With the intention of enjoying myself on a relaxing flight to Durban, I opened up a classic fiction novel by G.K. Chesterton : The Man Who Was Thursday. To my great disappointement, though, the wrestling match in digging up definitions of words such as ‘impudent’ and ‘venerable’ from a flabby and unfit cerebrum turned out more frustrating than unwinding. Hence, this blog:

A friend of mine commented on how one of her students wrote an essay in – what we now refer to as – SMS-language, & that he cldnt evn recognize the differenc btween what he wrote, nd what basic linguistic rules supposedly hold (?held) us2. Spellcheck has replaced the tiring process of excavating ‘correct’ words from a dictionary& th speed & magnitude of information now travellng via satlites&cmmnicatin devices hav rendrd grammar(&spelling) superflous (which “should” be spelt superfluous, but seemingly dsnt matr since the meaning is accurately conveyed either way.)

This begs the question: does it matter? Are we sacrificing cultural standards, heritage and linguistic purism for a cheapened, compromised global non-culture? Or are we upholding progress by replacing ‘silly’ rules with a more functional, easy-to-follow, compact global language? We can speculate and debate endlessly on a gradient between two extremes: in his book; Txtng: the Gr8 Db8 ; David Crystal apparently disproves the belief that abbrevi8d txting has a negativ effect on society, where John Humphry stands on the other side of the fence, bemoaning the wreckage of language.

My interest, however, lies more in what this lingual development reveals about us. Art, music and language opens a window to the heart of a generation, and often maps out its future:

My inability to appreciate, contemplate and delve into the rich vocabulary offered by Chesterton, reveals my lack of stamina. I prefer writing with an impoverished vocabulary, since I deem being heard more important than broadening my comprehension. Some of my deep, meaningful relationships have been replaced by hundreds of meaningless social networkers, and, gradually, the pathways in my brain that helped me maintain concentration and critical thinking through volumes of study material, are now being converted into flimsy txtmsges.

Several films and futuristic books have speculated on this idea of progress: Wall-e was a particularly interesting example of what might become of a world on the slippery slide of consumerism. If modern progression and advances rid us of the obstacles necessary to form depth of character, strength of thought and personal stamina, we might collapse under the weakness of our own frailty.

But I want to be a person with a robust character. I want to be someone who maintains meaningful, faithful relationships, endures hardships joyfully, and serves others with patience and humility. The only way to do this, is through a constant decision towards the road less (and now, even less) traveled. “No, there is no app for that.”

Grief

I upgraded my laptop’s RAM the other day, and felt it a worthy enough occasion to update my Facebook-status with.

These kind of superficial first world problems and pleasures reflect why we, the rich, can still afford to dabble in the shallows of relativism and differences of opinion. Sure, you can interpret the color of the sky to be anything from blue, to gray, to brown or even orange, depending on your lenses, the time of day and your geographic location. Sadly, though, I seem to have extrapolated this ‘relativism’ far too broadly, applying it to just about anything that suits me. Since the heart of my faith hasn’t yet become a matter of actual ‘life and death’, it’s been way too easy to fool around with alternatives.

“No, sir, this is a heart-attack, and neither your religion, opinion, favorite color or cultural background can change the fact that this can kill you.”

It is interesting to note, then, that the kind of people who most religiously defend the superiority of a design, band or brand of coffee, are also the LAST people willing to take a stand on the matter relating most fundamentally with life and death. I, too, cringe at the deep waters of faith, and would much prefer splashing around the shallows of taste and preference, for I know: the venture into questions beyond the kiddies’ pool, has thus far lead me only into a devastating, disillusioning Reality.

Yet, our toys, apps and lunch menus offer more than enough to keep us busy and comfortable. And from this fun vantage point; this safe ‘reality’; it’s just so easy to throw rocks at those fundamentalists always ranting about the “Coming Tsunami.” In fact, it’s a little too easy…and the tide is just too darn quiet: suspiciously so.

