Rhetorical questions round a rectangular dining table
Volume 1: Why does uncertainty kill? Why don’t I answer the telephone? And why are there more questions than answers?
Volume 1: Why does uncertainty kill? Why don’t I answer the telephone? And why are there more questions than answers?
I’m a questions guy.
I was born in 1972, the same year Johnny Nash sang about there being “more questions than answers” and that particular throwaway theme has been a constant existential partner all these years later, and particularly so since the turn of the Millennium. There are always more questions than answers, or at least so in my world, and a world in which I love to pose questions, and mainly existential ones. Alas we are all merely falling binary in a coded, digitised world, merely electrical signals of off and on, ones and zeroes, in a cozied and perfect world of two views to meet our two signals and when they align! Wow! The heavens part and the sun shines and you are indeed being shone upon as the righteous. The answer has been provided to you, in your devotion perhaps, in your echo chamber even, but certainly via those firing signals in your eyes and your ears. Who needs more questions when you have the answer?.
But surely there are more questions than answers? Otherwise, what’s the point?
And there Ladies and Gentlemen of the viewing Matrix, there is my first rhetorical question of this piece of writing that I haven’t actually written yet. It’ll be written by the time you read this, obviously, but when will that be? Just after publication? Two years from now? Five? And where will you be reading this? Will you tell someone else about this and the questions I’m posing? And why not? Questions are everywhere, even rhetorical ones, and even those that I’ll probably never receive an answer to. Who reads my writings? Really? Do you pick and choose between the existential stuff, sporting reports and film reviews? What’s your favourite topic of mine? Where do I excel? Do I excel? Is there a topic upon which you’d like to read my ramblings and perspectives as seen through the twisted, tangential logic of my crumbling mind?
Questions are everywhere. Answers? Less so.
So the running tally of rhetorical questions posed is well into double figures already but let’s not concern ourselves with such fripperies. Agreed? I was in fact going to call this particular blog “Dear Diary” but that smacked me of pretension and as I was once called a “Pretentious Arse” (and a compliment I still hold in a high regard), I thought I’d go for the play on words in the title instead and I’m aiming high with the “Volume 1” stuff too if I’m honest. Which I am. But why should you care if I’m honest or not? I could litter this ramble with all sorts of “hot topic” items to get you to like/applaud this article, but that would raise far too many questions and we already have enough of those to be going on with as I’m sure you will agree. Which is an implied question, not a rhetorical one.
See.
There are questions everywhere.
I could, for example, tell you THE tallest of tall tales that surround, envelope and are seeped into the very pores of this water damaged dining table at which I always sit when penning my articles. It’s 20 years old, water damaged for 5 and a regular hardwood dining table. But the tales this table could tell (if tables developed the ability of human speech) would blow your socks off, and not just because an inanimate object was talking to you. But that leads to more questions than answers once again, and questions that my Solicitor is incredibly keen for me to give a straight “No Comment” to. So instead I use my time here at my ad hoc writing table (cup of tea and hot radiator to my right, phone straight ahead and my head swimming in a thousand dreamlike thoughts) posing questions, forming riddles, and more often than I care to admit, ignoring a telephone that barely rings.
I’ve been on a downward spiral of sorts since before Christmas and in true “Dear Diary” fashion, today is 29th December 2021, 4.15pm here in the UK and the gloaming light of darkness is beginning to descend. Much like my own inner (and outer) darkness and another of the reasons for the writing of this blog in the first place and indeed this particular article. To give me a sliver of control and certainty in a calamitous and uncertain world. A world I don’t recognise and not just because I’m forever being hounded by that damn black dog of mine. Uncertainty kills. Or as an old employer of mine once stated “Change Happens”. I hated that odious phrase and I hate the uncertainty. I could pose endless rhetorical questions and get this virtual Q&A session back on track: What am I actually equipped to do as a job anymore? Why can’t I be a writer as this is when I’m the most supremely happy? Why do I still struggle with my son’s autism even though I’ve had 18 years of practice? Why do I traverse the extremities of happiness and depression in roughly 3 seconds? All the time? Why can’t I be the reincarnation of Hunter S Thompson? Why do I inflict my own demons sometimes? Why did I miss that telephone call two days ago even though I was prepared for it?
And why can’t a dining room table talk?
As I’m sure you’ll agree again, there are far more questions than answers and some of these questions may also be vaguely true. But I didn’t answer that telephone call and like Leonard Shelby in Christopher Nolan’s seminal film Memento in 2000, I never answer the phone, and so I end up twisting my own narrative and creating yet more questions than answers. Missing that call is no big deal, in the scheme of things. Really. But it is when you’ve created it, and now obsess over, and doubt yourself, and wish you’d got the telephone call over and done with, and instead now you’re sitting there, thinking about it, creating an unwanted narrative, overthinking the ramifications of missing the call, even though you were prepared, ready, and just missed it. It’s exhausting, I can tell you. As is chasing the tail of that black dog, and wondering why I’m so distant from my son despite seeing him every other day, and why is autism such a spirit crushing fucker? Questions and not enough answers. Or maybe just more questions than answers. Exhausting nonetheless. But I’m ok. I’m just emotional even though I have nothing to be emotional about. Not really. Or maybe I do? Unless Joe Pantoliano starts following me around and calling me “Teddy” or Carrie-Anne Moss comes into my life with vaguely threatening motives, I think I’ll be ok.
