Running out of time. With each new death announced, my own impermanence counting down. The mind perceptive, yet this impermanence unchallenged. Not creating, only ever suspended in the knowing. What the fuck. I should abandon this room, grab my boys and start living, anything but this monotonous partitioning of lives in separate rooms. But I lack the basic understanding of this living, this being the same as everyone else.
My brother's recent birthday, I agonised for weeks beforehand: No one to take along, to have at my side so I didn't drift alone looking for some vague connection in the crowd of twos and fours. The day drew near and I dreaded it, knowing exactly the way the night would play out. How these nights always played out, my aloneness glaring. The problem of trying to fit me in...
I took my oldest son. Hovered alone while he sat alone, both of us desperate to run away, back to the safety of the rooms we each occupied. A mass of couples, groups, groups within groups yet there was no way for me to reach any of them apart from brief cursory greetings. Nothing to say. A different world full of everything I lacked and at the same time despised: the flow of ease, the predictability of futures, the assurance of continuity... the comfort of stability. Concepts only ever tasted briefly and spat out, the taste unpalatable.
Upward fucking mobility. More labels. Earning by sacrificing, entitlements achieved by perseverance and adherence to a system I defined as soul-killing. Giving over of time, freedoms, dreams - for the right to consume, amass. Who were those people? Floating in their designer labels and arriving in their prestige vehicles from gadget-filled homes and annual holidays to foreign places? Perfect teeth, perfect hair, perfection wafting around them; a scent from an expensive bottle broken and spilling over. Measurable success equitably spread among them since they'd journeyed the decades in synchrony.
Whilst I side-stepped. Dancing and prancing. Seeking and rejecting. Craving and never satisfying the gnawing hunger. The straight road offering insufficient 'value', the side paths always beckoning with their lure of adventure and the chance of capturing this illusive essence of being. Their mobility systematic, arriving at a comfortable albeit compromised future at some point. I on the other hand dragged to it, spitting out wild words of protest all the while.
What the fuck. Is it worth it? This room I occupy, this isolation, is it so different from where they're at? What the fuck? Is the only distinction between us the degree of affluence? Who in fact holds greater freedoms? Me? Lacking the means to make desired changes yet not bound to exchanging labour for the privilege? They? Bartering their time and effort; working long hours for the entitlements they so proudly display?
Where did this unwavering need for freedom come from anyway? I try to source the beginning, the point where from it began. Was it them? I know my most feared fear: Being restrained, unable to move, caught in tight, restricting spaces. This likely surfacing after one held me down in the truck cabin, and the other held me in the cramped space, my pushing to create distance but having no room to move, the closed door on one side, the bulky stove on one side - and their mass on the other.
I've experienced this claustrophobic sensation over time, when in narrow, compact spaces. Elevators too full, rooms overly crowded, where I cannot move without touching another being or a solid barrier, a wall. Hotel rooms without opening windows or balconies. The ensuing panicked sensation of drowning, unable to draw breath, heart palpitating, eyes struggling to focus, mind overloaded to the point of blanking out.
In contrast I love heights, open places, mountains and valleys... vast seas. The countryside calls me over and over... the land. Forests, despite their at times jungle-like appearance fail to incite fear. Only humanity's closeness, the bodies of others too near, only the thought of being pinned down, trapped, disallowed movement.
Freedom. I've searched for it one way or another my entire life; sought in in places, in people, in every current circumstance. Something inside me rebelling when I've determined it denied, eroded, sub-divided. Stupid, illogical things offered up in protest: Neglecting to renew my licence, my registration, my Insurance... Driving around with a 'fuck you' attitude towards any semblance of authority, any additional restriction tightening the noose - further inhibiting my breathing. Unacceptable to me, needing permission for almost everything - this permission a privilege to be paid for.
How is one ever free if bound by these conditions? Everything an institution, a contract, a responsibility. Bartering... Men in power suits expounding why I need this protection, purporting to defend my rights and my safety by tying me down to forms and licences and permits. All the while inciting fear, newer, bigger threats presented everywhere, creating the necessity for identification cards and conditions - for my personal safety, my assured protection.
