Nietzsche and the Burbs

Nietzsche and the Burbs will be coming out as a novel from Melville House in December 2019.

Why is there something rather than nothing – that’s supposed to be the great philosophical question, right?

Why is there nothing rather than something?: that’s the question.

Discussion. They probably let off some nihilism bomb here. Like they used to test hydrogen bombs on Pacific atolls. They’re watching to see what the effects of it are. How long we’ll last …

Drunk on our watch. Drunk at our posts – how could it be otherwise?

Vodka’s so simple, we agree. So still ... And it's clear – you can see right through it. Vodka is what it is. It’s got nothing to hide.

Vodka’s the water of life, we agree. It’s the water that runs from God’s own spring. On the first morning of the world, creation glistened with vodka, like dew ...

In Russia, they drink all day. They have vodka for breakfast. They just drink and drunk, steadily, day and night.

Seriously, vodka’s, like, a currency in Russia. You get paid in vodka. They just funnel it down your throat.

We should be solemn in our drinking, like Russians. We should drink calmly, as if performing a duty.

The artist is only a true artist / when he is absolutely mad / when he has dived head first into madness / into the abyss / to discover a way of working.

They’ll never have what we have: poor prospects. They’ll never know what we know: general despair. They won’t have the experience of life (of the thwarting of life). They won’t know the intensity of our hopes and dreams (the total failure of our hopes and dreams).

It’s, like, continuous annihilation. Everyday annihilation.

The end is coming. The end is at fucking hand. No one believes in anything. There’s nothing we can rely on. We can’t trust anyone.

We’re waking up. Things are going to be shaken up. Everything’s going to change. None of the stuff around us matters. None of it is going to endure.

We want to see chaos. We want disruption. At last, something in the world that would reflect us back at ourselves. At last, something that was ours.

We want the suburban order to be suspended for a while. We want to know we were fucking here.

The old order is done for. Toppling on top of us.

The world slides in horror down into the bottomless pit.

Philosophy is a way of tormenting ourselves – a necessary torment, a life-giving torment, the last way we can feel alive.

This is where philosophy has found itself: down among the idiots.

We’re all dead, we’re all dying. Someone stabbed us, only we haven’t realised it yet. We’re bleeding from wounds we do not know we have.

We have to negate and negate, and one day – who knows – we’ll negate our negations and everything will be okay.

Adolescents have poor impulse control. Nicks Merv’s chips.

See? It’s because our brains aren’t formed yet.

We’re buried in the afternoon. Beneath the rubble of the afternoon.

To the mediocre, mediocrity is a form of happiness.

A laughing alliance. A cycling alliance. We rode to the end of the world and back. We rode through the disaster. We rang our bells.

The back of creation is broken. We have killed the mysteries and devoured the secrets.

We’re too late for saving.

They’re preoccupying us. They’re sedating us. They’re amputating the population from meaningful lives.

Wokingham loosens a little before it tightens. There’s a little give before it constricts around your neck.

There are paedophiles everywhere. There’s a paedophile in each of us, interfering with us.

We’ve been let out to play – for the last time. For one last fucking playtime.

Give me some of your Xanax. I can’t fucking cope. I feel about this far from insanity.

Our freedom isn’t freedom. It’s a spasm. It’s a jerk. Our freedom is a twitch. It’s entirely involuntary.

Is there a limit to this? How much more can we stand? At what point will it become utterly intolerable? And what will we going to do then?

Is this the end? Is this the culmination? God, the apocalypse is disappointing.

Get into our bracing position – that’s all we can do.

We have to learn the art of cruelty. Of self-cruelty. We’ll have to harden ourselves. Temper ourselves. Learn to live on ashes – because that’s what the world’s going to become: ashes. We’ll have to be ready for wars. For destruction. For terrible suffering. We’ll have to say, once more to wars and destruction and terrible suffering …

An appeal to suffering: is that all that remains of ethics? It’s the lowest common denominator. Human misery – is that how you replenish the stocks of values?

We’re being fucked over and we’re supposed to smile about it. We’re supposed to sell our own degradation to ourselves and smile about it.

You’d better watch it, Bill’s getting violent. We’re like wasps buzzing round a bear.

We’re the third generation who never played outside.

Once again, the rose of life trampled on by pigs.

I’m having whatever the opposite of an orgasm is.

I’m having whatever the opposite of an orgasm is.

I want to feel something, Tana says. No one feels anything anymore. None of us feels anything …

Do you think anyone’s had these thoughts before? Do you think anyone’s ever felt these things? Is it just us?

Maybe everyone has them, I say.

How is it that we’re still alive? I can’t believe we’re still alive. Are things still going on? Are things still happening?

Nothing’s happening.

The days are just going to go by and we’ll miss it.

Miss what?.