My opinion, then? You might look foolish doing laps beyond the shallows now, while the rest of your friends are sunbathing. Sadly, though, only those fools willing to test the deep waters of ‘life & death’- questions survive when the floods hit. The sunbathers simply drown.

That, is another indisputable fact of life: drowning.

It’s 6 am, and still dark. I’m in the makeshift livingroom of a shack in Samora Machel. My friends are doing a video shoot for an NGO, sliding in- and out of the cubicle demarcated for sleeping. Thirteen people, mostly kids, fill up the small, bed-ridden space, composed of hand-me down bedding and salvaged, limping furniture. A Mona Lisa tapestry ostentatiously decorates the concrete slabs on my right, looking down on the yellow bucket in the centre of the living area which is rythmically collecting water from the leaking tin roof.

I try to drink in the scenery; capture this surreal environment in which I feel more alien than the pricey camera lenses scattered across the table. One girl politely introduces herself as Tina, a seventh-grader whose long term plan is “to be single, and a teacher, because I like doing all kinds of activities at school.”

It’s difficult to position yourself in an environment like this; where the glaring poverty and desperation of the situation is drowned out in the laughter of kids intruiged by our presence; where the stark reality is softened by a steaming pot, ready to feed this warm-hearted family.

I am the intruder here, with my disconnected intellectualusm, my Western, progressive individualism and cynical vocab. This is partly why community service was so difficult for me: when positioned as the Doctor, the Giver, the Teacher, the Supplier, the Provider, the Helper…I struggled to engage with the people whom I served, and my partnership with them was compromised by a false sense of disconnect, blind to my own condition: a learner, fellow-sojourner, and beggar myself.

For in the economy of strong community, I am impoverished. In the economy of giving and sharing, I am worse off; My connections with people are mostly selfish, superficial and self-defensive. I can gain much from this family of 13, who have an abundance of Ubuntu, a resiliant capacity to survive, and an admirable quality of beautifying and sharing the little they do have. I am a beggar where they are the givers, and I guess if we would allow this reality to level the playing field, the riches that can flow both ways will surprise all of us.

I am sitting in my studio, with my favorite music enveloping the space… When a blog – or any piece of writing, for that matter – starts like this, run away. The same with opening lines such as: “I had the strangest dream the other night”, “I am staring out the window at the beautiful scenery”, or “My friend told me the other day…”. Since you were fool enough to read this far, though, please continue to the bottom of the page…it might prove better reading than it set itself up to be.

I am a 21st century, disengaged, technologized, yuppy, intellectual Westerner primarily living his life vicariously through virtual reality of social networking, film, books, articles, blog-posts, and his wildly disturbing imagination. The space in my mind far exceeds the ground I have actually felt under my feet. I can only imagine how tiring it must be to read such ramblings from my small world; at least for those who actually live voluminous and engaging lives outside the studio.

So a breather is in order.

My blog-posts have been more an attempt at challenging my own paradigms, fears and boundaries than producing anything of use and benefit to the reader: if my writing has either benefited or been useful to you, I’d be very surprised. I assume it’s been stimulating, yes. It might have been interesting; brought you alternative perspectives on things, or opportuned you with enlightening thoughts…but I am convinced it has only been as vicarious an experience for the reader, as for myself: one that might’ve conceptually, even emotionally transported us to a different mind-space, yet, with no vivid impact or profound effect.

Nothing has actually been done.

Nauseated by my contribution and involvement in this sensationalist, fragmented culture, I have decided to ‘do’: to live a little more courageously, and allow some incarnation of the abstracts to take place…I hope for a backbone strong enough to get my nails dirty; and for a life-story worth writing about.

Pray for courage, as I now leave the studio.

