Bole: Chant 7

I hear a knock on my door as I am listening to Liszt’s Symphonic Poem No. 5. I leave the music playing and stand up, as I had been lying down at the time, and walk to the door to open it.

—Hi, man

It was Lithocarpus, who lived two floors below across the hall.

—Hey Lith, I say, holding the door with one hand and the door frame with the other.

—You gonna let me in? he says.

—Erm . . yeah, I say reluctantly.

He breathes a laugh and enters my apartment, finding the nearest seat and sitting down. He removes his rucksack from his shoulders and places it on the floor before him and pulls a handful of DVDs and CDs that I assume he has just bought or been given.

—Look what I got from work, he says.

—From work? I say. You work in a factory.

Lithocarpus worked in one of the factories close by that I had complained about for the noise that would leak in to the community. It was a packaging factory, where they place stickers on to hundreds of products a day and box them up to be shipped to local supermarkets and retail outlets.

—Yeah, I took them when no one was looking, he says.

—You . . .stole them?

—Well, you know, he says attempting an excuse. I work really long hours and really hard at that place, the least they could do is offer me some benefits.

—Aren’t they paying you?

—You know what I get from that place? Minimum wage. Maximum hours. I work twelve hour shifts a day, man. Doing the same thing all day. Constantly.

—Well, I get that, I say. But you could lose your job over this.

—Haven’t lost it yet, he says.

—And what if the next time you get caught?

—Then I’ll get another job, he says. What, do you think they’re short of numbers at these places? More people, more productively. You know, they probably don’t even care I’ve taken them, as long as I’ve earned them more money than I’ve stolen. They’re all about the numbers.

—Just be careful, I say.

—Zylitol, you worry too much. I got a backup plan don’t forget.

—What’s that?

—I know enough secrets about my boss that, if he were mention it, I could mention enough to get him fired.

—I don’t think blackmailing your boss is a good way to keep your job.

He laughs, ignoring my comment.

—You can have this?

He opens his bag, takes out a clay figurine, hands it to me and I stare at it wondering how not to accept it. I’ll place it outside his door later, I think.

—I know it’s pretty bad, he says. My brother took all the good ones.

—So, have you done this before? I ask him.

—Yeah, a few times. Sometimes when we’re sorting the products, you just open a box, pretending you’re looking busy, and slip what’s inside in to your pocket. Sometimes if you’re loading the trucks then you’re out of sight and it’s like pick’n’mix. . .well, there’s a few ways really. You just gotta know where the eyes are. And since you do the same thing everyday, you kinda figure it out.

I look at him, thinking that perhaps I never really knew Lithocarpus as I feel I’m talking to someone I have never met.

—I mean look at my new phone, he says pulling a small and expensive looking mobile phone from his coat pocket. Think I could afford that on my wages?

—Maybe, I say. It might just take you a while.

—No way. It’s like they’re laughing at us, he says. We’re packing things every day that we would love to have but can’t afford, and rarely have the time outside of work to go and buy them, and like that’s all I want to do outside of work: to buy a phone.

—What else do you take? I ask him

—Ah, well, that’s about it for me really. But I know someone at work who got out with a laptop once. Another guy who got out with a TV, from one of the trucks.

—And why do you want to steal these things? Does it make you’re life too miserable not to have these things?

—Because, man, he says. Why should we not deserve to have them? Am I not privileged enough? Do I not work hard enough? Am I not good enough to have things that everyone else has?

—I don’t think anyone is actually telling you that you can’t have them.

—But we can’t have them. I can’t afford it.

—Maybe not the things you’ve stolen, but . . . maybe the things you’ve stolen aren’t what you need, I say. Does it really fulfil your life having them?

He looks down and pushes one fingernail in to another turning it from pink to white.

—It’s nicer than not having them, he says.

—Is it really though? I ask. Look at the things that have been stolen. TVs, laptops, DVDs, CDs, mobile phones . . and probably other things. But what are you going to do with them?

—Use them? he laughs.

—Exactly, I say. You’re going to sit and watch television all the time, sit in front of the computer all the time, watching films, put on your music, and you could just speak to one of your friends on the phone without having to leave.

—What the problem with that?

—You’ll be chained, I say. Bound!

He opens his mouth and scratches his cheek thinking over what I said.

—Nah, I don’t think that’ll happen to me, he says.

—Why not? I ask.

—Because outside of work, I’m not inside. I go out.

—Where?

—Just . . . anywhere else really. Have some drinks, dance . . .

—Every day?

—Not every day, he says. But pretty much.

—Yeah? I say. How’s your liver?

—Pretty bad shape, he laughs.

—You’re not bothered?

—Nah, he says. It’ll heal.

I thought about what Lithocarpus said. About his need to have these things he took from work, and wondered what real fulfilment he received from them and what he would be losing in exchange. How much of it should we consider an unnecessary luxury? A delusion of progress? Advancement, but in what direction? That science and technology might have brought our maladaption, a redundancy of action and calculation. This Gorgon head that lures to feed its snakes. What have we lost by such great advances, a progress that must of course be admitted, but at what expense for the direction it chose to be exploited; our maladaption to modern living.

