3rd october 2003

what is the point of this - musings on "doing stuff" and the aims of life.

I was thinking the other day, as I lay in bed, feeling unmotivated, what the point was. Of course this is nothing new, I have often pondered this deepest of philosophical wells, as - no doubt - have most other conscious beings. And of course I can't provide a concise answer to that question anymore than anyone else can. But it did get me thinking about different layers in said well.

It's easy to get lost if you try and contemplate the meaning of everything, disappear down the well into the inevitable answer of "nothing" and the inevitable response of "bugger it then" followed by a lifetime of inaction. But if we concentrate on aspects of life less fundamental, levels further up the well, the outlook becomes more hopeful. In this vein I decided to think about why I do stuff, specifically why I photograph and why I write. All in the hope that I can motivate myself to keep treading water up here.

photography

memory
I think my photography reflects a strong desire to preserve what I see, primarily as a way to augment the pathetic biological memory that doesn't seem to serve me too well. At its base level this is simply documentary in form, taking pictures of things I like lest I forget. But then it gets more complex, the attempt to preserve a feeling evoked by a place is often much harder than preserving its form.

Of course, this secondary aspect is actually an area that the biological does excel at, the neural networks that form our brains are very good at forming links between memories and some kind of trigger event. Thus I may find it impossible to sit at home and remember a particular place and what it felt like, but presented with even a low quality snap-shot of the place the feelings and smells and sounds can come flooding back through some low-level synaptic link. This is not limited to photography, similar phenomena can be experienced with other triggers, most notably smells. But it is easy to think that this kind of recall may be limited to only our most formative events, not something so inconsequential as a stray sunray hitting the awning of the corner shop. However, not being a neuroscientist I will stop short of pondering whether our brains are capable of retaining everything in some inaccessible (at least consciously) memory banks. I certainly know from experience that on a conscious level mine is quite lacking.

One of the most eloquent statements of this desire to preserve I can recall is the character in American Beauty who spends his time videoing everything he comes across - plastic bags blowing in the wind, dead birds, the next-door neighbours, people at school - and upon being asked why extols his amazement at the amount of beauty in the world, and that he does not want, could not bear, to forget it. Believe me, this can be an intensely powerful feeling. A desire never to forget is akin to immortality: a feeling that everything can be taken in and stored, that - given enough time - everything will be absorbed like a sponge and all knowledge will be accessible and at ones command. Thus time can be beaten by memory, nothing will ever be lost if we can but remember. Writing this down seems strange, these feelings are hard to articulate, but I think that this is what I often feel on the cusp of consciousness.

This is even stranger considering I often describe myself as a misanthropist harbouring a strong desire to be a hermit, something which does not seem to tally with any notions of community or remembrance. But then again, it is true that a general dislike for humanity as a whole is often challenged on an individual level by the many interesting people that I (grudgingly) meet. Perhaps I should reframe my misanthropy as a dislike of people until proven otherwise. Perhaps it is also the case that I operate on different levels, and while one just wants to stay at home and read books there is another that rises to the surface every so often and quite enjoys socialising. Returning to the point, I suppose that a desire to remember doesn't necessarily tie into a dislike for humanity, it is equally desirable after all to remember animals and landscapes and the weather, not to mention the shit that we do, as well as rose-coloured bygones. So I think we'll leave it at this: a desire to remember what formed me, to remember what is beautiful and good, and what is beautiful and terrible.

escapism
In some ways I link escapism to remembrance, after all the times we most often want to escape to are those from the past. The subtle twist is that these memories are often rose-tinted, indeed it is perhaps impossible to remember any past event without present feelings changing our perception of it. Thus our escapism is often focussed on a specific aspect of a memory, a beautiful landscape, the feel of a lazy summers afternoon, happiness at someone's touch. The reality of the event as it happened is almost certainly not so clear-cut. Consider:

A lazy summers afternoon, lying in the garden staring up at a serene deep blue sky. Your vision is framed by some overhanging branches to the right, and the garden fence behind you. If you tilt your head slightly to the left you can glimpse the red and purple flowers that recently bloomed in the new flower bed. Your partner is in the kitchen making some drinks, and your thirst is prematurely slaked by the tuneful clinking of ice against glass. You stretch, a feeling of warmth and life and contentedness pervading your being. You could stay like this forever.

