Phone calls

I talked to Stevie Jay last night, for something like the first time in six or seven years. Maybe longer. But time matters not with friends like that. I got me an O2 SIM card that’s only 2p per minute to the US. Hopefully there’ll be many more conversations in the future.

We started off for the first five minutes talking about the difficulty in communicating with people, the way things have changed over the years. I’ve thought about this lots and take it as a given – but I realised it’s something I’ve never written down in this blog. Goodness! What would I do if I died tomorrow and one of my tinpot theories hadn’t been recorded?

So here we go.

I used to talk a lot on the phone with people and I hardly ever do now. I remember those days, maybe when I was freshly back from the States and all my best friends were still there – probably still are, if I think about it – and I’d no qualms about spending my pennies and pounds in long chats with them. Like when I was living in Wakefield and we had a landline. Or even as late as 2002, chatting with Shawn from Dublin on calling cards and in immigrant internet and phone shops. But I don’t believe I’ve done it since. So what happened?

Mobiles. Mobiles is what I think happened.

People got mobiles and everything changed. Suddenly, we had to think about the cost. If you were calling a mobile – back then especially – you were always conscious of how damn expensive it was, and couldn’t dally for hours like you could on a landline. You had to get down to business. You had to think whether it was really necessary to call and probably half the time decided not to. Likewise, calling from them cost a pretty penny and you were always running out of credit or in need of a top-up and the end was ever in mind.

I remember so vividly long hours of lounging on the sofa talking with friends on the landline – but I think mobiles put an end to that.

The cost. Batteries running out. And the way they changed our relationship with talking on the phone full stop.

Let’s say I have a landline. Let’s say I’m also rich and don’t mind spending 30p a minute (or whatever it was back then) on casual chatter. And let’s say you have a mobile and I call you and…

It’s so often the first question, right?

“Where are you?”

Back in those days when I called you on your landline I knew exactly where you were, because you were where I was: on your sofa, curled up, not doing anything, with time to chat, and maybe drinking a cup of tea. If you weren’t home, or were busy, you wouldn’t answer and I’d leave a message. But when mobiles came in, all that went out the window.

I call you for a long chat and you answer on a crowded train, going through tunnels, can’t really talk. Or you’re out shopping. Or you’re at a party. Or the reception’s terrible. Even if you’re at home, chances are because of the freedom of mobiles you’re combining our discussion with other things (I know we had cordlesses, but I think the mentality has changed a lot since then). In a nutshell, you’re busy.

And what happens when I’ve experienced that for a certain period of time?

I stop calling.

Or every time I go to call, I imagine you busy and I think twice. I don’t want to disturb you. And I don’t want to be cut off in the middle of our discussion. I’d rather have no discussion at all.

And so I don’t.

So that’s mobiles, and even when we signed up to “free minute contracts” and had tons of talk time and the cost of the thing cheapened I don’t think we ever returned to the casual chatter of landlines, because of all the rest of it, and because of one other thing too: texting.

Chatting was too inconvenient and too expensive. And we could no longer face the disappointment of unsatisfying talks with someone in the middle of something better. So we invented something to get around that: something convenient and cheap that didn’t expose us to the vulnerability of actually talking to someone else.

Now, we text, and we text for every little thing. We text when it would be so much easier and more sensible to call. We have long text discussions and we even end our relationships by text. Not only no need to see the other person’s physical reaction to our words, no need even to hear the expression in their voice.

It certainly is convenient.

But, again, it’s been another nail in the coffin of actual telephonic conversation. How many times have I picked up my phone wanting to say something to someone and then shied away from it and typed a text instead? The fear of rejection, and the disappointment of dissatisfaction, and the sheer inherent laziness that steers a human being along the path of least effort has taken hold and become my dominant mental habit. Now the idea of calling someone has become almost impossible, seems something absolutely from the past.

But, oh, how I miss those days of such long chats with Shawn and Stevie and remember even how when I first got with Sophie and we were long distance lovers we would chat for literally four or more hours at a time.

But those days have gone.

Question is, what to do about it?

Chatting with Stevie last night was wonderful. We’ve shared plenty of emails over the years but it really isn’t the same. With good friends you don’t lose the connection. I’d like to talk to Shawn, too – God, we had some talks in the past – but I’ll admit I’m afraid to call him. He’s got kids now. He might be busy. And so I don’t.

Isn’t that sad?

And if that’s how I feel with good friends, how much more so is it with people I barely know?

