Daring To Look, Daring To Leap - Part 1

Awareness in a sea of nothing

Photo by Zoltan Tasi on Unsplash

Welcome to the The Crow’s first post of 2025 - a warm dip into friendship, identity and all the possibilities that come with daring to pay attention.

Here’s the link to PART 2

1.

“I dig a hole, dig, dig, dig, I build a coffin, bang, bang, bang, I get in it, I hammer down the lid, and then into the hole I go, over and over, day after day, year after year,” he laughed and laughed, “That’s what it feels like.”

We were perched on bar stools, leaning our elbows on a counter laden with pastries and beer bottles. Crowded into this small cafe were the city’s writers and artists and actors, a few half-well known, most not, all in deep conversation about some dubious project, or lustily gossiping, or lamenting their financial precarity, or languidly flirting as was the style in these circles, or merely passing the time listening or telling stories.

It was 6 o’clock and the cafe was already heaving. Outside heavy snowfall covered the pavement with fresh layers, so it looked as if everyone had flown through the door like angels. Whenever people came or left a blast of winter air broke into the warmth until various hands performed silent shutting gestures, aimed at no one in particular, until the door was closed again.

He ordered two more bottles which we clinked in mock celebration of ourselves and our gently embarrassed joy at being alive right here, right now. Here’s to playing the game of life, clink clink.

He had chosen this place. “You’ll love it,” he’d said, “it’s where all your sort of people hang out.” Naturally I was unsettled by this presumption, slightly uncomfortable that I existed in his head as a person who would love this “arty” hangout. We had only known each other a short time. Newly minted friends, a little smitten with the other, enjoying how we felt in each other’s company, wondering who we are and who we might yet be, even at this age, bewitched by a blossoming excitement that echoed from years gone by.

As it turned out, he was right, I did love this little cafe, or, maybe I just loved how I felt in the place.

“So, what are you going to do?” I asked.

“What am I going to do?” he repeated, “No more holes, no more coffins, no more burying myself in all this,” he did a spiralling gesture that seemed to take in everything that ever was, “From now on I’m just going to do what I need to do.”

In the sanctity of this indulgent oasis, crammed full of people working to describe the world, or better still, to change it, or to just play for the sake of playing, or to provoke others from their slumber through art, in this permissive oasis, where society itself was perpetually scrutinised, where anything taken for granted was challenged and questioned and mocked, here, where imaginations were untethered and eccentricity celebrated, here in this small sanctuary where the rest of the planet’s slow collapse seemed like a dream, the idea of doing what I need to do was both intoxicating and terrifying.

Our daughters had been friends for years. My youngest had said many times, You should meet Ronja’s parents, you’ll love them, and many times I let that wash right over me, lazily uninterested in meeting anyone. I knew enough people, and besides, the odds weren’t good, I meet people all the time, very few did I ever want to meet again. They’ve written books and work in TV or something, she’d said, which nearly guaranteed them to be pretentious and self-important and irritating. So nothing ever happened and years passed until my daughter invited them over to our house herself for dinner. And she too had been right, I loved them instantly.

They had that rare knack of actually paying attention, of listening without merely feigning interest, of being genuinely curious without wanting to platform themselves. They were quick to smile and self-effacing in the important ways. As the conversation flowed new topics blossomed and old ones were reborn, sourcing a rolling river of words and thoughts. They were quick to open up and show their vulnerability. I could see my wife was enchanted and I was too. The evening flew by and promises were made to meet again and then, later in bed we talked about them for a long time, like smitten teenagers.

2.

The conversation pulsating around the cafe seemed to lower in pitch as the evening matured. The snow-muffled street muted the city leaving space for the human voice. People leant in closer, their eyes lingered, arms around shoulders, hands ruffling through hair.

“So you’re giving up your job and tour schools and libraries to talk about pirates?” I said,

“Exactly” he says, rocking his bottle back and forth on the counter, “I’ve been doing this for a long time, this TV thing, and what we produce is shit, everything about it is shit, now-a-days it’s almost only implicit propaganda or explicit titillation, so I end up building myself a coffin every day…”

“… And throwing yourself into a grave…”

“…And throwing myself into a grave…”

“…Day after day…”

“…Year after year,” he says laughing, “And I won’t do it any more, there’s more to life than making shit and buying shit and then dying.”

Of course he was right. But not everyone cared to face this truth. Over the years I’ve often found myself performing a kind of therapist role in friendships, listening, supporting, advising. It’s an easy role to fall into, most people just want to talk about themselves, or worse still, talk about the person they imagine themselves to be. I’ve always had x-ray vision, able to see what someone has hidden, able to smile and nod at their concealed ghosts. Everyone is dressed in the emperor’s new clothes to some degree. But not everyone will admit it, only the brave or the forlorn, or those who’ll readily forget everything the next day and continue blithely parading about in their ill-fitting identity. Almost nobody ever faces the truth that most of what they think they are is merely a complex fiction behind which lies only the terrifying vertigo of awareness in a sea of nothing.

But he was different, this fellow swigging beer beside me, he had something enigmatic and daring, he was willing to stand on the edge and peer into the nothingness. Eager even, to feel the vertigo. And I knew this because I feel it too, that need to honour this fleeting life by trying to muster enough bravery to look, and then, to leap.

3.

Dressed as a pirate, he stood on front of the class of seven year olds and explained the concept of electing a pirate captain.

“Any one of you can become captain but there are two things to remember, and this is very important, One…” He lifted his cutlass high into the air so the whole class followed suit and screamed out ONE.

“ONE, the captain ALWAYS (ALWAYS the children shouted at the top of their lungs) does everything for the benefit of the whole crew, and NEVER (NEVER they screamed) to enrich themselves, and TWO…”

The whole class bawled out TWO full blast.

“TWO, a pirate ship is a DEMOCRACY (thirty small voices echoed DEMOCRACY), not like the horrible society we pirates have left behind us! We are social bandits!”

SOCIAL BANDITS screamed the class throwing their small fists into the air, their eyes glued on the man waving his cardboard cutlass in the air.

“If the captain tries any funny business, you can choose another captain, anytime you want.”

The teacher edged closer toward the door.

“Let the voting begin!”

The children huddled together in bands like teams before a match, solemnly discussing amongst themselves until four candidates were chosen to stand as nominees. Two boys and two girls stood beside the lofty pirate and the secret ballot commenced. After a few minutes Grace O’Mally was duly elected as Captain Grace.

“Hold on a minute,” the teacher said, unable to resist interfering in the seemingly increasing chaos, “Mr Bowen is here to run the class and I think he should be captain.”

Mr Bowen smiled graciously and addressing the class, said, “Oh no, the crew have spoken and Captain Grace is duly elected. What are you suggesting? That we go against the will of the crew? That we privilege some lives over others? That we impose a class structure on these children?

The teacher stared at Mr Bowen in astonishment as the children cheered and began waving their imaginary cutlasses in her direction.

Here’s the link to PART 2