My prose is not the best, but I'm sure you've experienced the kind of scene to which I refer. The problem is that this only truly exists in dream or memory, the reality is so fleeting as to be pointless except as a catalyst for this imaginary idyll. And this is where our desire for escapism arises. No matter how happy, how perfect we think our life is, there is always some conflict, some time constraint, that stops this perfect scene prematurely.

Think again about the example, how often have you spent a pleasant afternoon lying in the sun without a care in the world? Hopefully fairly often, but in reality the brain is always on, thoughts of "back to work tomorrow" or "I really must get around to doing such-and-such instead of lying here" always popping unbidden into consciousness. The idyllic scene is there, but we simply can't properly appreciate it except for the few seconds when the brain seems relaxed, most probably the time we're about to fall asleep. Similarly we may wish to visit a certain place or event, but how often are these things broken by boredom or tiredness or worry about the past or future… all of these things temper our experience of these events as they happen because life is simply too complicated, too ambiguous and too temporal (continuous or unstoppable may be a better term) to be categorised into periods of pure feeling (be it happy, sad, contented or whatever). And so it is that our memories become imperfect echoes of these events, but perfect memories of what we think an event was; a précis of our strongest feelings about an event rather than a true memory of the moment-by-moment progress of time itself.

If this still seems a bit abstract consider a more obvious example: watching a film. I have often found it amazing how I can watch a film and leave the cinema having greatly enjoyed it despite myself. Myself that interrupts me from the film with uncomfortable legs, or a strange desire to know what time it is, or a sudden realisation of forgetting to do something important, or a cry of boredom during a particularly long scene. These are the things we all have to contend with throughout our waking life - you're probably thinking the same about the length of the last couple of paragraphs.

To realise this complexity, this ambiguity of everything and this impossibility to truly experience anything over more that the briefest timescale, frees us to focus on these fleeting moments and enjoy them while they last, resigned to their temporal nature we no longer need to fixate on it and worry that the experience will soon be over. On the other hand I think it increases the desire for escapism because it is only by consciously making an effort to invoke these feelings that we can possibly hope to prolong them. So rather than the incidental good feel of a summers afternoon we must go out of our way to read or look at or watch something that tries to recreate where we want to be; or return to our memories and hope to hold them to the fore in the mind for longer than was possible the first time round.

And this, I think, is another one of the major reasons for my photography. A photograph which distils the essence of a place, or at the very least triggers the memory of that essence is my purest form of escapism. Something I can hold up and view for far longer than the original experience (although this still may not be very long), something that renders that original experience in delineated feeling rather than the muddled reality of the actual event.

There is another source of this escapism, which is simply despair at everything real. This is slightly different from that discussed above as we seek not to escape to the past or some idyllic event, but we seek to escape from everything. To me this is the natural reaction to much of the world today, I feel it as a weight on the shoulders pushing me ever deeper into myself, the only way to be free of its tyranny to completely retreat inside. On some level this drives me, particularly when digitally manipulating photos to create something rooted in reality, but not actually real, but I think that it is a more pertinent issue with writing and reading, something I'll get to later.

"cool" factor
Despite the word cool being old hat now it is still one of the most useful descriptors for things that I like. When I see some art that I like it is often because it speaks to me on this level, a feeling that I like what the artist is trying to get at, the style they've used, the subject they're investigating, the aesthetic of the work… as with most things that we like it is often hard to pin down exactly what like means, hence the cool factor. This coolness, somehow, seems more descriptive than like, although I often use it where previous generations would have used like - if I think something is cool then I like it - but it has the added bonus of becoming a factor as well. It is a word I have an innate feeling for, so although it is now probably uncool to use it I just can't help myself.