The most important thing. The great chance … Oh God … someone else talk. I’m sick of hearing my own voice.

Discussion. Our parents actually want us to be mad, that’s the thing. Our parents would prefer us to be mad. They’d love it if they could diagnose us with something. If they could pinpoint something that was wrong with us. If we had some Problem. If they could keep an eye on us for Signs. They’d love it if a Treatment Plan were agreed. If appropriate Medicine could be found.

They’d love it if they could discuss our case with teachers and health professionals; if meetings could be arranged and spreadsheets filled in. They’d love to involve child psychologists and child psychiatrists and general practitioners and social workers and form teachers and heads of year. They’d love us to be on file, all the signatures gathered.

Another opportunity for management – that’s what they want. For the technical administration of our lives. For a whole medical apparatus. A whole medico-technical apparatus. A whole medico-technico-administrative complex … Because it’s easier than actually dealing with us as people.

Lower school prefabs, on the slope. Teaching-boxes, cardboard-walled. Freezing, where you were allowed to wear gloves to write in winter. We remember it: gloved children, taking notes. Gloved children, breath in clouds. And in summer, we’d bake and boil. In summer, windows open, sweat would run into our eyes. We couldn’t concentrate. We’d gaze out of the window and pray for summer breezes.

Economics.

The Old Mole, teaching us about the European Union.

We’ve heard it all before, the Old Mole on Europe. Greece was the sacrificial lamb ... The Greek people were set up to fail ... The big accountancy firms faked the balance books to let Greece into the EU … They hid Greek debt … They got the EU to lend money to Greece … They got Greece admitted to the Euro. Then they bet against Greece paying back the money. And the Greeks couldn’t pay back the money. And there was a leveraged buyout of the whole country. And the venture capitalists stripped Greece of all its assets.

The Greek fire-sale: Whole ports, up for grabs. Whole islands. Beaches. The sea itself – Homer’s wine-dark sea. The ruins. History, to the highest bidder …

They’ll do the same with Italy, the Old Mole says. The same with Portugal. The same with Spain … Until they’ve turned the Mediterranean countries into vassal states, debt colonies … Until they’ve thoroughly punished the Mediterranean for its sun. For its siestas. For its festival time …

Interning. Filing and photocopying. Working for free. Trying to impress. Trying to seem willing. Trying to seem young and keen. To seem focused, clear-headed, reliable. Trying to keep busy. To keep your head down. Trying to notch up some work experience …

You’ll be determined to impress, at first. You’ll want to prove yourself, make the effort. You’ll want to be seen to shoulder the plough. You’ll want to be a team player. You’ll want to learn people’s names (even if they don’t learn yours). You’ll want to take your turn getting the coffees in. You’ll want to smile along with the office banter, even if you don’t understand the office banter.

But you’ll be disposable, for now. You’ll be a machine part, for now. No one will really know who you are. No one will know what you are for. No one will nod when they see you. No one will know your name. You’ll be a background type. You’ll be a company extra. You’ll be one among others. No one will really notice you.

And who could blame them, really? They’ll have nothing to remember you by. Who will you be to them? What will you have done for them? They will have had temp after temp working beside them. It will be nothing personal. They won’t mean anything by it. They won’t be trying to be unpleasant. They’ll be too busy with their own things, that’s all. They’ll have stuff to do, that’s all.

And you’ll be going quiet. You’ll be making less effort. You’ll be avoiding eye-contact. You’ll be lunching on your own, away from everyone.

Sometimes there’ll be laughter all around you. An office joke. And you’ll want to laugh, though you’ll never understand the joke. You’ll want to be swept up, to have laughter in common – it’s only human, after all; they’re human and you’re human, after all … Why not laugh together? Why not just join in? You could all be laughers together! Ah, but you’ll be a temp. You’ll be just passing through …

What will you be doing in an office? You won’t belong in an office – anyone will be able to see that. What could you bring to it all?

You’ll radiate failure. You’ll pulse uselessness. You’ll be awkward. You’ll make everyone awkward. You’ll make your office neighbours a little self-conscious. They’ll know you’re listening. They’ll know you’re there, sitting silently beside them. They won’t be able to laugh as deeply as they might. They won’t be able to chat as they’ll want to. That will bother them, slightly. And it will bother them that it bothers them. It will irk them to be irked. People don’t want to be disturbed.

Wouldn’t it be better if you just disappeared? For there to be no one beside them next morning. For your place to be empty. For another temp to have taken your job. Another temp, who might join in a bit more than you could. Who might be more humorous, or something. Someone who might remind them of themselves. Someone who wouldn’t be like a black hole in the office …

Best for you to vanish discretely. Everyone would be more comfortable if you just weren’t there. Everyone would be happier. It would be a lot better than the awkwardness. Than no one knowing quite what to do with you, what to say to you.

