mind of Fenchurch, seems clichéd, and dismissively futile. The sadness of recognising the end of something before it began, as we compete with a sense of longing that seems so dominant in the world of today. It almost as if the growing liberalisation of our social consciousness has introduced notions such as love, happiness and satisfaction with little advice on how they are to be attained, or maintained.

Neuroses now have a name, and all suffer from depression and some or other disorder of their mental faculty, such that drugs are the solution, the cure-all tonic of Dr. So and So and his Travelling Caravan. Of course, I have to say that I tread a fine line, as without doubt the Elizabeth Wurtzel's of the world benefited, but I refer only to the enforced definition of what constitutes "happiness"- it is a chemical, which can be controlled. 'We can make you feel better' is the tag line, and yet somehow there seems to be a ready attitude to the allocation of these treatments, a "better safe than sorry" with the result that some appear warranted, others not.

There is an unspoken hysteria sometimes at play, the 19th Century shame of the family on a perceived slight that was paid to one of their own. It is said quietly, at times thrown off casually, but not really to be discussed.

But when this is juxtaposed to the "everyone can do it" attitude of this age, one has the parent of an ADHD child refusing to admit that their offspring needs Ritalin. "My child is perfect", states the parent, "he does not need drugs", to the despair of the traumatised teacher. University students will happily consume those pills as it helps them study for subjects they have spent no time on during the course of the year. What does that say?

I will never forget a friend insisting that he was capable of being good at anything he put his mind to. We will all likely tell our children that, genuinely encouraging and taking the role of the supporter, and if there are legitimate doubts, they are never to be expressed. The paradox is that to not encourage is to be a monster, a crippling poltergeist on the psyche of the youth, and a guarantee to an indelible mark on the life still to be lived. The common knowledge is that as long as failure is achieved solely on one's own, it is character building, but the opportunity is never to be restricted as it will result only in resentment.

There was a reference in a popular television series to the Greek playwright Aeschlyus, in which the legend of his death was "borrowed" as a plausible, but deemed absurd, resolution to the week's murder mystery. The pivotal playoff, however, lay in the interchange between the "intellectual Professor" recounting the basic plot of the tragedy, "The Persians", to his circumspect colleagues. The rules of the story demand that the Professor enact surprise that none of his colleagues had read the play, never mind heard of the playwright, whilst the colleagues sarcastically insisted that they "will put it on their reading list" before, ostensibly, heading off to find food. The Professor, of course, remains behind, to be content with his thoughts. As a comment on the society of today, it is depressing. It is not that everyone should read the play, but that it is so dismissively rejected- it is for people of a specific inclination only. The attitude is "I don't understand it, and I don't want to try. I will go to the romantic comedy, the plot of which I can recite in my sleep", as opposed to the difficult movie as "I have no patience for those things".

In science-fiction, the mantra is "what relevance do aliens have for me?" Aren't the people who watch those things societal rejects, who wander around dressed as characters from a fictional TV series and who are fluent in a made-up language?" On the other side of the fence, the people who have read it will perhaps wish that they had read it themselves, without being told how to read it. We all have an opinion these days, and a stubborn inability to recognise superiority, or an all too easy willingness to capitulate before a stronger expression. Everyone is sure, but never sure at all. Confidence remains until questioned, at which point it crumbles to crippling self-doubt and a crisis of self. It then seems a short step in logic to the attitude that the problem does not exist if one does not think about it.

The enforced education of the masses has perhaps created the perception that there is always a perceived end- the moment one is awarded the requisite piece of paper, one can get on with the important aspect of living. One need have no patience of the perceived quandaries of the eccentric, the irrelevant professor who lives in a glass tower, far removed from reality.
A talkshow, purportedly a fantastic source of topical information, was speaking on prime-time about breast cancer, casting off suitable flammable opinions, aimed only at educing an uncomfortable laugh from the audience. The presenter, casting himself as the likeable equal, presiding with a pretence of the conductor attempting to guide all to enlightenment through simple, uncomplicated, speech. But with little experience, it becomes a futile exercise in conflicting ideas, with no forethought or momentum.

But it leaves a bad taste in the mouth, as a suitably buff man is "randomly selected" to be a model for checking a woman's breast for cancerous lymph nodes, or the requisite cancer sufferer, an attractive woman in her twenties who has lost her hair as a result of treatment, enjoining us that cancer does not discriminate. Do people see this clumsy manipulation? And then the closing "advice" offered by the host is that sex is something people need to think about, and although we should not indulge in Bacchualean hedonism, an unfulfilled sex life can lead to an unfulfilled and unhappy life. It is "normal" and so should not be apologised for. What of the pastor seated on the "panel" who would insist that pre-marital sex is wrong? How would his conception of what constitutes "normal" equate to that of the host? Of course, religion would be far too heated a subject to broach, so this is simply glossed over.

The presenter, smugly, offers nonsense as proverb, and collects a pay-cheque, ostensibly in payment for his contribution to society's intellectual well-being. In fact, how many of his viewers even know who, or what, Bacchus, represents? Worse, the notions of a Roman God are dismissed as archaic, pagan, and even if considered, should one not bear in mind the context in which they had relevance? The Roman society, is largely forgotten now other than in stereotype and broad brush strokes, and as such to a 21st Century outlook, the concepts can seem barbaric and crude.

The constant reminder remains that one should never expect everyone to be the same, that it is a fantastic thing that people have different interests and abilities. Uniformity is, thankfully, impossible, but can one escape the fear that we, as a race, are glorifying the banal, in our never-ending quest to be sated? Worse, there is the possibility that less even realise that we may be searching for something, as we remain only the voyeurs to the gladiators in the Coliseum, the masses willing to be entertained such as to forget the problems and harshness of circumstances.

In advertising, the companies suddenly invoke retro-stylings, insisting that life in the Fifties was somehow far more glamorous and enjoyable than now, so we should feel better as we use their Fifities packaged product. They plead with us "To think back on better times, so buy our product" and the people, unwittingly, lap it up. Vampires, werewolves and the supernatural are entertainment, and yet their popularity are dismissed as being a reaction to a recession- it simply constitutes a form of escapism. And no-one asks the question as to why there is really this fascination with immortal beings, or what they in fact represent. They are the scriptwriters dream- immortal, strong and fast far beyond human capacity, and yet also horrifying. They can scare, but at the same time, thrill. Perfect fodder for the seething masses. There are some that will insist that these notions are incompatible with their religious beliefs, and will dismiss outright, whilst others will never make the connection at all, insisting that entertainment does not impinge upon their reality.