It is definitely something that drives my photography, in at least two ways. Primarily I want to make things that I think are cool. The aesthetic aspect is central to photography, but as well as this we can also include the rest of the list above - interesting subject matter, good feel to the piece etc. - all aspects which make us like something. And, of course, if I make something that I like then I am pleased, and this can operate independently from the memory and escapism ideas above, particularly in the case of abstract works.

A secondary form of this coolness quotient is seeing other stuff that I like and wanting to be a part of that. Again it seems strange from a misanthropic viewpoint, but when exposed to the work of others that you like there is just that feeling of "wow, this is great" and that is something which it would be great to engender in others. Writing it down it sounds a bit touchy feely, but I don't mean it that way at all. It's more of a cultural outlook, that these cool things bring a richness to the world, and this is something that I would like to add to. Moreover I am pleased that there are people out there doing this stuff, and I want to continue that.

Having said that, while this second aspect motivates me when I see others' work it is also the case that what you do must be primarily for and from yourself. If you are only trying to please others then its all too easy to end up with "crap chart music" syndrome, indefatigable mediocrity and blandness that just grinds you down on a personal level, but makes big bucks for some twat in a corner office in the city. My favourite quote of late was from the program 'the importance of being Morrissey'. Morrissey is chatting to a fan who enthuses "thanks for making me feel happy" to which Mozza sheepishly replies "well I didn't mean to."

Anyway, I'm rambling again, so let's summarise with cool is indefinable but innate, you know it when it's there and you just want to be a part of it. This is a true driving factor to me, and no doubt many others who pursue this objective of making cool stuff.

writing

Writing is altogether a strange thing, but no more strange than much else in our culture. It is much less instant than photography, but because of this effort seems more permanent and more powerful. Or so I like to think when I'm writing, but it is also the case that putting more effort into something doesn't necessarily make it good. I've got bored of overly long books on many occasions where length has been confused with quality, effort confused with skill. Not to say that all long books are bad, more that people should realise where their limitations or strengths lie and write accordingly. Borges short stories are incredible, but he knew he couldn't and indeed didn't want to write anything longer. Tolkien wrote prolifically, creating not only volumes of literature but immense amounts of background; in effect he built the whole world within which his stories are told, not just the bits that we, as the reader, get to see. Coincidently his project of creating a world with fully formed languages, history, myths and legends is exactly like the plot of a Borges story - the only difference is he had the perseverance to carry it out.

The real crux of the matter is, of course, the actual point of writing. At a base level there is the entertainment factor, on a par with films, TV, music, sports… in fact, the majority of what we do is simply to pass the time. Entertainment fills this void admirably, creating jobs for those who create the product, more jobs for those who sell it - from advertising right down to shop assistants - and something to fill the free time that we have so precious little of due to the first two needs of the entertainment industry. Looked at in such a base way the whole thing is of course ridiculous. The product creates the job, we need the job to afford the product. This is a nice little system, but it doesn't explain why we want the product in the first place. This is where it gets more complex. In terms of pure entertainment ("summer blockbuster" films and "airport fiction" for example) passing the time by being entertained by something which ostensibly requires no effort on our part is, in my opinion, the only aim. On the whole I have nothing but scorn for this main-stream no brain produce, although it is true that occasionally something of this ilk is just the tonic for a tired mind. All things in moderation perhaps. However, things are not so clear-cut when we consider more challenging works.

They still pass the time, then again: everything passes the time. But the creation and consumption is not an easy process. Writing is generally pretty solitary and, certainly to start with, is a hobby rather than a job. To this end there must be something driving it, something more than just wanting to aimlessly pass the time. Some desire to use the mind, to capture what it thinks in a form that can be kept and shared. It is still easy to dismiss all human endeavour as pointless and in many ways writing is no different. All will eventually be lost, if not to the species then at least to the person. But there is something of a time capsule about a book - it is an object that seems like it should endure, the weight of your effort lasting longer than the effort of your flesh. Regardless of this overarching ultimate truth we want to write, a feeling that some longevity is better than none at all? More than this, writing is something that speaks to us intimately in the here and now. Fuck the future, should I care how they see me? All I know is that I'm reading things I like, written by people who are writing now, and I want to be a part of that.

