Coffee cup

The time is 12.23, , and as my weary eyes catch sight of a rubbish bin I feel, somewhat prematurely, the surge of pleasure at the thought of having dropped the empty coffee cup (held precariously between thumb and forefinger as the three remaining fingers grip my reading glasses with hopeless optimism) into it.

In the other hand is a copy of Yuval Noah Harari’s “Sapiens”, thick and solid. It has all the answers. Like a toddler’s drawing of a face, there’s a suspicion it’s not completely accurate, but its enthusiastic scrawl is bursting with enthusiasm. Everything has been, will be, and is, as ok as one could hope for in such a complex and fragile humanity, bound together as it is by fictions, folktales and trust in the future.

A kind of consensus of imagination, whether it be God, money, presidents or our inherent superiority to animals, holds this juddering juggernaut together. As the internet finally grants a voice to more people than ever, perhaps such agreements may fall apart, the human sprawl reveals itself, a mass of voices informed by everything from intense research to idle gossip. But more than ever, these voices demand results, to throw out history and start again, to take no shit from the old orders. Such demands have now spread to the human body itself, and a combination of computers and bio technology will offer us choice beyond our wildest dreams, if dreaming is still a possibility with all that machinery and bio mutation made flesh.

(Ok, his tone is a little more optimistic than mine, but it was a fun read.)

It was also a practical read; short chapters despite the weighty tome, easy to get one in between Facebook posts and other essential business. And, by definition, we all feel like characters in the book itself. By reading it, we somehow participate in an unfinished final chapter. As I multitask my way through a series of frivolous actions, I am paradoxically reminded of the freedom and the terror of being in a “foraging” society. The author certainly takes the nostalgia out of that little pipe dream. No time for selfies with a ravenous mammoth stampeding towards you and only a spear to catch it with. No time for much really. Pick the fruit and run. And no going back.

But in the present day drama of the coffee cup and the reading glasses, I emerge victorious, the cup making a soft landing between crisp packets, the glasses secured between my fingers. With a renewed sense of positivity, I go a-hunting and a-gathering into the jungles of Baker St.

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