We’ve been climbing for some time, winding out of the valley by the old, well-trodden tracks, always searching out the right answer to the question: which is the easiest way? All the other normally pressing questions such as, what is the nature of matter? or, is there such a thing as purpose? are left gratefully behind, scattered amongst the scrub and boulder littered terrain. We know we have to climb but let us be granted the wisdom to discern that track that requires least effort. Steady, no wasted effort, no downhill lurch before a steep climb to make up for lost height. By the end of the day we must be a thousand metres above the plateau that we’ve been traversing for several days.
Immanuel is complaining and Butler is shouting at him, the usual demand that he ‘get over it’. Her voice strident and determined; a carrier of authority – it shuts him up at least for a while. Do I care? Not really. I only care about stopping and sooner rather than later. Horse riding is not for me – I’m convinced of this by the exquisite torture of the coarse sandpaper of the saddle that is flaying my flesh – it must look perfectly tenderised and ready for grilling. No doubt I’m sitting in a puddle of blood and pus and it’s just possible that this day will never end.
There is the question of who is in charge of this little party. There must be secret discussions going on but I never catch them at it. On the other hand, I seem to believe that none of us know where we are going or why we are doing this and I have no memory of signing up for it. It may be that the internal contradictions of the market economy are to blame; forever impoverishing us at the same time demanding that we buy, buy . . . and, yes, it’s true we like it – it has all the form of a purposeful life but none of the satisfaction. Is that true? Can an addiction be satisfied? Presumably alcohol satisfies an alcoholic or should it only be written, “satisfies”? Meaning we don’t really believe it. By pathologising a particular behaviour we change our view of it. Is consumerism an addiction and hence pathological? It might be. But once we identify some phenomenon we are in danger of seeing it everywhere, which, of course, renders it meaningless.
How the argument rages around me. Sometimes I try to ignore it and simply pay attention to the wind and whatever part of my anatomy that is causing the most (or the least) pain.
I realise I’m not going to finish this before we get to the end of the day’s work. There have been so many distractions that I am in danger of losing the plot completely.
Refocus on the pain.