Not From Above!

by Alexander Mayor

  Yoko has taken over at the mic. Being Japanese, she’s beautifully gluing the evening’s disparate mechanics back together by conducting as she reads the various Nipponosophies being generated on the TV screen in a knock-off of Comic Sans. You’ve never enjoyed Camus as much as right now, and you notice the cutesy drum machine being piped through recessed speakers for the first time, as it unconsciously guides Yoko’s delightful oration:

  ‘Society, cannot when he was away on artists who forged their own others and also be from the beauty of the middle and tear yourself, do without him. A true artist is the reason why I have not seen you down. Understanding rather than the judge has mandated them…’

  A young European woman dressed as a geisha enters the room gently, so as not to interrupt Yoko, refills the bowl of sweets on the low table, picks up the empties, bows and leaves. If we’ve chewed through an entire bowl we’ve been here a while alright.

  But what of your own work? What contribution have you made to the map of understanding? The Philosophy of Leaving? Hard to see you ever really pitching this to the departmental bigwigs. ‘It’s naught but heftless posturing and journalese, Christopher,’ you can imagine them saying, before making disparaging references to Alain de Botton.

  But it’s that same original thought that’s born at 11.47pm every time you’re here at philosophy’s own nightly song contest. How cities have got so good at providing compact and effective little illusions, pools of possibility that somehow strengthen, elevate and undermine you all at once. When fun attacks. How every attempt to escape the everyday necessitates some sort of further moral compromise. When freedom attacks. Ways to waste your time that evolve and elaborate, heightening the sense of what you’ve failed to get done, just as they unlock another ‘achievement’. Fill your life with this, then write it down. For God’s sake, at least write it down. And then perhaps, one day, somewhere under unlikely haircuts, the young and drunk will sing along.

  Energy Levels

  Boom bang a bang, doof thud schwaaah… quite the noisy morning, is this. Smiling going on everywhere, and only 7.49am showing on the counter. The doors open to a factory-sized room, beats flood out and light floods in, bouncing off a mass motion of colourful Lycra.

  Jim turned back to me, his face triumphant; this was clearly his tribe. ‘Feel that energy!’

  ‘I thought we’d agreed not to use the word “energy”…?’ I said, mock sour.

  ‘Sorry. Ha! Yes! You and that! Howzabout “buzzy”? “Pulse-y”?’ Jim smiled and started throwing frenzied shapes.

  The atmosphere was overwhelming in a way that was hard to fathom. The familiar rendered unfamiliar. A breakfast nightclub, a sober madness. Bits of songs I knew, remixed for added brightness and clarity. My hair was still damp from the shower.

  ‘So Ellie… is the one over there in the tutu and top hat?’ I asked.

  ‘Esta – her name’s Esthermoon but she shortens it to Esta – amazing ener- spirit…’

  ‘I really don’t want to seem all difficult about it…’

  Jim and I marked a pause in the early morning frugging to pick our espressos up from the tiny coffee stand at the back of the hall. Shower. Coffee. Rave. A slight smile I can’t suppress is finding the very idea of being here amusing, much as I want to fight it.

  ‘I know – you uptight Guardian types!’ Jim is already high on the social buzz, the espresso is just a finishing move. His gaze smilingly passes on to two passing glittery 20-somethings who are glugging back fruited water before returning to the fray.

  ‘I am here,’ I point out, ‘raving with you. We two, together, raving. At 7.56am.’

  I am shouting a little to be heard over the PA, but a glittering smile from just over there achieves the inner silence you sometimes know you need. The goal is to let go. Knock back the coffee and jump off the side of the self.

  Fragments of Stevie Wonder borne aloft under euphoric new wings are pounding out of the speakers. However new it is, dance music always seems to trade on a shared nostalgia. Seemingly, some parallel version of the Nineties is happening again all around you. It’s not so much that time means you lose faith in fun, it’s just that the confusion of having history remixed means you’re not sure which you is supposed to be enjoying themselves. I begin to think I should probably definitely stop thinking so much and keep dancing.