There was a stage a few years back when I felt I detected another change in the world, and it’s a change that’s related to all this. I noticed that people I considered friends seemed to take exception to being called upon with prior notice. For example, you’re driving past your friend’s house and you think you’ll see if they’re in. They are – but the face they answer the door with says they’re far from happy to be called upon.

This isn’t just me, by the way – this is something I’ve had corroborated by others.

If they’re forthcoming they might say something like, you should have called, or, send me a text next time. It’s as though no one wants to see you any more unless you’ve made an appointment.

But what we forget is that, before mobiles and texting, these appointments were mostly unmakeable, and that we did used to knock on each other’s doors, and we did welcome people in because we were glad to see them.

So what happened? What happened to make the world change so much?

And what of a generation that has grown up in a world that reflects this way of being back to them?

I spend a lot of time around young people. I’m at university and I imagine the vast majority of the people there are in their early-twenties. And I think I see something different in their world than I saw in mine. Little things like an uncomfortableness around strangers, such as in not being able to acknowledge another in those situations where a simple “excuse me” would suffice. Not holding doors open for the people behind them. And not knowing how to engage in conversations that last longer than a few minutes.

It’s a whole generation of people that has grown up with mobiles and texting and the internet and facebook and I’m starting to think that maybe it’s created a generation quite different to mine.

Generation M, they’ve dubbed it. I must read up on that…

The point is, I see a disconnect in the way we interact with each other and I think it’s something new and I don’t think I like it. Facebook has of course taken this even further, and so now we have the weird situation where so many people spend more time online with their ‘friends’ than they do in the real world. We look at their pictures. We ‘chat’. And we think we know them. And yet we’re generally afraid to have a good long actual conversation, face-to-face or otherwise.

Or maybe that’s just me: one must always be aware of generalisation and projection. And, truth is, as anyone who has read this journal will know, I’m not exactly a people person these days. For the most part, I find human interaction disappointing and dissatisfying. Maybe other people are actually going happily about their lives lazing on couches with tea and biscuits having long phone conversations shunning facebook and texts and it’s just me who isn’t.

Or maybe there’s something in it.

Truth be told, I find the whole thing weird, even as I play my part in it. Facebook quips and one-liners. People posting hundreds of twitters a day, about the most minute and pointless little thing. Whole deep intimate important interactions all played out in probably poorly-spelled SMS messages. And the feeling that not only do you need to make an appointment to knock on someone’s door these days, but also even to call them.

Yup: that’s how it feels.

“Oh, you’re calling me? But why didn’t you text me first to let me know?”

And I’m convinced there’s something in this, and that growing up in it has shaped the young, and that it spills out into society and the actual human world and affects the ways in which we interact in a manner I’m not sure is altogether healthy.

We’ve become such private people, even as we splash the most intimate details of our lives online.

We’d almost rather spend time tapping on our computers and our cellphones than having actual conversations with others.

How telling that we leap with joy when our phone beeps for a new text, but perhaps find an actual call a bit of a drag.

Or, again, is that just me?

And, worth noting, is it purely geographic?

I live in England and, more or less, I’ve lived here the last ten years. There are a lot of things that are really good about England – it’s mostly safe, it’s fairly civilised, the people are on the whole surprisingly well-educated, there’s a lot of freedom – but there are some things that I think we’ve always paled at in comparison to other countries. And by other countries I mean those of North America, given that they are the ones I’m most familiar with.

Human interaction, in particular, is what I’m thinking about. Because, for all their flaws, I really do think that Americans excel us in this regard.

I lived in the States for something like three years. I’ve lived in Canada for a year also, and spent a year travelling in Mexico. And slowly but surely I came to realise that the people over there, if I can generalise, have an openness and a level of trust that we absolutely lack. They like to talk. They like to share things. They get excited and have a certain innocence and it’s like everything’s brand new and fun. They have a reputation for being in therapy and we stuffy Brits look down our noses at that – but that probably says more about us than them. And what it says to me is that we’re old-fashioned, that we’re afraid of our emotions and the depths of our minds, and that we have no interest in exploring or sharing our inner beings. We’d much rather drink instead. And so we do.

I don’t think English people know how to talk. They say Americans are superficial but I think perhaps English people more so. Americans, God bless ‘em, may not appear ‘as deep’ – but whatever depth they have, they reach it. The English probably go down further – we’re older; it’s natural – but rather than exploring those depths they keep it all in. They hide it in various ways – humour, alcohol – and I don’t think it does them any favours. So many of our problems, I think, stem from our awkwardness and inability to express ourselves and to interact in meaningful ways with others.