I'm rambling again, so maybe it's time to make a list. Why do I write? The main reason is because I want to. Want to create, want to be someone (make a mark?), want to escape from reality in the only way I can. Secondary to this is a desire to be a part of all that I love in this world, although why I love it is a trickier matter entirely.

escapism again
For me it seems to come down to escapism again. I talked about my photography providing an opportunity to escape - to the past, some idyllic scene to relive over and over - but also internal escapism, escapism into the brain, the thoughts; a retreat from the world. Photography does not really fulfil this second form of escapism. It can to a certain extent, but everything I create in the digital realm is grounded in some kind of photographed reality. It is not pure thought, more pure physics.

Writing is different though. The words come from deep down inside (hopefully), somewhere inside the brain where I want to be. Though they are a symbol in the real world - they have physical form in the shapes of their letters, their arrangement in space - they have a power to transport us like nothing else can. Reading good fiction whisks us somewhere else, into the creation of another. But it is not like watching a film, we are fully immersed, completely removed from reality. The combination of symbolism in the written words, combined with the meanings of these symbols as interpreted by our brains, brings to life a world that is not completely our own, but is now partly ours. We bring this place that another has written about to life like a separate entity in our own skulls (schema in the language of neurobiologists) that functions as our - and consequently the characters' - world-view when reading the events of the story. On one level this must be why we like some novels and not others. Those that convince us of their world, that create somewhere where we want to be, are much more successful for the escapist. On the other hand this is not everything, we don't - for example - wish to live in the world of a murder mystery; then again I don't really read murder mysteries.

So is this all? Is escapism all that drives me to read and write? Sometimes I think so, the only way to improve on the experience of immersion in a fictional world is for it to be one of my own design. But it's not easy. In fact, the escapist factor cannot be all because of this difficulty. If I wasn't driven by other factors then I would just read and sod the creation part. Simply sit and absorb and not bother with the hassle of trying to create my own worlds as well.

But it is not just escapist fiction that I read. At the moment I am reading Dead Cities by Mike Davis. It is a very interesting book, but it is not fictional. Davis' work has loosely been termed as urban sociology; it draws on themes of urban planning, socio-political factors and history in order to tell tales of, if not dead, then at least pretty poorly cities. Much of the book is concerned with LA, which has interesting tales to tell about all of these main themes ranging from the riots in 1992 to downtown redevelopment - a project which has been in progress for at least the last 50 years, to the detriment of all but the rich - to public transport. The book is excellently written and researched, and completely fascinating. But why am I reading this? I have no professional interest in the topic. I have no escapist desire to be transported to old LA circa 1992. I'll probably never go to LA again (although I have been once). I am reading it because Davis has taken the time to make it. To research and fashion something beautiful and acerbic, something that is finely crafted yet tells us things we'd rather not hear. It is depressing, though not surprising, but this is not a bad thing. In some ways this is the complete opposite of the escapism I normally crave, it is pure truth. Undiluted by media or politicians, it presents people to us on a plate, all their flaws highlighted in vivid detail.

So I read it, and enjoy it. I am a dilettante, interested in all things but unwilling to commit to one. I want to know everything but I know it can never be, so I content myself with knowing a little bit of this and a little bit of that, always willing to try something new but always aware of where my strengths are. And so it is that I choose to read urban sociology from LA.

people
Similarly a lot of writing is about this human condition. This piece is, much fiction is, politics, biology, philosophy all are. Only physics is concerned as much with the external universe as with what makes people tick. It is inevitable of course, we try to understand ourselves by exploring characters and situations and how we may react. It is virtually impossible for a book to not be about the human condition as we infuse everything we do with who we are, what we are.