  That shell that you keep painting new things on, the mask that tapes so comfortably into place, that finds value in everything but money – these little defences are gone the moment you start moving. If you can just tamp down your brain from throwing together inner monologues about the inherent dishonesty of appeals to shamanic tradition. Because if you let yourself taste the edges of this, they’re good. Sugary, bouncy castle; whizzy, good.

  Another unfolding London surprise, another little break found in the fence. If sticking around has been about anything, it’s been the attempt to somehow renew yourself in the mirrors held up by 8.5 million neighbours. Cheaper than psychotherapy and a good deal less complicated; just try to catch a glimpse of who you are in what you do.

  And yet here you are, choking on your own wisdom and the gritty coffee. The sheer joy of these people. Waves of exultation sweep across the room as the stab chords of an early Noughties dance hit you vaguely recognise start to work their magic. ‘Tonight’s the Night’? ‘At Nite’? ‘Feel My Nite’? Ironically it’s only 8.11am, but look at Jim – he’s having the time of his life, a blur of diagonals in front of a girl who might have been Miss Romania. Sure beats project managing a canal-side factory in Hull.

  A girl in bright red ballet clothes is excelling at hoop gymnastics to generalised whooping from the 800-plus dancers. You find yourself mesmerised – even by the standards of a city hellbent on showing off, this is leading-edge stuff.

  All these years, the morning has largely remained the preserve of carbohydrates, caffeine and the raw stimulation of information. News and fumbling, every day a chaotic curtain-raiser at best.

  But sans booze and plus music, you find your body and mind are going on something of a ‘getting to re-know you’ session. How old would 20-year-old you have expected to be before reading about ‘mindful disco’? So, stillness in the grey matter, and lissom limbs hoping to gain compliments for vivacity. It shouldn’t be possible and they won’t believe you in the office, but then you work from home.

  Not From Above

  It begins with a blanket. You momentarily want to hear your inner voice confidently declare that the best things always do. But you can’t think of any other things that begin with a blanket, and also you’ve only owned a blanket for the last three hours, so it all seems a bit premature.

  Breathe in, slowly and inwardly, don’t get ahead of yourself now. And yet despite the near absolute lack of physical motion, events are clearly occurring, great things are afoot. Looking out and down the hill a scattering of semi-committed clouds passingly obscures the summer sun and the temperature begins to dip. London summer typical, all change and no drama.

  You can see about as far as Kennington from up here, should you so wish. The mind’s very occasional ability to get all the senses working together as a team – it’s better than an afternoon risking death in a theme park. From the air cooling your fingertips as they hold the plastic cup of wine, to the warmth you can sense from the companion who thrillingly seems quite relaxed on the blanket next to you. Your eyes soak up distance and hope it’s generating actual perspective at long last.

  Your ears, meanwhile, are doing a grand job. Insects, your companion’s breathing, distant cars near The Spaniards Inn, a budget flight soaring upwards with its heart set on Magaluf. And then, silently, a hand reaches out for yours, absently full of purpose.

  For a few brief seconds all these things connect, and time slows down as if tipping you a wink: ‘Oh, we see what you’ve managed there, nice work.’ Slow time, no fad for once, for stillness can be a mood. A series of unfolding possibilities, without announcements. Don’t think, just let it happe
n. Not from above, but from within.

  Aksturmeðvitundarlauslogn

  (Driving Unconscious Calm)

  True peace of mind has an inner rhythm, Stefan. You’ll start to sense that beat in the space around you, a pulse beneath your feet on the pedals, connected to the tarmac under your wheels.

  Not still, no, but imagine attaining the pureheadedness that comes with true, carefree rapidity. And letting go – of fear, yes. Certainly fear. The steering column also. This is a recently serviced BMW 3 Series. Cruise control as standard. Very comfortable, and really the perfect vehicle for your first róa.