The doors slide open.  There are 5 sizable homo sapiens with deer-in-the-headlight expressions staring back at me. Do I get in? Of course I do. Their faces seem to fall as I take that big step towards personal-space impingement, and enter ‘their’ lift: they wish I’d rather have taken the stairs; the elevator is obviously full. Everyone shuffles around to accommodate both me and my massive bag, and, as I squeeze in, I reach past the disgruntled old lady, fiddling around until I find the button for the…top floor. Yes, I will be the last one to exit this lift, and I will be in the way whenever someone wants to get out.

All eyes turn up to the numbers, as if everyone simultaneously forgot what floor they were on. The teenage boy in the corner, with a forced casual posture, leans back against the wall, busying himself on his cellphone, pretending to text. The lady to my left rearranges her coat that seems to become more and more uncomfortable. The man behind her clears his throat, arms folded in front of him, intently staring at the numbers above my head, as he tries to make the elevator move with his lifted eyebrows. The attractive girl on my right has her head slightly tilted, glancing ‘unobtrusively’ at herself in the reflection to rearrange her perfect hair, and behind her, an old, scruffy-looking, weather-beaten man: his skin draped loosely around his thin, fragile frame; his mind intently occupied with the mere task of breathing and keeping his tired self upright.

The doors close behind me. And the next moment, I start belting my favorite song at the top of my lungs. Start to finish. As I finish the lines of the last verse, the doors open behind me, and I step out at the top floor, to continue the rest of my day.

“Wait! What happened after you opened your mouth? Did the teenager start singing with you? Did the lady break into dance? Did the middle-aged man hit you with his briefcase?”
How would I know? I’ve never tried it. And I bet, neither have you…

We could try to predict their responses, (depending, of course, on my singing ability) but how many of us have actually challenged those unwritten, golden rules of society enough to make an accurate prediction? And why would we? Why would I refuse to turn and face the door when I get into a lift?  Why would I ask my friend for a ‘plus one’ to her dinner party, and then pick up a beggar to bring him along? Why would I actually ask the stranger sitting next to me on the plane whether I could use the front half of the arm rest, while he uses the back half? Why would I ever address the elephant in the room?

Maybe because most of us are afraid that the elephant in the room will trample us…and it probably will. The examples I mentioned are very trivial forms of social expectations, but they point to, and are chained to bigger, threatening conventions that govern society: Standards that you are expected to conform to. Standards that exist to keep the top dogs happily up top, and the poor and weak at the bottom, and out of the dogs’ hair.

One particular Person who challenged these standards outright, was crucified for it. So I completely understand why you’d rather ‘play along’. Everyone else does…and those of us who don’t play along, are simply ostracized, or killed.

So be safe. Don’t cause any waves. For your own good.

“Ground floor, please”

So, you finally get what you asked for, prayed for, fought for, worked for, bled for, paid for…Batteries included. No small print. No hidden agendas. Just exactly what you’ve always wanted. Be it that degree, wife, house, job, promotion, fame, fortune, direction, purpose, identity, freedom…and all that, according to your precise specifications. Just imagine. Imagine what your life would be like “post-fulfillment”.

Oh, I’m sure you already have. You may be able to tell me in painful details what it would be like ‘living the dream’, or even what your next goal would be. Funny thing, though, disillusionment: that head-on collision between imagined reality and actual reality: the anti-climax at the end of a long, grueling journey, when you hold up the trophy, just to discover your naked, soiled self in its warped reflection. That disappointment when, as you run through the ribbon, you realize you’ve been chasing your tail. Well-educated, over-qualified, under-utilized, shell of a man, only able to hunt the next dangling carrot.

On this disheartening note, I’d like to share a precious, personal discovery:

After 9 years of studying medicine, I finally attained my degree and license to practice: M B C h B. I did my time, and have the shiny paper to prove it, ‘arriving’ by all conventional norms at my ‘destination’, or at least a ‘mile-post’ thereto. However, due to various circumstances and internal conflicts, I have decided to press pause. And after deciding that, I actually did. I pressed pause. Indefinitely. Apparently a somewhat unusual thing to do in this race. What unraveled in my heart as a result thereof, I could not have anticipated:

It seems that the undercurrents of our lives run to a certain rhythm or tune: a driving force; a deep motivation by which all our external decisions and actions are governed. Some of us are aware of these motivations and beliefs, and many of us in this age of self-exploration, think we have already discovered what those motivations are. But the heart is a much deeper well, and the deepest fountains reach the surface only when we are put under pressure: when faced with conflict, or sacrifice.