In many ways I find people very interesting, and in many others they are terminally dull. One thing I've never felt I've had is a good understanding of people. Their emotions, fears, hopes, ideas and actions are often crouched in archaic meaning that I fail to grasp. I suspect this is because I am inclined to be fairly logical - the scientist side of me - and have little time for weak emotions that drive much of daily life for many people. On the other hand, as I have grown older I have become more attuned to my own feelings, and while I still find idiocy in many others I have more of an appreciation of these matters. Stories have an ability to plug this gap in understanding (as much as anyone can be said to understand people) in that they offer a chance to observe characters just being themselves, people doing what they do, but with access to those inner thoughts and reasons that we are not normally privy to.

This is no guarantee, many writers cannot pull off this coup, much writing may be more about the events than the reasons, the activities than the people carrying them out. Nevertheless, there is much literature that gives us a deeper insight into who we are, stories where we feel some kind of connection to a particular character or group. These stories may enrich us, influence our own thinking, bring us greater understanding or tolerance. These are stories worth reading, and stories worth writing. Stories about what we are.

I am not sure if this is something that can plug a gap in understanding such as I feel in myself, but at least it may help a little. Help to immerse the self in the other, become a part of a wider culture.

who is this for?
So far, so good. But so far I seem to be addressing reasons to read rather than reasons to write. So, apart from giving other people something to read, why write? One important question is who is this writing for? Do I sit here with a plan in mind as to who may be reading the ramble, do I angle my rhetoric toward a specific audience?

I hope that I am just writing what I want, what I feel. Writing feels like it should be for me, a reflection of how I am thinking and feeling. Something that is part of my conscious at the moment and I do not want to lose it, so I write it down. This may mean it is of no interest to others, it may mean it is rubbish. But at this point I should not care, it is about the writer and their thoughts, it should be no other way. As soon as we try to shape something by thinking about others' response to it we sell out ourselves. We become nothing more than part of a production line of shallow goods for mass consumption, to help people pass the time. Some people seem to have a talent for this, for churning out thrillers or romance novels, one a month, delivered to a published on time for a large fee. But this is not talent, this is mechanical. Like the book-writing machines in 1984, these people have a formula to follow, a list of dos and don'ts, a list of stock story lines to follow: romance plot #75. This isn't talent, it is ordinariness. They give us no insight, no interesting turn of phrase, no joy. They just pass the time.

This doesn't mean that all interesting writers have something to say that everyone is interested in. By their nature they are not mass-market, they appeal to fewer people because not everyone thinks about the same things in the same way. The point is more that they don't kowtow to this marketing whim. They write for themselves, and if others like it then so be it. If others think they are terrible, then it is unfortunate but never mind. This is how I see the lot of the writer, certainly the fiction writer at least. So to answer my initial question, writing is for the self and only the self, a cathartic exercise in self-expression. It does not seek to become the next big thing, the new cultural phenomenon, the thing everyone is talking about; more it seeks to insinuate itself into the body of human knowledge and creation that we build over millennia, lie there in wait for discovery by a like minded soul who can appreciate the thoughts and craft gone into the work. It is, in spirit, for no one, but in practice for anyone and everyone who cares to discover it. A recording of a piece of the self, left for no other reason than because you did, because you felt like it, because you wanted to.

As an example of this I'm particularly interested by blogging. I can never really be bothered to read many blogs, as with most things I am more excited by the idea than by the execution. The idea is fantastic though. Post articles online, cut out the marketing man, the money; the whole business of popularity and audience are irrelevant. Write what you want and upload it, put it out there where it can be viewed by anyone who looks for it, or stumbles across it. In practice much of this is boring, many of the more mundane blogs are simply online diaries and I am generally not particularly interested in reading what someone ate for breakfast or did at work. But that's not the point, the point is they wanted to write it and they did. The point is that it is there for all to see, and why not? More than this, the best blogs, those that are more article or reportage based, can bring to the fore great writers who would never have had the opportunity to be published in the conventional sense. To a certain extent they create their own audience with use of diverse topics, interesting styles, ideas that we don't see in print. There is no more point to all of this than anything else in life, but the fact that it's out there enriches our culture as with all good writing.