You won’t be positive enough – maybe that’s the problem. You won’t radiate positive energy. You won’t bring anything to the team. If a job comes up – a real job – they’ll veto you. They’ll lay out their objections very reasonably. They’ll explain themselves with great clarity.

And there’ll be no one to take pity on you. No kind neighbour who’ll ask you a few questions. No generous soul who’ll want to draw you out of yourself. No curious colleague to find you intriguing. To ask what you read at lunchtimes. What degree you did. There’ll be no sensitive outsider type, who’ll know who Sun Ra was. No hip-to-cool-things type, listening to Jean Grae on her lunch hour. And there’ll be no dark types. No one to laugh at the world with. No despisers. No death-to-the-worlders. No haters of the office and the world …

Department after department. Lost in the office. Lost in the open plan expanse. How long will you last? How long before you fall over the brink?

And you’ll be living at home, in your old bedroom. You’ll never make enough to move out of home. You’ll never have a steady enough income to pay rent. You’ll be living at home and going mad at home, in your childhood bedroom and your hundred-thousand-pound debt. You’ll be looking out of your childhood window and wondering whether it was worth studying anything other than business studies …

It’d be alright if you had some life outside work. It’d be fine if you had places to go and friends to see. But your old friends will have moved away long ago. Your university friends will be far away. It would be fine if you had a romance, or something. A fiancée, with whom to plan a wedding, with whom to save up for a flat. It’d be fine if you had some all-absorbing hobby. Windsurfing, for example. Rally-driving. It’d be fine if you were taking flying lessons. If you had some larger life! Some bigger plan!

But you’ll have no life outside work just as you’ll no life in work. It will be nihilism at home just as it will be nihilism in the office.

Office life. Office death. How long will it be before your first suicide attempt? Oh, it won’t be that serious, your first suicide attempt. It will still be a little tentative, your first suicide attempt. You won’t quite know what you’re doing. You won’t be quite serious.

Who will find you, do you think? Who will find your slumped body? Will anyone notice? Or will you ring for an ambulance yourself? There you’ll be on a drip. There you’ll be, your poor parents visiting. But at least you’ll be understood as a potential suicide. At least someone will register your despair.

Drugs and counselling. Side effects to watch out for, to google, to discuss on message boards. A whole medico-administrative machinery in motion.

You’ll be a child again. A child sick, home from school. Ah, what ease! What life! You’ll be looked after! Cooked for! Your clothes will be laid out for you!

You’ll have six week’s grace. Six weeks to watch daytime TV, to lounge about. And another six weeks to wander the housing estate. Until the Talk. We realise things haven’t been easy for you. It might be time to move on with your life. You can’t stay at home forever. We think it’s time you thought about your future. Your loans aren’t going to pay for themselves.

And then what? Back to work for a while. Back temping. I’ve been ill. I was depressed. Back in the office for six months … A year … Back at work – on and off work, taking what jobs you can. Getting dropped off at the station in the morning. Catching the bus in the morning.

Your second suicide attempt, much more serious. Your second suicide attempt, when you’re found by chance. Now things are serious ... Now there’s a pattern established ... Now there’s a precedent ... Now no one knows what to do with you …

Tense family conferences. Tense doctor and family conferences. Strategies developed. Dosages increased. Is it something in your genes? Something in your childhood? Talk of family therapy. Talk of getting your mum and dad in for a group session. Talk of symptom management.

Six weeks lounging. Daytime TV. This Morning, Neighbours and Colombo. Another six weeks, and another Talk. Things aren’t going to get any easier. It isn’t going to be plain sailing. Life is not going to be a box of chocolates. You’re going to have to think of changing your outlook. I screwed up, dad. I’m sorry, mum. Sighs. Sobs. It’s not you, mum. It’s not you, dad. It’s not your fault. It’s me. I’m screwed up. There’s something wrong in my head …

Two periods of depression. Two several-month-long slumps. What agency will take you on now? The dole, instead. Benefits, instead. But that’s work, too. They’ll put you on job-skills courses. Learning to learn. Unlocking Your Potentiality: Your Career Journey. Self-Marketing: Building a Personal Brand. You’ll have to bring in examples of application letters. They’ll send you on workfare – you’ll be pushing trollies around Tescos, like Merv’s dad. And then you’ll go mad, like Merv’s dad. Then you’ll snap, like Merv’s dad. And you’ll end up sectioned, like Merv’s dad. You’ll be dosed up, taking your happy pills with a swig of orange juice, and never saying a word again, like Merv’s dad.

And you’ll be released back to the care of your family – what a joke! You’ll be shown how to claim extra benefits. They’ll give you a bus pass, so you can ride around all day. And you won’t be expected to work – not anymore. You’ll be mad full time. You’ll be busy balancing and rebalancing your meds. Coming off this and going back on that. Managing your symptoms.

