Tilt Republic. Johannesburg. New York. Cape Town. London.

work hard, play hard

Right getting on with this torturous life lesson that is existence is no easy feat. I’m in receipt of a strange feeling that hinges on a kind of moral insecurity, and largely perpetrated by these strange modern ways we have adopted. The worst of which is having to get out of bed when we don’t want to. That we have somehow, collectively, missed the point and that it might be too late to figure it all out is beginning to make me a little anxious. To unfuck something as incrementally kak as the average, modern routine is nearly impossible.

Enter, stage left, fifty hour work week.

Close up: twitching eye.

The challenges we face as meaning seekers, pleasure hungry bipedal simians, can get a little tedious when faced with equally challenging responsibilities. A responsibility is something with an incredible aptitude for lacking in substance. I can’t be sure but I think it might have something to do with Steve Hoffmeyer.

There comes a time in our sordid journey that we are forced to make some sort of crucial connection with a greater meaning, a meaning that encapsulates all the other smaller meanings.

There are the little, important things, like watering things, walking in forests and telling kids not to kick animals, but they all fall under a greater motivation. Some big thing that makes us tick, on a deeper level. The more I get on the more I realize how different these things are for different people. But they all have one. Normally in the vicinity of family, work or religion.

That’s where I’ve taken my understanding of this conservative-liberal divide everyone seems so fond of, these little labels, that behave like peep holes into someone’s inner world. Sure we couldn’t be moved enough to save the rainforest or commit earnestly to the acquisition of cashish- if these were the real issues everything would be a lot greener. The issues, these differences- they have fuckall to do with the exterior world, they’re reflections of a desire for self expression.

Listen, don’t get me wrong, I firmly believe there are idiots out there. Dumb motherfuckers with the meta-cognition of sand, don’t mistake my lazy generalizations for acceptance. I am and will always be bigoted towards the mouth breathing intellectual zombies that litter this fine playground called existence. Life is too short.

Most seem convinced that going through the motions without that big philosophical cog, whatever it might be, makes everything a shade duller. I just think of some of my mates and imagine a world without football, an imminent existential implosion would blow their hearts through their psyche’s arses. So there’s that.

Problems do present themselves, science calls me names like monkey, philosophy couldn’t feel a feather for my sense of security in the Universe and all things metaphysical are so viciously irrelevant and boring that I couldn’t begin to touch it. So what is left? I certainly don’t know, but there is something to consider. Here, take a look at this;

The only true freedom that you find is when you realize and come to terms with the fact that you are completely and unapologetically fucked, and then you are free to float around the system.”-Doug Stanhope’s closing words in his show entitled Deadbeat Hero. Great comedy album.

I think there’s an often unheeded spaciousness in hopelessness, it prioritises the need for priorities.

Chuck Palahniuk writes about learning little acts of rebellion, of the most important could be side stepping this obsession with meaning, with the search for the big cog. A pursuit most people are prepared to go crazy for. You might argue that I’m contradicting myself by decrying the value of a sentiment via a medium created to pursue it. That is true up to a point, but allow yourself to consider it my sheep’s clothing or try to ignore the hypocrisy, I really don’t mind how you choose to cope with it.

I’m aware that this problem is an abstract one, but stick with me.

Nietzsche writes beautifully about tradition, paraphrased he explains that the less men are bound by tradition the more lively their inner motives become. “…the outer restlessness, the promiscuous flow of humanity…” (Human, All Too Human, Nietzsche Location 442 [Kindle]).

Could meaning just be one of those traditions?

This endless seeking for context is a tired, old man’s tradition handed to us by bigots and people without Nespresso Pods. A generation that dry humped a dumb fuck protestant work ethic hamster wheel routine until their dicks stopped working, and for what you ask? To die keeled over in a fucking rose bush knee deep in grey scale suburbia. These are the people who instilled our inner worlds, nurtured us and determined our paradigms. These people lived unremarkable lives.

Suburbia is dead, it’s what Lewis Black calls living in a vacuum and yet here we are. Unfree, bent over and safety bolted in Uncle Sam’s favourite position. Our collective prostate twitching in anticipation, as the money shot, called economic necessity limbers up to administer a lubeless rogering to a generation out of ideas.

I don’t know if I’m alone in this, but I can’t help but feel like there’s something incredibly wrong with everything. Maybe I should just stop drinking coffee after lunch.