I recently read an interesting piece in the paper about political columnists ("what are we for?" by Hugo Young, Guardian 27th June 2003). Young spends a little time exploring the perennial question for the columnist, for whom is he writing? Naturally he doesn't hit on a final solution to this question as it depends on the agenda of the individual columnist. One quote of note is from Peter Jay, an economics columnist in the 60s who, upon receiving a letter from a reader complaining he couldn't understand a word of his article replied that "it was only meant to be read by 3 people" distributed between the Treasury and the Bank of England. In fact, it turns out that this quote actually came from Jays editor, annoyed at the impenetrable nature of a particular article. It is a response I particularly like however, as it seems to suggest a person with a very definite idea in mind of who he is writing for, and sod the rest.

Young comes to his own conclusion that he is writing to inform readers about what is going on in the political world, be they from the 'political classes' or a more general readership. He also comments that, unlike some, he doesn't seek to influence politicians himself, only report and comment on their actions. Another interesting comment is that "much of the point of columns is their transience", something which became pertinent when he was asked to compile a book of his work. I find these comments particularly interesting in light of what I have said above about writing only for the self. Then again, as a political columnist you are more in to the reportage and factual world than the fiction writer, and consequently have more of an agenda to follow. It's nice to know that other people have similar thoughts though!

laziness and anti-work
It seems strange to mention laziness as a motivator. By definition it should not motivate anything, least of all something so challenging as writing. But think about it this way: writing is hard, but is it as hard as a proper job? By 'proper job' I refer to anything which involves getting up at a certain time each day, travelling to a specific place and then carrying out a pre-defined activity. Office work, factory work, shop work - all of these activities where you sell your time and labour by the hour. I am not saying that activities such as writing are not difficult, merely that they are self-driven and rewarding and therefore separate from the rat-race of employment. Good writing is more of a vocation than a 'job'.

To clarify, I view most jobs as utterly pointless and futile. I've already mentioned that the same can be thought of everything in life, but at least some things involve thought. Most jobs involve clocking in and clocking out. Producing/making/doing some pointless, thoughtless activity with an end results of something equally pointless. Meanwhile you are yourself in bondage, a wage-slave whoring their time for some money. But the point is that the time is important, the time can never be regained. Working for £5 an hour is not a good deal, you are selling yourself cheaply, your labour is worth more than that. But on top of this the work takes away much more of your time than you are being paid for. You loose evenings because you are tired, weekends because you want to sleep, thoughts because they pop into your head during working hours when you cannot fully explore them. In short your life becomes empty, you are a robot with no substance. And it takes a great effort of will to do something about this.

So where is the laziness in this? It is laziness that encourages me not to get up in the morning, not to go to work. I want the days for myself, to do nothing in if I so choose. So laziness makes me not want a 'proper job', but something that affords me the opportunity to stay at home and make my own schedule. But really this is only step one; the paragraph above pretty much details step two, laziness transforms into bitterness about work itself. In turn this becomes a big motivator. By the fact that you want to create (write, photograph…), to learn (read, absorb…) you can no longer be lazy. You are in fact driven to anti-work, to these things that enable us to reclaim time for ourselves. The only paradox is that in order for our anti-work to be possible there must be 'proper jobs' going on that facilitate the industry that can pay us for our creations. Otherwise we can earn no money and are forced back into wage slavery.

This is in fact the biggest paradox I face. My writing is currently only some essays and a couple of short stories; I need to get better (and less lazy) before I have a hope of this going anywhere. Meanwhile my photography is artistic not commercial, I can earn a little but not a living. On top of this I hate everything about capitalism, especially the fact that I live in such a society. Thus I don't want to be the wage-slave, but the very act of rebelling against this ethos requires it to exist such that I have funds to continue to rebel.

conclude

As ever I am not sure if I have written everything I want here. I am not sure if it is finished, although it is starting to feel that way. I am not even sure what I will do next. But at least I have done something. Created something that enabled me to explore and record some of my thoughts, perhaps share them with others. Something to stave off pointlessness and thoughtlessness and pure inactivity, something of interest and aim and erudition (maybe). I am glad to have made the effort, and perhaps slightly clearer about why I have and why I may again.

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