And everyone will be happy enough so long as you don’t stab someone. It’s not a bad life, after all … At least you won’t have to temp …

Blackwater Park. Children on wheels, all kinds of wheels, in a great horde. Fat children on hoverboards, just standing, rolling along. Children in battery-powered minicars. Children cycling. Children on rollerskates.

And signs. Sign after sign. Ring your bell. Share the path. Keep Left, Pass Right. Keep your dog on a leash. Cartoon of a dog, with Please Clean Up After Me underneath. Cartoon of dogshit with a red cross over it. A cartoon dog putting a bag of shit into a bin.

The river. Still more signs. Danger – deep water. Caution: hidden hazards. No swimming. No canoeing. Strong Currents. Sudden Drop. Lifejackets must be worn by anglers. Children must be supervised at all times …

Evening. Wandering around our old primary school.

The reception year playground, surrounded by a little picket fence. A playhouse. A sandbox, with buckets and spades. Lavender, in plastic plant pots. A grid for hopscotch, on the floor. Chalk drawings. Do you remember when we were that young? When we were very, very young?

We hanged our coats on the low pegs. We walked in crocodile with our classmates. We drank milk at break-time.

And the sky was a blue line and the sun, a smiling yellow face. And trees were crayoned green circles on brown sticks.

And when it rained, the sky wept. When it was bright, the sun smiled. When it stormed, the sky was angry. And the night was the day with its eyes closed. And the night was the sleeping of the sun and the smiling of the stars and time for us to sleep under the smiling stars.

And we woke up smiling. The days were long. Time was sweet. We drank time like nectar. We sipped on time, suckled on time. We drank from time’s pitcher. Time flowed and we flowed with time.

And the world smiled at us. We played on marked-out tarmac. We drew on foolscap. We smiled at strangers and they smiled back.

And adults wiped away our tears. We wept, and were allowed to weep. We drowsed in the back of our parents’ cars.

And happiness was natural to us. Joy was our reflex. We laughed in the air, and if we wept, it wasn’t for long.

And we were entirely filled with the life of life. And we were so full of faith, we seemed faithless. And we believed in everything, in anything, and therefore in nothing. And God was so obvious to us, there was no God. And truth was so close to us, it was transparent. And life was life was life was life …

And we didn’t know the Rules. No one expected us to know the Rules. And we were forgiven things because we were children, who had not eaten of the Tree of Knowledge …

And we played French cricket, not real cricket. And we kicked our football up and down the road. We played tennis and badminton without nets in our cul-de-sac.

And we played out in the streets. We knocked on each other’s doors. We played out in the long summer evenings, when it was bright forever. When the rain tasted sweet. When time was still honey on our lips.

And the days seemed longer. The weeks. The seasons. The summer lasted all year. Holidays ran into eternity. We lost ourselves. We found ourselves. We forgot and we remembered.

And life was play. We played at life, and play was life. There was so much time, and time was undivided.

Was that it? Do we remember rightly? Is that how it was?

But the suburbs got us soon enough. They shoved us into nursery soon enough. They shoved us into primary school, into secondary school. It was time for processing.

Then it began, the lockdown of the heart. Then it began, the loss of the soul.

Forced into sociability. Made to bellow with all the rest. No one was happy unless we were loud.

Confidence – that’s what we were supposed to learn. Putting-ourselves-forward-ness. Making-our-demands-heard-ness. Bellowing on our own behalf.

Never left alone. Never unstimulated. Never not micromanaged. Never uninstructed. Never allowed to lie fallow.

Always being taught – so-called taught. Never to be idling. Never allowed to forget ourselves. Never to be at peace.

Always met halfway. Always anticipated. Always predetermined. Never allowed to develop curiosity. Never, to follow blind alleys. Never allowed to feel our way.

Forced-marched through childhood. Put to work. Given tennis lessons and ballet lessons and Mandarin lessons and Spanish lessons and tae kwon do lessons. Sent to birthday parties and soft-play centres and trampolining.

Forced to network. To respond to new environments. To be as adaptable as stem-cells. To be infinitely flexible. To be ready to fall on our feet. To right ourselves, whatever happened.

Learning to capitalise on our competencies. To self-appraise. To learn autonomously in new situations. To develop the right dispositions and orientations for problem solving.

Walking back to school. Back to the obvious cage, as opposed to the unobvious cage. Back, hearts sunk low. What fresh nonsense awaits? Aren’t we too old for this? Do we really have to put up with registration at the beginning and end of each day? Do we really have to be physically present so the Old Mole can tick off our names? It’s depressing! It’s humiliating! We’re nigh on eighteen, for fuck’s sake. We’re adults, for fuck’s sake.