When Lithocarpus had left, taking his things, I tried to disperse the feeling our conversation had left me in by returning to my music, but I couldn’t find anything that would outweigh the displeasure. I felt his company was now different than usual and since our values were different, I felt estranged to him. And taking his figurine that he left, I wandered down to his apartment to place it beside his door, expecting him not to be there, out drinking and dancing as he mentioned. Though when I had arrived, I heard the sound of him cooped up perhaps watching a film or television. I felt not to knock so to avoid instigating another conversation that might leave me in an unpleasant mood. And instead leaving the figurine that neither belonged to him nor to me, walked quietly back up to my apartment, excusing myself that he would not see it until the next morning and understand my leaving it, or I might be more fortunate and Mr. Fagaceae on roaming the halls might remove it.

I walked to my door, feeling awkward as though some large task had been fulfilled. Yet the muffled sound of voices from Lithocarpus’ television played repeatedly on my mind, as audio often does compared to written words, and when I came to write, I could not think of anything but the voices of television and the images my mind combined them with. Yet sitting there with my pen and paper, unable to distract myself from these thoughts. My reader, I have seen on news reports, disasters from far off lands, displaying a series of images of the suffering of the people, where homes have been destroyed, and people show expressions which tells us they are hungry. Yet as I understand it, these things are not shown in the perspective that is correct, and instead are shown in a way that does these people more harm. The images I have seen on these reports, designed to provoke a response delivered from the angle that has been specifically chosen, and so forces us to pull ourselves away from the image in an attempt to gather a full perspective of what it is we’re being shown. The comparisons that we see from the variety of images shown from the same screen, force us to compare the two drastic images from say perhaps commercial breaks and these new reports. Identifying the difference from our living to their own. Where our minds say to us: they are suffering, because they are living poorly, we are not because we are not living as that.

I have seen in these reports, images of burnt down houses, flooded homes, in countries where poverty is rampant. And I have thought, how dreadful this is, that there are those who live each day in conditions such as this. However, what I find to be offensive to these people from the images I have seen from these reports, is not that they are in conditions of poverty, but that they live in poverty of character. That these people live every moment of their lives in misery, that the landscape which shapes their world, has constricted their spirit to believing there is no exit, nor even any brightness. That because the images contrast between the commercial and their landscape, that they do not have the commerce that we are found inundated with, that they are poor in spirit, and lack the essential necessities with which to behold it.

I have felt the effect of these images that have targeted my heart, that these conditions of living, have been suddenly delivered to these people. As though they did posses these images I see on commercials, and images I see in our own landscape, and have been suddenly wiped from them. And then I correct myself, that I am wrong, and so too the report for convincing me of something wrong, that in fact theirs is a condition that has been long lived in. And was it not countries such as ours that have long known of these conditions. And is it not countries such as ours, who enforce money dependency, that encourage the suffering of these people, encouraging them too to rely also on a money dependency, that it is money which will provide for them, and money only, and so to receive it, they must linger in these conditions, as our nation is what it is, in part, because of theirs. And I have not yet seen, the true improvement that this greater sense of living has brought to our nation, other than envy of one’s neighbour. And that we believe we posses the greatest political and social practices and should enforce them on other less developed countries. I have believed that each environment will thrive best through the nature of that environment, through recognizing the advantage of that environment and encouraging not imitation, but idea. By finding advantage through its disadvantage. This can only be best determined by the people of these conditions, because advantage is not an economic system, nor a political one, but an individual one, that each must decide, as if a personal constitution.

I have seen the difference that distinguishes a mob from a revolution. It is in its motivation. What does a mob want but to rebel, what does a revolution want but to have no reason to at all. I have seen peace be fought for with fists and bombs, I have seen independence be sought after in droves, and I have seen corruption be ignored through civil apathy. And what are we to do when we switch off our television sets and no longer see these images? And what of our own war, when there are no images on the television, are our hearts not with them? Am I now to be at peace and independent having switched of the screen and returned to my world, am I now to be apathetic? I have seen the sympathy these scenes deserve, but little attention to the cause. I have seen many sights of sorrow, but little sights of joy. Am I to believe these people have known no joy, because they are deprived? Am I to believe that because I am richer in possession, that I am richer in spirit? Our nations of poverty, if you would hear their music, you could not find more spirit and energy, what passion these people possess in the face of adversity. And yet it is our music which is low and caught in despair, it is our music which lacks life and spirit. It is our nations which lack character, the one thing rarer in this world than riches. With each generation succeeding the rest the wrong way.

I have heard people speak of poor politics in poorer nations, yet themselves choose not to vote on election. I have seen sympathy, but I have not seen love, I have not seen anger, but I have not seen love, I have seen apathy, but I have not seen love. And if we were to love, we should also love their independence. And not choose to simply wave a hand, or a note of currency, to retract our sympathy, our anger, or endorse our apathy. To then offer tormenting hope, to turn off our televisions then look out at our sky scrapers and our traffic heavy roads, our dirty corner shops, our vendors and fast-foods. What is living, when I cannot look at my home and know the tools of its creation, or what soil best grows my crops, these clothes that I wear I have not made nor know of how to make them, relying on others, poorer, to build and ship my essential, to sow and stitch my necessities. What is a world beyond this? Have we an advantage to replicate, we wealthy nations of poor character; we who possess so much; we who know how to harvest, but not how to sow.

I breathed a deep sigh, and rose from my seat, remembering that tomorrow I had made plans to meet with Birka, to have dinner at her apartment. It was a rare occasion, but a pleasant one, that neither took me away from myself, nor drove me too much towards my reality. And suddenly Lithocarpus became a fading issue, and all that was on my mind began to be overlapped with thoughts of tomorrow, and instead of driving them to the forefront of my mind in written words, I felt to leave them to settle, leaving them to overlap my former thoughts, whilst sleep overlapped myself.