I detest this current system, unable to find an equitable way to function within it; often speaking to my sons about other times. When we weren't monitored, surveilled, when we could disappear for hours at a time as children, no one knowing where we were. Not programmed to fear the worst - life an adventure, never a threat. No phones, no social media, no plastic cards recording every sale. No cameras mapping our location and following our movements from stores and streets and mobile towers.
They struggle to understand this other world. I detect a degree of fear. Born into the current system, they raise questions:
"But mum, what if something happened to you, when you were away from home? ... When you skipped school to walk the city streets, or spent the afternoon at the beach. Who would know? Didn't your parents worry? You couldn't contact them!"
"Exactly!" I tell them. "These are today's questions, rising from current and mostly manufactured dangers. They didn't exist then!"
News feeds weren't full of terror, terror. The word itself unspoken, unrelated to the process of living. Connectivity founded in conversations, face to face interactions. Everything sorted in the physical, not bandied about in social media. Not hiding behind faceless, cowardly keyboards.
There was a downside to living on the coast, similar I guess to every other small community these days of instant connectivity: knowing everything. There was a dichotomy, the people you met and spoke to daily, and these same people in front of keyboards or on mobile devices, updating news as they happened. A car accident? Immediately posts and news threads appeared, often before the police or ambulance had arrived. A domestic incident incited verbal protestations, vile accusations, a rushing tide against the alleged abuser. A boating accident or a drowning drew everyone to the scene; news spreading faster over social media than from any 'formal' media announcements.
Anything that 'broke' the everyday pattern of living was discussed, deliberated and judged, as though the people themselves were 'the authorities'. Lives and reputations were at times brutally cut down, the furore igniting many other smaller fires, inciting mass indignation and protest. The sweet lady walking her dog along the beach turning into a screaming, irate thing online, spouting rumours and half-truths, these built on by others, the initial incident burgeoning as more joined in, becoming in the end something larger than life.
I have never properly understood this phenomenon. Perhaps it is the result of ennui, a boredom borne of unwavering continuity, the pattern of living so set that any small deviation is an opportunity to vent, to release the pressure of 'nothing ever really happening'.
I speak of the freedoms enjoyed there, yet these too were conditional: the fabric of the community was not to be compromised. Anything new eyed with suspicion. Visitors were welcomed as 'consumers' and 'contributors' to the local economy but also abhorred; detested for intruding, for messing with this fabric with their 'foreign' ways - even if this foreignness was only a hundred kilometres away.
Sure, the boys enjoyed a childhood much like my own, able to wander unsupervised - I had the streets, they had the beach, the countryside - to explore and create within an environment of discovery and self-knowledge. But eyes were everywhere:
"Saw your boys at the cafe having a milkshake," I'd read in a Facebook message.
"Did your son tell you he came by yesterday?"
"Feat: xxxxxxx," a photo of my youngest grinning at a beach party, posted online and part of my daily newsfeed.
I countered this by holding back from asking where they'd been, or knowing what they were doing. Not through indifference, rather to further instil self-ownership, the acceptance of those inalienable rights too often taken away under the guise of providing security.
Conditioning by the system has succeeded to some point though. They become anxious when they encounter a break in digital connectivity. They cannot function without access to the internet. The times we move and wait for it to be resumed at the new house? They pace, lost and confounded. They do not resume living again until their connectedness to everything and everyone is restored.
I fear other things for them, concepts rather, because their physical safety is never a worry for me. I let them roam the area, bought them bikes, encouraged increasing independence, allowed them to dive into deep water despite their lack of skill. They said I raised them free-range, like the chickens I bought for their dinner. Barefoot, bronzed by the sun, ignoring the elements.
There is a memory - the first time my oldest boy jumped off the pier. The water deep, he only having a few basic swimming lessons in Primary School. The moment his head surfaced above the woody edge as he climbed up the slippery ladder! Pride, satisfaction, wonder, playing in his joyous gaze. He'd conquered a fear; discovered in the first fearful plunge his inner bravery. Continued to amaze me with further, harder feats, each time displaying the same satisfied grin. My youngest following suit but in his own time, jumping off without warning one afternoon, despite weeks of watching, despite constant encouragement from friends.
