My Important Thoughts

If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.

Are you happy?

I don’t know about you, but I tend not to ask myself that. Sometimes I might notice happiness consciously, but there have been other times I haven’t, and only seen it in retrospect.

For the past couple of weeks though, I’ve been asked that question every day. I don’t know when it’s going to be asked, but suddenly, three times a day, ding ding! - are you happy?

It’s a trifle odd.¹

And the thing about it is that even when I’m not being asked the question, I think about it. Not all the time, by any means, but sometimes. The question will just pop into my head.²

So, this afternoon, I had to run a couple of errands. I’d spent the past few days hiding from the world and the rain, reading, writing, failing to complete Grand Theft Auto IV because of that goddamn RPG launcher, getting my head straight. It was good to get out of the house for a while, especially as the sun was shining, it was warm, and I didn’t have to work.

But I didn’t have many errands, and I was home fairly early. And so, impromptu picnic. On my way there, walking along the river, ding ding! and I had to decide how happy I was.

Thing is, I was pretty happy. Which is weird, because there was a lot going on which would normally bring me down. On the trivial side, I was thinking of having to go back to work tomorrow, of the poor fit of my right shoe rubbing at my foot, of the threatening cloud drifting into view, of the midges clustering around the water’s edge.

In the background, the same concerns and worries that have been growing in intensity the past few months were still there, jostling for attention.

More importantly, I was also thinking of Ben.

Ben is, was, a slight friend of mine. I didn’t know him nearly well enough, but I’d chatted with him a few times at university, and kept in touch every now and then through irc. (Yes, I am old.)

Eighteen months ago, Ben died.

Ben was two or three years younger than me. He was someone that, in some ways, embodied many of the traits I find most annoying in a person, and I should have ended up disliking him. But I couldn’t - he was warm, generous, friendly, and funny. He lived in London, with many good friends all around him.

And then he got liver cancer, fought it for 8 months, and died.

So, really, thinking of that, I should have been kind of sad.

There’s something about the first of your friends, of your peers, of someone your age, dying. I can’t say Ben was a great friend, that he left an indelible hole in my life. But he was a friend, and he was younger than me, and he died far too young. He was someone that, in some imperfect way, I could see myself in, because we were of the same time. And that affects you, more than you’d think, or at least, more than I thought.

I walked along the river bank, making my way to my preferred spot, thinking about this, about how I was sad Ben wasn’t around, that I hadn’t known him better, but I was still happy today, I was still glad to be here myself.

And so I sat in the sun, and I ate my picnic, and I said hi to a new friend, and I tried to figure out what had led me to this point.

Of course, in general, I got distracted, by a damsel fly that landed on my knee, the dogs playing fetch with their owners, the play of sunlight and shadow across the fields in front of me, and, much more effectively, by the pretty women jogging by.

Eventually, the sun got lower in the sky, the breeze became cool, and I admitted I wasn’t going to make any progress on the book I brought with me. I ambled off home, still asking myself if I was happy, and why.

As I walked along the river’s edge again, I paid more attention, and noticed that the blackberries were starting to ripen. It was the last day of August, and summer was leaving her parting gift, to soften the blow. Some of the blackberries were just ripe enough, some a little too tart, but I picked them, and happily felt them burst juicily on my tongue, while trying to forget how appallingly unhygienic this was.

I suppose by now, you’re thinking that this is some long allegory for the circle of life, that I’d come to terms with the loss of someone as young as Ben by fitting it into the model of nature, that things must die so other must live, that everything has a season and a time allotted to it.

That, of course, is bollocks.

The great thing about being a sentient, intelligent, occasionally rational, tool-using animal is that we can use those gifts to get as far away from nature as possible. Pretty much nothing about our lifestyle is natural - and I’m not talking about electric lights and toilet seat covers and tarmac. Have you ever thought about how unnatural agriculture is? It’s utterly man-made, humanity imposing its collective will on the earth.

Damn right I’m ok with that.

The terrible thing about being a sentient, intelligent, occasionally rational, tool-using animal is that we quickly work out that no matter what our gifts, we can’t stop ourselves dying. We can postpone it as long as we can, we can put if off as much as possible, but eventually, something goes. And I don’t care about any platitudes about the circle of life, about some greater plan, about the natural order. Every single one of those deaths is appalling and, on some fundamental level, horribly, horribly wrong.

Damn right I’m not ok with that.

But, of course, there’s nothing to be done about it. I can spend my time fretting, raging, despairing, or I can just shrug my shoulders. It happens. It always will happen.

So, I guess I was happy despite thinking of Ben, because I’d come to accept his death, and, let’s face it, my own mortality (because that’s why the first death of a peer stings so much) not by fitting it into a pattern of nature, not by fitting it into a belief in an afterlife, not by fitting it into religion, but by realising it didn’t matter what I chose to do. It is what it is. Nothing I do is going to change it.

That doesn’t stop it being dreadful, it doesn’t stop it being so clearly and viciously wrong that every consciousness that has ever existed to experience the universe has died, or will die. It doesn’t mean you shouldn’t mourn that tear in reality when it happens.

But, for me, at least, it does mean there’s no point spending my life angry at or fearful of death. Death doesn’t care. Worrying, and sorrow, and despair, none of them will help you avoid it, or bring people back. And, besides, ding ding! - are you happy?

Take the joy where you can, remember the good, celebrate those who have gone, mourn your loved ones, and accept that reality is broken. There’s nothing to do about it, so enjoy it while you can.

So I stopped halfway across the bridge, fed the ducks the last of the bread, and went home.

1. Mappiness is a research project by the London School of Economics, about tracking happiness across the UK in time and space. It’s kind of interesting, and if you’re in the UK, and have an iPhone, you should check it out.

2. Aside: Actually, it’s a bit like when I tried to see what lucid dreaming was like. The trick is to remember to ask yourself, at random points throughout the day, ‘Is this a dream?’. Of course, the answer is usually no. But once or twice, you’ll realise the answer is yes.³ You’ve trained yourself to keep continually checking. Worked for me, though generally once I realised I was asleep, I promptly woke up.⁴

3. If I’ve just described Inception, sorry, I haven’t seen it.

4. Yes, I was an odd child.