I remember being in Venice once. Walking around about midnight and seeing the youth of the city out in bars, sitting in pizza restaurants. I looked in at one window and I saw a group of young people gathered around a couple of pizzas and talking. And the way they talked was in stark contrast to what I remember of young English people on a night out. No bluster. No wisecracking. No alcohol-fuelled bravado. No posturing or barely-contained insecurity. Just discussion. A bottle of wine, slowly sipped. Listening and the give and take of true conversation. Affection and connection.

A talk that could go on for hours, rather than the quick fire change of topic that seems to typify interactions here.

It’s a rare thing to be involved in a conversation with an English person that reaches any kind of depth and that doesn’t leap off every thirty seconds into new tangents that ignore all unexplored previous points.

It is, I suppose, a manifestation of a certain kind of mind that is always leaping off onto new tangents, unable to focus on one thing and follow it through to its end.

Like the proverbial monkey, jumping from branch to branch.

Or the actual human mind, as it skips from page to page on Wikipedia, on facebook, on the internet as a whole.

Have our minds been created by our technology?

And is it the same now in America, in Italy, on the west coast of Canada, and down in dear sweet Mexico? Even at the hot springs in Baja California people sit looking at their iPhones, grateful to have signal.

Or is it worse so here, where there has always been a sense of emotional inhibition and awkwardness in discussion?

One thing you can say for the British: they sure like a laugh. And while that’s a good thing in many ways – you’ll rarely go more than thirty seconds in a British conversation without someone trying to crack a joke – I also have to wonder how much of an avoidance technique that is, and what it’s covering up.

Likewise the drinking – for the other thing I realised when I watched those Italians discussing over their pizza was that the English perhaps wouldn’t need to drink so much if they weren’t afraid of interacting and knew how to talk. I’ve felt it myself, back in my younger days, the awkwardness of not knowing what to say – and so just getting wasted because I knew then it wouldn’t matter. Is that what we’re doing as a society as a whole? Rushing for the bar because we know that five minutes of conversation is about all we can manage and alcohol is the only way we can get around that?

Sort of sad, isn’t it?

And weird, too, when you’ve visited other parts of the world and seen that very few places use alcohol in the way that we do. It’s become the norm here, and we accept it. And yet other countries must look on us and think us something of a primitive breed. And a long way from civilised.

The norm. A great many things become ‘the norm’ – but it don’t make ‘em right. Binge-drinking. Hiding your emotions. Not talking on the phone. And having your primary interactions with others by way of the computer. All those things are becoming the norm, and perhaps already are. I don’t think I like it, but I don’t know what to do about it.

And, like I say, I’m hardly exempt myself. In fact, I could be judged as one of the worst offenders – for haven’t I said that I find most people boring, and very rarely hear anyone say anything of interest? Indeed I have. Though in my defence, when it does come time for interaction, I believe I do it well, it’s just that the opportunity doesn’t arise so much these days. Maybe because I’m surrounded by younger people. Or maybe because I’m in England. Or maybe because the world has changed and my preferred style of conversation marks me out as something of a dinosaur. Really, it’s my disappointment in interaction that keeps me from doing it. I’m mostly perfectly happy in my own company.

But, still, I could do better. Every month I have an allotment of minutes on my phone and it’s very rare that I use even half of them. I don’t call good friends because I’m afraid they’ll be in the middle of something – but, really, that’s a poor excuse. And now I’ve got this International SIM – less than two pounds for a 90-minute discussion – there’s no reason why I can’t be calling my good old friends in the States, who are probably still my best friends too. If they’re busy, they’ll tell me – and we can always do the modern thing of making an appointment, as Stevie and I ended up doing yesterday.

I could, I suppose, make more effort with the people I meet too. Steer the conversation in the direction I want it to go in rather than just hoping that’s what will happen. If it doesn’t work, no matter, at least I’ve tried. And I could invite people over, get some dinners and things going. I hardly ever do that but when I do it’s always good.

A shame, isn’t it, that things have come to this? It’s part of the appeal, I think, of going to live somewhere like the canyon in Mexico – to having everything very much there with no need for appointments and cars and travel and the busyness of the world we live in here, in big city England. Everything’s so far away, such an effort to get to. But life in the canyon, or in a community like Shane’s yoga centre, or Harduf in Israel, is easy. We all live in tents camped next to each other and we just say hi and hang out. Everyone you meet you say hi to and know that it’s okay to chat. And because we know what’s going on, what everyone’s doing, we chat free and easy and there’s no need for pretence. In this world, half the time, I’m pretending and second-guessing: I mean, we’re all spirits having the human experience and growing and learning – but how many of us know that? How many are thinking along those lines as they queue in Sports Direct for fifty percent off shoes?

