On Idle Chatter
In writing my posts I realised there is at least objectively one thing I always strive to free myself from: Idle chatter, or idle talk. chit chat, banter, gossip, tittle-tattle, small talk etc. Actually, that last one is extremely apt. The talk of the small. I’d extend that to the talk of the most utterly boring, vapid, narcissistic, Z-Virus ridden shit-munchers.
The idle chatter I talk of is indeed inclusive of the most basic chit-chat, that of the weather, or ‘how one is doing?’ etc., those care-free seconds when faced with a retail employee both parties believe has to be filled. What a dreadful world to have to live in, where each and every mutual silence others feel compelled to fill.
“Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness.”
– Samuel Beckett
It should be obvious to the reader as to why talking, as an act, is of such importance. The local and often global act of verbally spreading a message. This is often incredible when the message in itself is sincere, well-formulated, based off previous principles and is formed next to integrity, yet within the realms of idle chatter this is not so. For those 2 old ladies chatting in the queue who merely repeat information they’ve happened to hear to one another is…nothing, for the kids at school to repeat a news story and also repeat the ‘opinion’ is in itself a travesty. This simple act of unloading the ‘weight’ of information from one to another is something entirely lacking in structure. Free-floating tit-bits of information and knowledge dragged screaming from context or source, are remove from their rooted structure and thrown around aimlessly, often to simply fill a void of awkwardness; when one talks idly the possibility for conviction is taken out back and shot.
Not only this, but the lame project of idle chatter inherently decimates active thinking, opinion and thought. One can understand the picture of Corbyn, Trump or North Korea given to them in full, however detailed or vague that picture is, yet if they don’t actively mould that picture with their own tools, they are useless. Make it your own – however marginally – or shut the fuck up.
Anything can be dragged in, anything can be shat out. And none of it matters. No idle chatter matters, or will ever matter. For it was all born from the numbing spew of an idle brain and unrestrained mouth; if no thought or structure has gone into what’s being said, if what is currently audible has not been acted upon within the mind, then, in short, it’s human-static. The static of human life, the point in which all our advances: biological and technological, leave us momentarily as we become fearful of silence. Within a world in which all moves exponentially towards some undefinable ‘event’, moments of silence almost feel illegal. And so those who live in fear of social etiquette, awkwardness and the uncomfortable become slaves to their short term memory, and kick their idle motor into over-drive:
God forbid,
I live in silence
for just a second.
“Hey Gary, did yo u he re ab out Sarah?
God forbid,
That nothingness lasts
for just a breath.
“Gary h e s ting Steven.”
God forbid,
The original to come forth
and the existential to lay its root.
“An y way man I’ll let you g t on.”
God forbid,
I live without approval,
or without ease of the day.
“Oh my. I ‘ s raining. Again.”
God forbid,
I examine or intrigue.
“What a miserable day.”
God forbid,
That I think.
The internet has become useful in eradicating idle chatter. The idea of saying ‘hey’, ‘hello’ or ‘how are you?’ before tweeting or commenting is absurd. That’s not to say there’s anything wrong with asking ‘how are you?’ only that, if one is going to ask such a question they should have an actual interest in the answer. Which leads me to my main problem with idle chatter: The answers don’t matter. What is asked, said and repeated never matters, these people are just filling a void because they are uninteresting and haven’t a unique thought in their bodies.
2 overweight zombies in the retail queue feel compelled to open their top holes, for silence has come. What falls out is tit ‘n tat, ‘n lil’ bits of shitty gas, this odd hot air that I must back away from. Certain words break through the desensitized-mesh: Weather, doctors, you, me, I, want, need, have. Before long each word fragments into the next and my hearing draws deeper into my head, my vision locks onto the nearest point of interest and I’m taken into a place of deadened static. The sounds of the zombies is a low buzz, my blood no longer works.
I look into the street and a thin man with tar for skin looks at me, smiling. His teeth are made from keys. He’s cleared the street. Before him, knelt, are integrity, wonder, intrigue, examination and awe. He says: “Don’t worry bucko, I’ll slaughter the other synonyms later.” And with that they all die. Quietly, slowly, a most unusual death, one in which the judged appear to be alive, yet aren’t, their skin goes grey, and they can no longer talk, as if their minds are witness to their own death repeatedly.
In fact, this can be the 6th addition to my ‘structure list’ from No Driver:
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1. Leave irony and cynicism at the door.
2. Allow for maximum human enquiry.
3. Exit as first priority.
4. Rhizomatic conservatism.
5. Don’t be pathetic.
6. No Idle Chatter
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