Memories are great aren’t they? I’ve always described them to my son as your own personal time machine: as soon as the memory is stirred, you are instantly transported back to that time. Here, in present time, you’re thinking or remembering a memory from a past time. But you’re “inside” that past memory in a present time, and the only time that can ever actually exist. Past is gone. Present is to come. The “now” is all we have. For personal reasons I’m preoccupied (and far more than my obsessive norms) on memories at the moment, and if you’ve seen the above named film Memento you’ll catch the obvious connection. Memories should provide more answers than questions and perhaps they do. I’d rather they shape a conversation whereby they provide more questions, but that’s just me.
Here’s a question for you: If you could delete old memories you no longer wanted or needed and perhaps even restore those memories from a vault of some kind, would you do it? An Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind if you will. Inhabit Jim Carrey’s mournful mind and desperation for his Clementine? If you take seriously the thoughts and predictions of futurists and simulation theory advocates we’re already there/10 years away, and who doesn’t want to reimagine their memories of their particular Clementine? Just sit back sir, and relax! The Metaverse will take you to those memories that mother nature has cruelly deprived you of. We’re here to help! Just swipe your Credit Card and don’t worry! Soon you won’t even remember this transaction any more. Now, can I have the long number across the middle of your Credit Card please and don’t worry! You’ll be feeling sleepy any time now.
A wise old sage, codenamed “Angel on my Shoulders” said to me recently that reading my blogs was akin to a Q&A session as I pose so many questions and mainly to myself. Again, another wise compliment I take to my heart as it’s reflective of me, the human being. I have questions. I have answers too, but sadly not of the “right” or “correct” variety. And that perturbs me and pleases me in equally Masochistic ways. Why didn’t I answer that damn phone call? And why have I allowed it to peak my anxiety index? Why am I still thinking about it even though I have zero control?
I was loosely going to use this article as a satirical way of posing so many questions. Why are England cricket so catastrophically terrible? Perhaps a musing on why we collectively accept the public lies from public liars and yet hang on their every lying word? Why are some Liverpool fans like children who’ve chewed their bubble gum and don’t appreciate it’s longer lasting taste? Change happens apparently. Just ask their friends across a Liverpudlian park, or along the East Lancashire Road or their friends who used to play at a library called “Highbury”. How does their chewing gum taste at the moment? That’s the question they should be asking, rather than having their inane and ridiculous answers of “conceding the Title” and sacking the board and replacing them with yet more Uber Billionaires with 27 yachts moored safely in Monaco. I’d ask you how a fan or supporter “concedes the Title” but that is perhaps a laughingly ridiculous rhetorical question even for me. My dear old Mum would’ve called me this morning and told me how rubbish my football team was and said they were “losing their touch” and other such nonsense. “I said it wouldn’t last, didn’t I?” she’d state, and with more than her tongue in her cheek!
That’s a telephone call I’d never miss.
Despite my loose idea for this first article it’s veered wildly away from my preconceived notions of where it might lead, and that pleases me greatly as I write these pieces in real time and against the strong advice of my Editor. If I told you why this veering away from my original idea pleases me (and annoys my Editor), it would raise even further questions than answers and I think we’ve established that we have enough of those, thank you all the same. We need an answer but as Johnny Nash sang in response to his own exclamation that there are more questions than answers he also tellingly stated that “the more I find out, the less I know” and may his God bless him for this wonderful song that if you are so inclined, it’s a good one to bob around a kitchen/dining table to.
Does wonders for the soul.
I just have questions sadly. Why is that black dog howling and why am I listening to it? Why won’t this damn, unwanted telephone ring and my Mum’s croaky and distinctive voice be at the other end? Why do other people, strangers, feel the need to call me instead? Why do I miss my son even though I see him more and more these days? Did his autism apple fall from my tree and why is this guilt destroying me? Why does mother nature randomly destroy memories in those closest to us?
And why can’t this dining room table talk?
You’ll get questions from me, not answers. I’m a questions guy. A guy who dances around his kitchen listening to an old Reggae tune from the year he was born, then stares, tea mug in hand, into the wistful distance and wonders why the answers that flood his mind are never quite for anyone, let alone for everyone. A guy who desperately wants to do exactly what he’s doing right in this ever present “now”, writing, creating, thinking, and not thinking of what job he’s ill equipped for, or the lack thereof, or the fact he’s curmudgeonly and terminally unemployable. He supports teams, he’s not a part of one. And he has no wishes to join a team that would have him as a member.
What am I realistically going to do for a living? Can someone take that black dog for a walk please? Shall we play 3 or 5 games of Scrabble, and what’s the forfeit for the loser? Do you have a time machine, and do you use it wisely? Why is there uncertainty everywhere, and who’s causing it? Why is there only one “right” answer these days and why can’t we question anything anymore?
I’m a questions guy, you see.
