Between America

What a perverse period of my life. And now there is too much to think about, I’ll never get it done.

I’m talking about that time between childhood and adolescence. I can’t imagine I’ll ever again have problems like I did then, but my father probably thought that too.

And now I am in California, The Beholden State. They all are beholden. Culture comes here to die – be sold off – and there is an insufferable arrogance that entertained me for a little but now makes me sick.

South of here is another continent with real wealth and character. I have travelled around it enough to know that it is real but not enough to know what I want. Americans – most of them – cannot understand. Those that seem at first to understand really do not. I met many who had moved to Guatemala because, they said, they so loved the culture, the surroundings, the people. But they brought their pestilence with them. The American way of life. They cannot help but recreate what they claim to be escaping. The ignorance. They are twenty-first century colonisers. It is a disgrace. Go to San Marcos La Laguna and you will see for yourself that I am not being dramatic. When you get there by way of the unparalleled Lake Atitlán, you are forced through a funnel of vacuous hippy stores run by sanctimonious drug abusers, who claim a more enlightened existence than those of us that bathe regularly and live off our own money. “I just wanna be one with nature and not be part of the systems that are destroying our planet [sniff sniff].” And where is the local culture that these immigrants (sorry, “expats”?) came for now? Please, go to San Marcos and let me know.

I have to listen to a loud group in front of me talking about how excited they are to meet next week in San Diego. Oh, San Diego! What wonders are here in the United States of America! American exceptionalism is like being proud of scoring one hundred percent in a test you forced your classmate to do for you at gunpoint.

And in that great nation I am sitting at a coffee shop. The best coffee in Palo Alto – The Verve. I haven’t tried Blue Bottle yet. This week since I’ve been back, drinking coffee makes me think of Guatemala. Right now, everything does. Some of humanity’s finest were captivated by Guatemala – Alexander von Humboldt and Aldous Huxley both had a lot to say about Lake Atitlán in particular. I want to spend a lot more time there. I wonder what those two would say about the twenty-first century hippy colonisers. I’m sure they’d agree with me. I’d love to drink with them and insult the scum.

Hippies are an interesting breed. Like many groups outside of the mainstream, this one has been perverted by aggressive opportunists that have ruined a decent thing. Peace, love, and common humanity have given way to drugs, fetishism of “the East” – especially the mass appropriation of Indian culture – and senseless moral superiority.

I am brought back to The Verve, a very noisy café. I am reminded of the difference between noise and sound. I could define it precisely, instead I’ll just say that noise is more common than sound in America. The incessant whine of the Californian Wokeist is a shrill feature of my life now. Vegans by personality if not by lifestyle, this species is closely related to the hippy. They can be thought of as a modern, more domesticated and socialised descendent of the hippy. The Californian Wokeist, then, is very much grounded in its urban environment and has no real desire to live in an “exotic” wilderness, though it may have you think otherwise. The Californian Wokeist is also characterised, if it happens to be white, by a great deal of shame that, as my philosopher friend Julio put it, makes them “try to get offended even with the smallest comment to look as if they cared a lot.”

Make no mistake, I am happy to live somewhere so open and accepting, so outwardly friendly. I lived in Moscow once, which is about as far as one can get from life in the Bay Area. And maybe I am being harsh, these people are still struggling human beings. But I don’t have any problems with individuals, only with cultures and systems, especially those that imprint nothingness and, worse, falsehood onto individuals. People everywhere are subjugated by societies, but we have to buy into them. What choice do we have? Should I go live in the Shetland Islands? Or take an Uber to the Amazon rainforest where I can really be one with nature? Part of me wants this, but then what about all my loyalty cards. What about this beautiful paradise we’ve been sold: with just ten stamps, you can earn a free coffee, regardless of your background!

*

When I was at school, senior or high school that is, I was briefly friends with a particularly strange boy. Most boys are strange at one stage or another, but some are so strange that humanity is brought into question. We were quite young, in that time between childhood and adolescence. This boy’s best friend was a calculator. I’m sure he used to say “best friend.” He used the thing for sexual gratification. He would make his little pocket pal show “BOOBS” or “69” and be so aroused that he could then root out of himself the precious stuff of life. Several times a day. I would love to delve into the psychology here but I’m not qualified.

I’m not sure if there is a lesson in this, I won’t pretend to make a point about depravity. Every boy has their years of questionable masturbation. I wonder how he’s doing now – Henry. Henry the Number Wanker. Henry the Cockulator. Numerically Nobulous Henry. He specialised in all things nobular, in fact.

There’s a kid here at The Verve that looks like Henry. I wonder if he’s as weird. I would ask him but that would be weird. He’s adding to the noise of this place; the music is too loud and there are too many Americans talking. I have enough trouble concentrating as it is, I wonder why I come here every day. I’m probably lonely.

I was surrounded by social interaction in Guatemala, filled with novelty and Dutch delights. New people, new languages, volcanoes, lakes, ruins. I enjoyed all of this so much, I think I am now coming down.

My father was furious to hear my thoughts about America. He worships everything I have been talking to you about and insulting. Why would I respect this place? Because the toilets flush automatically? Because the fries come with chilli and cheese? As my friend said, this country is an expensive trash can.

*

When you’re lonely, silence can be offensive. I just heard it. The offense. And now it is difficult to unhear. I guess that’s why I’ve been going to The Verve every day. Clearly, even American noise is better than none.

What is here for me, in America? In a sense, everything, but I am making nothing of it all. I was happy. Content too. I don’t think you can be both for very long, but initially my contentment made me happy. Then I left home.

Surely happiness is more desirable than contentment, but contentment is the wise choice. Contentment is stable, a positive equilibrium. Happiness is a more abundant, euphoric feeling. It is not an equilibrium state, it is unstable and can lead to unhappiness if abused. We all want to abuse happiness. But when we do, we normally find out why we shouldn’t. Then, if we want to grow up, we decide to settle for a lesser stability. In this way, I find contentment very depressing. Yet, I know it is the best way forward.

I used to hate cooking, now I am cooking for myself every meal. I have been calling my mother every day, she sounds sick of me. I want to tell her everything, make her my best friend. Why do I like the idea of people knowing everything about me?

Everyone has their problems. Some people are white but put their hair into dreads and put those “little red dots” on their forehead to show how spiritual they are. I don’t think those people are spiritual at all. I think they’re morbidly immature and want to be anything other than white.

I am reminding myself of Catch-22, which I couldn’t finish. Does that make sense to you? Every now and then when I’m at The Verve, I get up and pace around for a minute or so. To stretch my legs and take a break. I always think people are thinking “who is this freak pacing around?”

But I’m not at The Verve anymore, I left half an hour ago. I’m at home now. I felt very dramatic when I got up to leave the café, like I was finishing a chapter, or maybe even a whole book. It feels like an ending. Every day.

I have loosened up so much in the last year, and that is great. Right now I feel doomed. I hear noise in the corridor outside my apartment and go to check on it. My neighbour was saying goodbye to a friend. Their laughter hit me strangely. They turned towards me when I came out and we exchanged pleasantries. Sweet nothings.

Some people have very strange ideas about romantic relationships. Maybe I do too. In that time between childhood and adolescence, I felt pressures that soiled the fantasies I’ve had as long as I can remember. Now I’m starting to think the only way to live is without fantasies altogether.

I wonder what you will make of all this.