Only this weirdo here.

And another thing: walking past people. How awkward is that! In a small town, where you know most others, it’s a lot easier, for you just say hello, or nod, or have a brief interaction, and on you go. But in Leeds, every time I intersect with someone I have to decide what to do. Do I look at them and nod and smile? Or do I look away, and pretend I’m fascinated with something else, suddenly gripped by a bird on a tree? I ask myself this question every time. I doubt whether others do – but I bet it’s there somewhere in the depths of their consciousness.

They know they’re about to cross paths with another human being. They know that ain’t no small matter, something to be ignored. But the only way to survive in this weird mad world of cities grown too big is to ignore it all the same.

That actually really pains me. It’s another reason I think living somewhere like the canyon would be awesome. Because everyone that passed my way would automatically get a hello and a smile and there’d be no place for awkwardness. The scale has been shrunk and it’s quite feasible to greet every single person you come across. Whether it goes further is another matter – but the opening will be there. But in Leeds, in a city of half a million people, with a mind on shopping and concrete and bricks?

Difficult to do.

Related to this, I was in the Merrion Centre Morrison’s yesterday. As I shopped for my Burgen’s and my half-price cheddar I thought of Grace, as I have been doing often lately. Looking back, I’d come to realise that it was fear that had stopped me from going with her that time, and, if nothing else, all this remembering of those days should remind me to shun fear when it comes into my life. But a few days back I remembered that I’d been given a couple of possible numbers to call her on – this is going back almost two years – and that I hadn’t done it because of fear once again. What if she thought I was a nutter or a stalker? What if she felt intruded upon? And what if she was busy or had poor reception or was going through a tunnel? For all those reasons, I didn’t call. And yet there I was again wishing desperately to have some insight into the mystery, hoping to heaven for the answer to drop into my lap, when perhaps the answer was there all along, in those phone numbers.

But, me being me, I can only allow myself to buy into fear and inhibition for so long, and I’d started to get the resolve the dial those digits. And in Morrison’s, shopping for Burgen’s, I thought, what the hell, I could even do it now.

And then I remembered: a supermarket in Santa Fe is where we met. And I was in a supermarket in Leeds. And the contrast couldn’t have been greater.

A picture of that Santa Fe supermarket and its wide-open aisles all spacious and light.

And the Merrion Centre Morrison’s, all cramped and dingy, low-ceilinged and crowded.

Then the remembrance of what took place there, a mystical meeting of souls, so totally out of this world and yet at the same time so absolutely natural and accepted. Beauty and smiles and love and light. Openness. Hearts. And wonder.

And Morrison’s, filled full of hunched over bodies, clad in grey and black, looking miserable and tired. Or, at least, entirely preoccupied with matters far from the mystical. Thousands of them, squeezed in, the queues stretching half-way across the store, sort of desperate and sad. Grasping our loaves like the peasants of Russia.

Where is God now?

How did I get here?

I laughed. What a contrast! I don’t mind it too much because I don’t feel so grey and shrouded in dowdy concrete myself – but I do feel very much a man on his own, and a man more suited to that wide-open New Mexico.

What a distance I’ve travelled, to get to here from there.

I didn’t call. I got afraid. It seemed suddenly mental to be dialling a Coloradan dentist’s on the tip of an old RVing couple I met in Baja. What would I say?

But buoyed by my conversation with Stevie, ecstatic and happy, I did it later.

I called. Pam answerered.

I said, oh hi Pam, probably I’ve got entirely the wrong number but would you have someone who works there called…

And, of course, they didn’t.

But at least I chalked it off the list.

One more number left to try. Though I don’t even know what I’d say if it brought success. I’m afraid, I think, because of what happened with Sophie, a few years back – how I sent her that love letter full of grand declarations and she said, you’re creeping me out, my friends say I ought to be afraid of you. Women can be so weird and harsh. There’s nothing open or inviting in a reaction like that. Although it was probably exactly what I needed at the time.

Did I tell you about that? Did I post those emails here? November 2010, I think it was.

If not, let me know and I’ll get right on it.

Everything must be brought to completion, right?