It’s the last week of January and Maciej (pronounced: ma-jee) stands as usual outside my kitchen window while his cigarette cremates itself. The ensuing amicable conversation through the partially ajar window necessitated by communal living and sincere interest proposed a trip to share in the Chinese New Year festivities in E1.
Our first stop was a firecracker show in Leicester Square that we hoped would delight us. The festive sea of attendants constantly reminded me of the advantage that height brings – the remarkable responsibility of which only lanky giants and small children on parent’s shoulders really understand. After the performance began, we were thankful not to be down wind as the thick smoke poured endlessly from a show that turned out to be less than visually impressive: A firecracker show is not a fireworks show. The display was composed of thousands of little pops and cracks that summed to a deafening and ear-ringing volume.
It occurred to me that this accumulative effect is analogous with the power of the Chinese economy.
The visual sumptuousness was left for the traditional Chinese dancing at Trafalgar Square, which was our second stop. Large crowds faced the temporary stage that was backed by the low afternoon sun that both cast long shadows and unfortunately shone harshly in our eyes. The music was cinematic and loud.
Most exciting, however, was being stuck for twenty minutes in a crowd in China Town while watching dancing lions. Small glimpses of gold fur were all you could hope for without arriving the previous day…unless you were lucky, however. Just as the crowd began to move, the bouncers cleared the way for the coming attraction! The pounding drum and the clanging symbols became louder and indeed I was one of the lucky jostled into the front row. Two parading Chinese beasts danced and laughed to the music, a feather’s width away from my nose. I remember seeing the delight in a little girl’s eyes as her father suggested she reach out and touch them as they passed.
All this splendour dazzled my senses and in the back of my mind was the thought of some recent controversial actions taken by the Chinese Government in censoring information we take for granted in the West. The Chinese government keeps a tight rein on the Internet and what users can access. Google China offers censored search results in line with what the government says is OK. Furthermore, the recent film “Brokeback Mountain” has been banned in China.
The debate surrounding free speech is not the topic of this text. (Enough of the debate has been recently catalogued in the international press anyway). The point is that to the authoring groups involved, there exists some justification (culturally or historically created) that exonerates any negative self-judgement and accepts whatever actions as necessary and at best good. The homosexual content of a Hollywood film is not appropriate in one view and deserved of an Oscar in the other. It is better to offer some Internet searching functionality than none at all, etc.
However, in a world where such a pluralist system of truth exists, where Sophists and relativism reign supreme, and your truth is as equally valid as mine within a particular context, can we really believe that any fundamental truth remains?
A construction site slash gravel pit lies across the street from my flat window. The blue and green wall surrounding the enclosure has begun to show signs of wear and tear. Aside from its precarious leaning at some points along the circumference, the wall’s display of graffiti is the best example of this: “Why you try’na get crazy with the scene? Don’t you know I’m loco?” an urban rebel with poor calligraphy sees fit to ask the many passers by in white capitals. At least his spelling indicates some level of intelligence aside from his admitted insanity: The sign next yells “mmmMind your bussness!!! Baby!” in distinctive enough penmanship to be indicative of different authors.
Anyways, the door to the enclosure stands as if drunk. Having been kicked in, it allows a small passage into the heaps of rubble within. A young man with frizzy hair and an old sports jacket investigates the gated truck entrance next to the partially open door. He carries a shopping bag. After some loitering at different angles, he looks over his shoulder and decides it’s worth the effort: he crouches and enters. The piles of rubble and my limited perspective quickly hide the youth in his newly and easily acquired domain.
I continue my writing only mildly interested in his endeavour. After a few minutes, he now stands outside the beaten door with two shopping bags and a large yellow extension cord. He continues on his way.
What mentality justifies or allows for such actions that would otherwise be considered theft? Perhaps desperation is a suitable answer, but this man looked far from homeless. Perhaps he is a modern day Robin Hood? Were his actions intended to benefit the underclass while simultaneously punishing the evil corporate gravel pit executives, then perhaps we could feel OK about his actions. Or perhaps he was merely reclaiming objects that were his. That would be OK, too.
Despite the fact that I doubt any of these to be the case, taken as a single event, his actions are not major. One power cord really isn’t a big deal. But the city is a display that is composed of thousands of these little events that pop and crack and when combined together, sum to a deafening and ear-ringing volume. It seems more and more that no one cleans up the mess and we are all down wind.
And who am I to tell someone not to steal or not to litter? The only people who tell you to follow the rules are the people who make the rules. Right? Don’t you have to break convention in order to achieve anything of worth? Genius never plays by the rules. Right? The end justifies the means. Right?
Presented with the confusion that is characteristic of relativism and the post-modern condition of plurality, suddenly a voice cries from within that something is amiss with this twisted logic…but what is it?
Tags: London