The Trouble With Life

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The trouble with life – look, you’re getting this knowledge for free on a blog, isn’t the Internet just fab? – the trouble with life is this: it’s so f—-g boring for so much of the time.

Its screaming lack of incident leaves you unprepared, you slouch and swagger through the oceans of empty hours, vapid nights, the TV dinners and minor hair emergencies, the Internet’s bag of tricks to smother you in stupefaction, growing numb on the idea that events are things which happen to celebrities and people in Syria.

Events are our enemy, but like diphtheria and black plague, we think we’ve got them mostly licked. Life lets us believe we’ve got them licked.

This is inconsiderate of life, because when your life suddenly mangles itself into Mexican soap opera, you haven’t a clue what to do, you’ve no experience, no training. Existing so long as a platonic tomato: sleeping, scratching, applying new gels, watching travel programmes, deadens you to what life has crouched around the corner.

Life is a mugger with bad art ideas. Life is addicted to plotlines composed by drug crazed B movie writers, squatting somewhere in the clouds. Life loves nothing better than to drop one on you, having first softened you up with thirty years of non-event.

It might be fairer, perhaps, if you got the chance to practice. If you worked yourself up to big, horrible events by being able to experiment with smaller, slightly less horrible events.

But you can’t just sit into a new vehicle, a new form, turn it on and expect everything to go all right. Life is careful to make sure things don’t work like that. If it’s just lined up a new experience for you, then by gum, you better believe everything’s going to be new, the whole trip.

You spend so much of your life in the half-awake belief that you’re in some kind of partnership with time. You focus the cooperative bits of your brain goo on that blank eternity known as the future.

You pursue things that’ll buy your ticket into that great future party: that car, that sleeker girl, that better job, that black money hole house. They say your mind’s on your work, but it isn’t really, it’s on misty mind visions of some middle aged Nirvana.

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The big house on the surf, the babes and money boat, that Californian wet dream that you’ll be just as intact when you get there, just as able to hold your liquor and your boners. The mental archetype that drives so many of our economic propellers is some weird cross between Hugh Heffner and James Bond.

Those who eventually write the true story of this time in the West will have to ignore Christ, Marx, Buddha and all the rest, and instead try to figure out what went on inside the inner life of a Hugh or a Jimmy.

And I’ve found someone in the spacetime continuum that I don’t envy. I wouldn’t want to be that guy / girl, trying to figure all that out. I wouldn’t want to do it.

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