The day I stopped imagining my life “post-fulfillment”; stopped trying to live up to these elusive expectations; the day I ditched the whole pursuit of trying to ‘make medicine work’, my real motivations bubbled up. And they were surprisingly different to what I suspected…and distressingly warped. Noble ideals and dreams I held up as mascots of my pursuit, turned out to be cover-ups, for much darker and quite pathetic undercurrents. And I could only deal with these real motivations when, like an oil-well, they sprung up and flooded the squeaky-clean surface…sure, an oil-spill tends to ruin the carpet, but the wealth of such a discovery, the liberation of such a mess, is priceless.

It appears that ‘Dying to live’ is not merely some mantra from religious philosophy, but an actual principle of reality: the way that life is designed. It’s reflected in the planting of seeds, in birth and in death, and in the very decisions and desires that govern our lives.

So, you finally relinquish that which you have always asked for, prayed for, fought for, worked for, bled for, paid for…imagine what your life would be like post-mortem. You might be pleasantly surprised.

“Muslims are suicide bombers.” “Chinese are communists.” “God hates homosexuals.”  “Christians are hypocrites.” “Black people are lazy.”  [Insert comment here___________].
I’ve never resorted to physical violence. In my imagination, I’ve pictured the scene with me merely falling back on my ‘sharp wit’, maneuvering around the potential butt-kicking with intellectual propositions. In truth, though, I’ve avoided any such opportunities, for fear that the concrete weight of my opponent’s fist would render me both tooth- and witless. However, given the opportunity, (and a few pointers on hand-to-hand combat), I would really enjoy kicking the arses of Those who so confidently and flippantly infer judgement-calls such as the ones mentioned above. If you happen to be one of Them, you may read this as an invitation.

“Them“? Who exactly is “Them“? Well, They are the kind of people who deem Themselves insightful enough, wise enough, informed enough, educated enough, civilized enough, religious enough, modern enough, tolerant enough, smart enough, objective enough, humanitarian enough, progressive enough, right enough, left enough or enough of anything to have the perspective weighty enough by which all other other actions, perspectives, opinions and/or views can be measured by. They needn’t even verbalize Their opinions: with their eyes they chisel commandments from stone tablets like bars of soap, which They would gladly use to wash the sins of others.

Don’t get me wrong, though: the burning in my chest is not aimed only at the religiously self-righteous (a target-group far too popular), but against cowards in general who prefer the judgement-pedestal to the disarming, confrontational, conversational floor.
It is a burning against peoples from all religions and non-religions who condescendingly “know“, and who haven’t the guts to be wrong.
It is a burning against myself.

I am a Christian, which, at its very foundation, means that I have discovered that I am Them. It also means that I have discovered the love of God through Jesus Christ. Those bar-fights I imagine myself getting into, continually play out in my imagination: my judgmental, self-righteous, opinionated Them, against the humble, loving, forgiving, serving Him.

“Albert is a proud, hypocritical cynic.” This statement may be true. But is that all there is to me? How ‘right’ am I really?  How ‘right’ are you really? And, more importantly: how wrong are They really?

Do we have the guts to be wrong and find out?

Hovering over the engine, poking randomly at machinery, (much in the way that I would’ve done), the so-called mechanic went on to explain how it ‘could very well be’ the alternator, how it’s ‘nothing serious’, how he’s ‘sure’ that we can bring it back on Monday. What he didn’t realize, was that I am a child of the 21st century: educated in the ways of mini-series, multilingual via Google translate, and an expert in all search-fields. Using the academic knowledge  I gained from weeks of studying Lie to Me, I quickly assessed his ‘gestural slips’: Contrary to his words, His body language said that he had absolutely no confidence in what he was saying. Conclusion: he would not be seeing us on Monday.

