Noanswers's blog

The Arbiter

The arbiter is our figurehead -- an aesthete with childish values, at once rational yet impetuous, easily provoked yet dependable. He has a quick wit dedicated mostly to word-play, coupled with a keen sense of the absurd, which possibly he sees as an ideal. He is cheerful, insincere, sincere and at the superficial level a deep thinker in despite of himself; he likes everyone, while secretly judging them and no less secretly judging himself for judging them; the standards by which he judges vary, but his private scepticism about the world and about himself remain unchanged. In the business of truth, he favours mercy above truth, yet in the considerations he excludes can be actually and inadvertently and therefore repeatedly cruel.

We like him because he never really stands in any particular person's way; we like him because he is comfortable shouldering the small yet inconvenient responsibilities those around him would prefer to be without. It should be added though that he remains as reluctant as we are to take on the mantle of any grave responsibilities, and maybe this also draws us closer. We look to him for guidance, and it is as if it is our search itself that creates in him the image of its resolution; when we put our problems to him, he represents them in such a way that their solutions are obvious.

Elsewhere, people try to sack him; people try to relocate him; people try to promote him. He refuses, without ever ceasing to smile, to become anything other than what he already is, and in such a way that no one is ever offended. Clearly he is not without ambition, for he has risen to the position he now holds. Yet he also seems without destiny, as though he occupied finally some still point between all-powerful forces, and not entirely by his own volition, either.

These days when you feel neither desire nor nostalgia for either the things you have done or the things you have not done -- and stated this way to make explicit the ambiguity inherent in what ultimately amounts to a sense of peace.

I once arranged a festival of Polish music; I was too enamoured of Moniuszko and his contemporaries; I copied out scores by hand because I was not permitted to photocopy them. The singer -- who I located through the Polish institute -- brought her own pianist, and almost no one else attended. Next morning I took her to Merton gardens, which met with her approval.

That time when the sun is too low, when the sky is too blue, when everyone seems like a person rather than merely an obstacle placed just now in this particular street for your express discomfort; when you deliberately try to catch the eye of everyone who passes you, whatever they might think, because every response -- even annoyance -- reveals something that is worth fighting for, something that is worth living for, something you want and maybe even have, and you only remember it now.

These days when days are equal, and this equality is a measure of success - for everything. It is spring-summer in the world, and there is no particular place that one must go. Each day in its innocence protests: "Why not? Or if not me, then the days that follow? And you know already that these days are my children, nurtured by my love, blessed, and accountable to me alone."

On warm, tranquil spring evenings like this, when all of us walk home too slowly, and everywhere seems connected with everywhere.

Lack of faith

I am struck by a signal difference between the one who has never believed and the one who -- for want of a better way to put things -- no longer believes in something.

The first is usually not only content with his position, but equally vocal about it. One might say his atheism is a form of faith, indeed a fanaticism absorbed into his identity. He calls rationality to his side, and scientific method; what he does not question is the strange persuasion that leads him thither, and indeed seems to lead all religious debate back to his own firmly held beliefs. I have yet to meet the atheist who says simply and humbly "I do not believe in God", and leaves it at that.

The one who no longer believes in something cannot be questioned in the same way; indeed, the one who no longer believes is equally unsuited to religious debate, but for different reasons. For the atheist, no proof is cogent enough. But for the ex-believer, no disproof is relevant enough. Belief is not a question of rationality, and disbelief is not, either. So to say "What is it that convinced you not to believe?" is a meaningless question. Another meaningless question: "So what do you believe in?" Because human belief is not in fact a simple set of convictions about the presence or absence of this or that, which might change from day to day or even very seldom. A belief encompasses in a single metaphysical gesture all other belief, so that not-believing is in fact simply a statement about belief; it is never truly a statement about any specific object of belief.

Cryptically I like to imagine that the atheist is the one most in need of belief, and the believer the one who could do best without it. But it is the ex-believer who deserves most because all she presupposes promises least.

The Alarm Clock

When the alarm clock goes off in the morning I sit up in bed and drink first one and then sometimes a second cup of black coffee with the slumberdown up to my shoulders and just the one hand poking out. And leaning against the headboard and drinking coffee in this way, I cannot help hearing things -- either the sudden silence of the house, or else a short piece of birdsong from further away than one might suspect.

I ignore it, I convince myself. I am far too busy these days to notice these things, and even if I'm not too busy, then I lack all emotional ability to respond to them. And even if it turns out I do retain that emotional capacity after all, what then? What can I do with them then? Am I really ready to down tools and start believing in a world of mystery and fervour, of destiny, of human endeavour, of altruism and other fine-sounding words? Am I really that sort of person, could I ever really be that sort of person -- even if I wish it for short moments like these?

The followers

After several thousand years of worship, his followers were, for want of a more complete way of putting things, severely and utterly dejected to discover that God had misappropriated almost all of the money that had been raised in his name, instead choosing to spend it on fine wines, women and fast cars.

The remainder had been frittered away on various self-published monographs, notably the autobiographical "On My Existance" (sic), which in fact showed some literary merit and was prescient in many respects. Published at an early age, it set forth God's views on women (more of them), wine (yes) and fast cars (also good). Unfortunately it was never actually completed, and even when published in fragmentary form it exerted no influence whatsoever, since no one believed God had actually written it.

St. Luke's

We initially arranged to meet at St. Luke's, but prayer was in session, so we moved to St. Mark's. St. Mark's was closed for some kind of pastoral training, so we tried St. John's, which we soon discovered lacked the modest -- some might even say basic -- facilities we required. St. Benedict's was under refurbishment, as was St. Paul's, and some kind of papal edict prevented entry to St. Christopher's. All might have been well at St. Michael's, had we not foolishly recounted the many places we had already failed to meet. Striking an awkward pose, midway between a mauve curtain and an exercise machine, the priest dismissed us with the haughty observation: "You were found wanting by so many; how then can I cross paths with those who reason best?" At any rate, all ended well. St. Rabindra's made us welcome, even if, shortly after we had set down our bags, the verger felt compelled to apologise. The fact was, he confessed, there wasn't actually -- canonically speaking -- a Saint Rabindra. We didn't care; we explained as politely as possible under the circumstances that we were only after a working toilet and a place to eat our sandwiches.