  On the R436 you can be a graceful nomad, a wise man. Serenity comes in many forms, and average traffic density is only six vehicles per month. Please advance the in-car player to 17 minutes in  –  a little light techno, locally sourced, will back my words. A duo from Hafnarfjörður, only in their early twenties when they wrote this, inspired by the open vistas of the lava plains. Reach out, touch the fascia whilst letting your face reach up to the open sun roof. Let the gods gather in the windscreen, in maximum achievable safety. Bracing means alive. There’s a left in 4 kilometres which I wouldn’t miss, eff why i.

  How’s the temperature? Murmur your needs lightly, eyes gently closed; feel your self-consciousness melt away, it’s all voice-controlled. Your blood will pulse in harmony with the soothing in-car environment. Forty-five mph is probably fine for this stretch of the Þingvallavegur  – it’s pretty straight. Route 436-different-words-for-calm, if you like.

  And the elk bring a sense of the contemplative, do they not? Of our connection to nature, an animal belonging as you carve your own way through the bracing emptiness. Imagine their eyes, mutely accepting of your task, a timeless wisdom that’s alive in all nature. Individually (as you’ll discover at speeds regularly in excess of 85mph), it’s not perhaps entirely about wisdom. But let’s imagine they want the best for you as those shoulders really start to ease and relax.

  Is the blindfold chafing? You should have said, the strap is adjustable. We use island-spun cotton to get a nice soft feel for the deepest meditation or hugleiðsla. Now, is that better? Great. Let your mind wander again, we’re doing just fine.

  If you reach gently to the right you’ll find the electric window controls. Just a few millimetres and feel that air purity flood in. Careful, though: at this speed the sound can be a little overwhelming.

  Can I be briefly encouraging? You’ve already clocked up 43 kilometres. Stillness can be really moving, no? Ben Stiller, when he was here filming last year, managed 39, tops. But I’m distracting you. Let your mind feel the road, like an invisible track running between your feet as we gently navigate towards whatever must surely lie ahead. The hills and the valleys are always distant, yet always nearing. The road is as straight as your commitment; being is becoming, becoming is driving. How’s the heated seat? Not too off-putting? Good.

  Try to stay defocused, but engaged, like a child fathoming the workings of a magnetic toy. There will be a brief pause for refreshments at one of the nationally mandated picnic areas on the 436. I’m so proud of how you’re doing – and this, your first time.

  Let’s try for fifth gear, shall we? It can be so uplifting. It’s a confident step, a little milestone, if you’ll forgive the pun. Let the relaxation dominate and overwhelm your senses. It’s best if the wheel feels a little loose under your fingers too, like a lover’s careless caress…

  So, so very good. There’s nothing to see and yet it’s all around you, do you feel the uplift? Out of body, but in the car, out of body, yet here we are. Very good. I can feel your shoulders loosening, you’re driving-unconscious-calm. Self is overcome, and panic is only for the still, as they observe your progress from the relative safety of the roadside. She really bites down on the road as you nudge over 75, I find.

  My instructions will get softer from this point, until our thoughts alone, connected, guide our onward fate. I once remained silent for 12 weeks at a Vipassanā yoga retreat outside Helsinki, yet my thoughts gained such amplitude and clarity. There’s a gentle left coming up, but you’ll feel my whispered breath when the time comes.

  If you feel down to the right you’ll sense the Velcro wrist straps  –  when you’re ready, just let your hands drop from the wheel and snap into the clips. You’re so connected to the road now, your spine is the centre of our motion, your feet will make our fate, I feel sure of it.

  The mind is a marvel, Stefan, and if only you could see your face as it appears to me in the rear-view mirror. It’s a picture of evolving if unconscious calm, a gathering nothing, a sure line that’s an inner smile. Don’t speak – I’m right, aren’t I?