Interrogation experts would laugh at my confidence in my “lie-detecting skills”, just as I sometimes chuckle at the conviction with which friends diagnose and treat themselves via House, or print-outs from health.com, often over-diagnosing, and sometimes completely misappropriating information from its context. Fellow-scholars graduating from this www could find themselves comparing the skill of their lawyer to that of Alan Shore from Boston Legal, or challenge their peers and educators with citations from Wikipedia. Because in the the class of Internet, everyone’s a specialist.

“So what?” You may ask. None of my observations and reflections are anything new: articles about the impact of the information age have been around for over 10 years. True. I guess I am less about saying something “new” or “fresh”, as I am about participation: simply adding my point of view to the ocean of ideas and ideologies. Which is exactly what this writing is all about:

You see, at Google high, the playing field has been magnanimously leveled, building bridges across the the abyss between ‘expert’ and ‘novice’. Programs such as Garageband has given aspiring musicians access to instruments previously unattainable,  Youtube offering a stage for any voice to perform to the Whole Wide World. Here, at Google high, there is no excuse for being uninformed, intolerant or prejudiced. The overwhelming amount of platforms ranging from mini series, to RSS-feeds to Movies to blogs, has given a megaphone to activists from every camp imaginable.
My question, then, to all the shades of the spectrum: the conservatives and  liberals, the believers and non-believers, the Westerners and Easterners, the zealots and moderates: Are you enrolled? An more importantly: are you constructively taking part in The Conversation? How?

Adverts marketing a higher cerebral processing speed are popping up more and more these days. Intelligence and six-pack abs, it seems, are two of man’s highest aspirations. (If we can measure man’s aspirations by pop-up ads.) We either want to associate ourselves with smart and attractive people, or surround ourselves with people who make us feel clever and sexy.

It is interesting, though, that both these elusive qualities point to something else entirely, more than they are anything in themselves. Beauty points to connection, sexuality, relationship, and ultimately: love; intelligence points to reason, objectivity, and ultimately: truth. And yet, up to date, beauty has never satisfied our desire for love, nor intelligence quenched our search for truth.

Par exemple: Personally, I love a good argument. Probably because I have a knack for arranging facts in a logical fashion, irrespective of their correlation with reality (also known as the art of bulls#!tting). So, in the attempt to justify my position on a heated matter, such as abortion, human rights, religious beliefs or the like, I’d easily dive into an ‘objective’ discussion on the matter: sincerely try to weigh up all the facts, disregard personal opinion on the matter, and consider all possible points of view, to come to a logical, ‘true’ conclusion.

But the problem with logic, is that we never have all the variables, and the smartest person can easily win an argument, even if he is entirely wrong. Any lawyer would tell you the same: it’s not the most honorable, truthful, objective person who wins the cases, but the most convincing speaker: the one who can effectively align the variables in such a way that his opinion seems “true”, “right” or “just”, even to himself. Take these optical illusions, for instance: even though, in reality, all these lines are straight, they have been arranged in such a way, that your eyes will keep lying to you, even after you’ve proven the truth to yourself. Such is the case with logic: arrange your variables in a specific way, and your reasoning will keep lying to you, even if truth stares you dead in the face.

I have fallen for the pop-up ads: that I can find truth through intelligent, deductive reasoning. Although logic helps us organize facts, truth and reality stands entirely independent of my reasoning, and often curve-balls my view of reality much like unexpected evidence that turns a court case on its head. When faced with Truth, though,   intelligent people are often too proud to admit that they’re wrong, and would rather die believing a logical lie, than live with the fact that they have been outwitted by the unexpected Truth.

I haven’t seen any pop-ups selling humility and benevolence. These qualities, however, seem better avenues to truth and love, if Truth and Love is really what you’re looking for.