London is an excessively populated city. It is expensive and not worth it when you consider the congestion. Nevertheless, many an interesting academic talks take place at this not very exotic location. I travel to the city and stay with my cousin over the week. I get free lodging and free food. She has even packed me 2 lunchboxes with food for the next few days as I return to my Northern Powerhouse location – not too city-like, but only just a town. Today I venture to Kings Cross where my train is to depart from. I’ve taken a train. The difference is GBP 15.
I am a social researcher, or so I like to claim. Today on the tube to Kings X, I was reading one of the theoretical works suggested to me for my research. I want to study the multi-faceted nature of reality that influence decision-making processes. Conscious as well as sub-conscious. There are a number of approaches in the social sciences. One very popular theorists is Pierre Bourdieu. The work I am reading critiques (or rather criticises with big words/jargon) this theory. Margaret Archer calls into question the Sociologist and academic as the only people who can make reflexive decisions, or have reflexive thought processes. Or so I gathered from the words I understood. OF course I agreed. I agreed that the sociologist is privy to lenses of analysis that the commonperson is not. Yet, this does not mean that the commonperson does not themselves practice reflexive thought. The two need to meet.
I’m almost an hour early at the train station now. My cousin dropped me off to the tube station by car so that I would not be late. I was not late. Having been here before, I know that my train would not be announced until around 10-15 minutes prior to departure. I waited anyway, for 10 minutes – before I decided to loiter about the place. My mind had focused on a cooling beverage to beat the 28 degree heat. I am accustomed to hotter climates, but being ill prepared for this “heat wave”, I had forgotten to get my bottle of water.
I decided to amuse myself and look through the shops to buy my beverage. W H Smith tried to convince me that ‘Smart’ water costs only £1.99. Perhaps I’m smarter than smart water – or cheaper- as I didn’t fall for that. It was a bit out of my budget and just a bit ridiculous. I found myself thinking “ha! As if you can convince me, on top of having to purchase bottled water, to pay a ridiculous amount of money for it”. That wasn’t going to happen. With a ‘Nope’, and a laugh, I walked out of the shop. Across me was Waitrose. Waitrose is an overpriced supermarket. There wasn’t much else around, and I was mindful of the time. I walked straight in, telling myself that I would not be making a purchase if the prices were mirrored in this shop too. It wasn’t. It sold Evian – the posh water – at just £0.96. I strolled around the store in search of a flavoured alternative to water, or a cooling beverage of a fruity taste, yet not a juice or thick smoothie. I chanced upon a bottle of Lipton Ice Tea. Lemon. £1.16. The perfect balance of thrifty and middle classy. Of course I bought it. I am a smart shopper.
I made my way to the platforms to wait for the train platform to be announced. I found the trains of the company I was to travel and waited by with observant eyes for the platform to be announced on any one of the 3 services I saw. Got it. I enter the train successfully finding my reserved seat. Before I plant my bottom on the seat, I pull out my laptop, books, Staedtler colour pens, a note pad, post-its, a pen and my bottle of Ice Tea. I write this, in my middle class way. Watching in semi disgust as I behave in the way I want. In my second nature. Or rather my nature. I don’t know.
But then I wonder. What is wrong with this? Why am I uncomfortable, and in what situation would I be comfortable? Today I felt like writing. In fact, when I sat I decided not to have my laptop out as I wanted to read or enjoy the view. Today I want to write. Having a laptop and an internet connection while on board this train enables me to do this. I could have done it with a paper and pen but my typing speed outshines my writing speed. I can also stare outside the window as I type, having used this keyboard before for longer documents. I have privilege. I have some agency. I have constraints. I don’t accept determinism. I don’t want to live in poverty. I don’t want to fetishise it. I want to be aware of my actions and conscious of my capacity to not worsen problems in the world. I want to think. I want to write.
This month, last month, the next month. They have stressed me out with the amount of travelling I have done. More privilege. The thing I miss most of home is the ability to be in one place, to belong to it and feel comfort in knowing that I have power to negotiate the space and my time. It is entitlement to an extent, but I guess we all need that power. How we wield it is what is most important to consider. I’m good at making excuses.
I’ve got an hour left of my journey. I think I might read.
I wish grandmothers lived forever. But knowing you can always hold knitted products of their labour in your hand offers a sense of comfort.
I’m pretty sure that’s what Marx was trying to say….
The perpetuation of pleasure in something as violent as sexual penetration is what sustains the validation of violence.
Violence would thus be pleasure-seeking.