  Glory, Deferred, But Undimmed

  Keep this book with you at all the times of life. The thinkings of Shining Eternal General-President Gerjalda Kazarimov will be as guides, moments of momentous inspiration. Perhaps two of your goats are poorly. Maybe your sister lacks for motivation at the aluminium works, or your mother has once again failed to win the Puzhkavian Golden Spheres Lotto. Life in our great nation is always a struggle, but a struggle embraced leads to the happy swaddling of knowledge. And this book, the Sutranamara, is brimful of learnings, ones that support and guide, lean in and whisper with confident insistence.

  My people! Take down the bit from your horse’s mouth! For otherwise how will your horse speak and impart wisdom? Hold your ride close, always. Our ancestors birthed us as the proud horse-riding nomads of the Puzhkavian plains and that destiny must be embraced once more. But the ride will be wilder, and like them we must throw off the yokes of bridle, bit and saddle. The nation demands it, as we work harder than ever, particularly at the Samsung-PuzhkaviaTel joint-venture mines and at the site of the Kazarimov Palace of the People’s Victory in Abrûlz.

  It is said that when a poem is beautiful it is true. But do not the philosophers also say that when a poem is penned by your humble leader, it will contain calls to greatness? In every poem therefore lies the light of direction. I have also written a complete list of the things that you should do in boldface on the inside cover of this edition, just to be clear. Freedom and action – petals that coexist within the flower of duty.

  April is my name! For in glorious spring, the blossoms are fulsome, like red-cheeked warriors at last returned from distant yet glorious battle-making. April will herald a redoubling of nerve. Every child of reading age will sing a happy song, from the texts that are newly printed and rushed to every school. Hope is in the air. The weapons inspectors have likely left. April is now to be called Gerjalda.

  Though our new Mausoleum of the Eternal Presidency is topped with a 400-metre gold chturetta, you shouldn’t focus on its dazzling colour (which can be espied as far away as the iridium mines of Dursk or the aluminium smeltworks of Nankangaz). No, the material’s colour matters not compared to where it points. Wisdom accrued, not from above, but in the body of myself, your Eternal President. And with my cousin Dzokhva, People’s Secretary for the Propagation of Civic Dreams, together we have wrought this tribute to what might be achieved in life and in death. Stare not at the base but the point, to gain daily focus and guidance.

  Intention and expression, let them be like the twin pillars supporting the expensive gold roof atop the house of your leaders. As intention brings order, so expression frees love. And what love is greater than that for the mother of our Eternal President, Her Holiness Magazda Volnykovka? How her beautiful eyes gaze down watchfully on the children of our nation, from above every mantelpiece, and in the official hand-embroidered picture that is available in our capital city’s many gift shops.

  That smile, whose magical combination of a nurse’s care and a soldier’s steel inspires every child that tarries below it. How it mirrors the very shape of our border with Ruvniyistan, in its drama, determination and contention. The humble violence of steadfastness; let it be yours – like the incursions of tempestuous lovers, when we discover our faces afresh. And we read in her face a simple and earnest determi
nation that you shall surely do as you must.

  Your humble leader has fought in all the wars, including the ones you’ve pictured only in dreams. The ones between your wife and her neighbour with the coveted headscarf, its embroidered scenes of horse dancing that set tongues a-wagging. The battle will rage and I will lead, always taking my people to victory. We will switch direction when our opponents think they have won, being of full voice in the barren valleys as well as in the biting winds of the bare and epic plains. It’s all I can – and everything I will – do.

  Do not fear the mountain as you labour upon its treacherous pathways, or clear its gnarled forests. Mount Kíszkan was named for its benevolent eye o’er the nation. Yes, the fatal pathways of its north-facing ascent form stories the children love and the closely guarded military-industrial facilities near its peak shall not be spoken of here. But my fellow Pushkavianari! Soon we shall together complete the Olympic-standard ski resort and associated retail facilities that will set this great nation on a collision course with the respect and success we deserve. Your many sacrifices are already medals upon my heart.