Shiny metal casings and big nobs

SHINY METAL CASINGS AND BIG NOBS

I am at this moment sat in front of my computer smoking, a habit which
is bad for both of us. I am trying to write a short story but, as is
all too often my wont, I have wondered from the narrative of my story
onto contemplation of the nature of writing. This is a fault: lack of
discipline catalysed by the inevitable break needed to roll a
cigarette.
Writing is a poor substitute for conversation, I muse. An inner
monologue has somehow appeared inside the writer's head and, in the
absence of a human companion with whom to converse, there seems no
other way of preserving the moment than to write it down. It is a
strange compulsion, one that implies both a craving for company and an
enjoyment of solitude. Here is a summary of my story thus far:
My leading character has returned home after a long absence and is
drinking with some friends at his old local. It is an unremarkable pub
and remembered only dimly, except for one feature: at the bottom of
each urinal, my hero remembers a shiny metallic casing protetcting the
plughole. While relieving himself, he would gaze at his reflection in
the casing which was distorted in such a way that he appeared to
possess a tiny head and a huge penis. It is a happy memory. On his
return, he discovers that the pub is unchanged in every respect bar
one: the casing is gone revealing a dull, grey, unreflecting
grate.
I am experiencing a crisis of confidence: how to convey the sense of a
lost youth. As my crisis continues, I roll another cigarette and wander
further and further from the work in hand...
On hearing that fearful question - 'What do you do?' - and from a
complete stranger more often than not (What an impertinence!), I have
great difficulty describing myself as a writer. To admit that writing
is anything more than an idle entertainment, that it is in any way
IMPORTANT, is to risk incurring the wrath of the writing gods and
exposure as the fraud I fear I may be. My friend Ted has no such
trouble and gladly describes himself as a writer. And a good one he is
too but it provides neither of us with a living. Ted is technically
unemployed, as am I at this particular moment having just signed on for
the first time in three years. This provides for a deliciously honest
conversation stopper: 'I'm on the dole. I don't DO anything.' That
sorts the men from the boys. You are what you do for a living. So I am
NOTHING.
Philip Larkin insisted upon being described in Who's Who as Librarian.
'You are what you do for a living,' he dryly declared. On reading this,
I was immediately reminded of my father, to whom an occupation's
importance as a topic of conversation depends upon the presence (or
absence) of remuneration. Larkin's concurrence with my dad on this
matter struck me as odd at first. Then I saw the potential for irony
when these words come from one such as him. Words are not neutral. They
have a life independent of dictionary definitions but dependent upon
place and time. Text must have CONtext. I imagined a context:
The Larkin family have been lucky enough to be chosen to appear on
Family Fortunes. Our host, the 'star' of the show and the only one
allowed a personality, trots out the question - 'What do you do?' -
that is asked of everyone but him. (For stars and royalty alike are
above such interrogation: they do not do, they are; they are the black
hole in reverse from which all things emanate and to which all things
refer and defer. They are the questioners never the questionees and
only wear name tags on The Dame Edna Everidge Show, where it is done
precisely because it is absurd. But the pantomime dame is confined to
the stage.)
It is Larkin's turn to act as stimulus for the star's personality, the
butt of his fame. 'I'm a librarian,' replies 'Phil' with appropriate
diligence. The star makes a joke. A sign is held up by the floor
manager and the audience laughs. Phil briefly describes his job. All is
well.
'And what do you like to do in your spare time, Phil?' asks mine host.
'I like to write poetry,' says Mr Larkin, Head of Household and Chief
Button Presser. The star makes a well prepared off-the-cuff remark.
Philip has been sufficiently defined and he moves on...
History is littered with examples of artists who could not support
themselves with their talent during their lifetime and whose unpaid
work is now world-renowned. Van Gogh is the most obvious example: 'What
do you do?', 'Tulips to you, I'm mad don't you know'. Not suitable
material for Family Fortunes: you can't joke about madness on national
TV. Franz Kafka was a simple clerk - the star would move swiftly on:
'He's a bit serious, isn't he?'; floor manager; sign; feeble laughter.
'Cheer up, Fran, you've WON!'
Philip Larkin 'won'. Through his poetry he became sufficiently
recognised in his own lifetime to appear in Who's Who, but he worked as
a librarian since his other 'work' was insufficiently remunerated. His
poetry will long outlive his librarianship yet, monetarily speaking, it
was of minimal value to him. I do not know whether Larkin was a bitter
man, but he was an ironic man: 'They fuck you up on Family Fortunes/
They mean to and they do.' Though I'm not suggesting a conspiracy
theory in all this. A conspiracy is far too likely an answer: it is
much further fetched that we could have ended up with this distorted
value structure by accident.
Consider the Spice Girls/Hear'Say/SugarBabes/etc.
They are famous, popular and rich. But how many people will still be
listening to them in ten years' time? Joy Division and The Velvet
Underground were little known in their times yet are now considered two
of the most influential bands in rock history. Instant popularity
brings instant reward but greatness must withstand the test of
time.
The art world, with its longer history, is worth a look. Examine the
lists of fashionable artists in their own times and you will not
recognise any of them. It is those that obsessively plow their own
furrows and refuse to pander to contemporary tastes who push their
field forward and whose memory lingers. Damien Hirst may be forgotten
in a hundred years' time. The truly great artist of our time may not be
known to any of us.
The passing of time can enhance AND diminish value. Which brings me
back to, well, me. Like the good anthropologist, I try to look at my
society with the eyes of an alien. I believe that an alien may well
consider this to be the writer's role. But when I write that I am
unemployed, do I do so as a writer or as an unemployed man? Does this
writing only gain value retrospectively if it is published and I am
paid for it?
Kurt Vonnegut Jnr, in the guise of Kilgore Trout, provided an answer.
He imagined a world in which there is an annual lottery. Every
inhabitant of the planet paints a picture which is then allotted a
number. One number is chosen at random by a special Number Choosing
Machine and the winning painting is given a value equivalent to twenty
billion dollars and a room of its own in the planet's gallery. All
other paintings are destroyed. When the exhibition opens, people queue
for miles to see a painting worth twenty billion dollars and there is
the strictest security to prevent its theft.
This deserves thinking about.
It is an absurd answer and a true one: value has many layers. But I
have veered from my story to the nature of writing and from there to
the nature of value. It is time for me to get back to more important
matters such as shiny metal casings and big nobs. Unfailingly polite at
social occasions, I smile serenely: 'I'm between jobs at the moment,' I
intone. And indeed I am.