No. What has me shaking is the notion of their lives controlled. All aspects scrutinized, actions accompanied by attached conditions and consequences. Restrictions everywhere, permissions to be sought for everything, dependence on the thing luring them, the connectivity simultaneously disengaging them from the earth, from the land.
They are taking steps sure. Preserving their online anonymity. I rejoice when they further distance themselves from social norms. The fact they don't use mobile phones, never understanding the need. The insidiousness of Social Media removed from their lives by their decision. Teaching me about online surveillance and suggesting safer alternatives. I exhale in triumph whenever they condemn a further encroachment on their liberties.
Yet, I've made them judgemental, an unintended consequence - their ethics at odds with those of their peers. I've isolated them by encouraging standards, something abhorrent to me yet at the same time considered precious, admirable. They display manners, they are discerning, understanding the importance of politeness, gratitude, respect. When I hear them saying "Good Morning Grandma." "Thank You." "Please." Simple words, yet still I rejoice. There is something empowering in those few words, satisfying me. I never taught them see, these behaviours emerging of their own accord.
But they do at times criticise: Girls, boys their age; they frown at superficiality, vanity, dumbed-down intelligence, behaviours common in their peers but unacceptable to them. In doing so, they struggle to find engagement in the physical world around them. Flesh and blood connections - someone to care about. Their online lives full, friends around the globe, they converse with ease; banter despite the language barriers. I hear their animated voices, their laughter. In a world of billions they have found kindred others. Yet in this neighbourhood, their city, they lack. They are alone, struggling to identify with today's youth, the frivolous culture and triviality around them. They listen to music from my time, some of it before my time, this too a journey of their choosing. As they mature, I watch them going back, seeking values and ideals no longer deemed relevant, the replacements ill-fitting, judged artificial, of limited value to them.
My son's last girlfriend; I recall seeing them sitting on a bench at the beach last summer. She with mobile phone in hand, glancing down, following news-feeds, fingers rapidly responding to comments and status updates. He frustrated, attempting conversation in the midst of her disengagement from him. This the last time he saw her, he explained afterwards.
He spoke to me about expecting whoever is with him to be there in each moment. Not content to be slotted inbetween the varying distractions arising from social media. He confided she didn't understand, asked him "What's your problem anyway? Everyone is the same?" She protested, accusing him of making her nervous with his incessant need to talk, "to get into her head".
Yeah, he is discerning. Looking for the one girl confident enough to be - an identity separate and independent of others' opinions and impressions. He tells me often: "They can't bloody hold a conversation mum!"
Despite feeling his sadness, something in me experiences joy. I've passed it on, this scrutinizing. The search for something beyond what one is offered as the acceptable norm. My never having been a follower, never adhering to group-think, group safety, finding nothing of value in mass consumption - be this a trend or a belief.
I want my sons to seek depth in relationships. The fact this is becoming more and more difficult? Sure. The three of us venture out and sit at a cafe on the odd occasion. Everyone around us attached to devices. Couples, groups, immersed in the need to be updated, involved in every other's trivialities. Only the elderly talking, their faces animated, their hands gesticulating, discussing whatever.
The younger groups, the families, four at any given table and all four with eyes glued to mobile screens? What the hell has happened to people?
I in particular see no evidence of enthralling fascination; I hone in on couples, seeking the fire between them, the total absorption signifying a deep attachment. I notice only inanimate conversations, these often interrupted by face down notifications, text messages, calls... Everything intruding, everything disconnecting; their 'togetherness' shared and scrutinised and commented on by others in turn. Checking in: "We are here, see!" A photo offered up as evidence of this disconnected togetherness.
Inside I am screaming. "Fucking wake up! Talk to each other, focus on eyes, on mouths! Listen without distraction. Hold hands not bloody phones! Parents, talk to your children, please talk to your children!"
It saddens me. What hope? Distraction, busyness; no one knowing who they are any more, no one caring enough to find out. Brief news-bites. Sentences condensed to a few words. Words condensed even further to fucking emoticons. Happiness expressed by a smiley face. Love by a red heart. Sadness through an upside down smile. Really? This leads to intimacy, to deep affection? This the new reality I am encouraged to embrace, the one my sons must reside in?