Category Archives: shedlife

Surfing Vs Shopping

Surfing

I hate shopping.

Shopping, and by extension the entire human project of reducing this miraculous home of ours into a giant department store and then looting it, is an exercise in enslavement. Surfing, on the other hand, or anything else that involves surrender to the laws of the non-human – hiking, gardening, mountaineering – is an exercise in freedom.

Freedom is not easy, and it does not make sense. Not like shopping, where you get anti-aging potions in exchange for the flutter of a contactless credit card. Or like war, where goodies kill baddies and then there is peace.

Freedom is awkward and time-consuming and looks a bit sad and deranged, especially when set against the slick marketing of shopping and war.

If you counted up all the hours I have spent trying to catch waves and set them against all the waves I have actually managed to catch and then subtracted all the ones I fell off or messed up you would probably advise me to see a psychiatrist. Especially if I admitted that my addiction to surfing is probably the reason I have never had a nine-to-five, saved for a pension, lived apart from the ocean for longer than six months or travelled anywhere cultural, as opposed to coastal. Don’t even mention children.

In many ways the only difference between an addiction to smack and my addiction to surfing is the fact that it keeps me in rude physical health. If you don’t count the torn ligaments and burned retinas and chillblains and the bones slowly extending over my ear drums to protect them from the piercing winds and the black eyes and the broken nose and the stubbed and bleeding toes.

Under normal circumstances my effort/achievement ratio would be wildly disappointing. But these are not normal circumstances, different rules apply.

Unless I have managed to get myself to the tropics (see burned retinas) surfing is cold, frustrating, sometimes frightening, occasionally miraculous, going nowhere. There is nobody watching and nothing to see, nothing to achieve and nothing to win. I am not good enough to go anywhere near a competition and even if I was I wouldn’t go anywhere near one.

I am not interested in supporting the multi-million (billion?) dollar industry that instagram-filters all the life and colour out of the ocean and then tries to sell it back to me as a flashy retro board and an overpriced pair of flip-flops. I can buy the tokens and then spend the rest of my month/year/life working to pay for them whilst watching youtube videos of other people getting barrelled. Or I can put my wallet away and step outside:

Witness the crack of dawn

And through it the effortless sea

And the muffled cry of the killing birds –

This is the way to be free.

Each and every single wave I manage to catch, for absolutely no good reason whatsoever, is a fist in the face of the profit principle and the growth imperative and the oil wars and this idiotic age of consumption that manifests as spiteful billboards and food banks and translatlantic trade agreements and the grief of mass extinction.

‘Our religious and cultural heritage’ writes Barbara Kingsolver, ‘is to deny, for all we’re worth, that we’re in any way connected with the rest of life on earth. We don’t come from it, we’re not part of it; we own it and were put down here to run the place.’

Which is why if I had one wish this Christmas it would be that when everyone was done shopping they could spend a bit of time in no-man’s land – behind the low-tide mark, above the snowline, beneath the soil – to feel the blessed relief of knowing we do not own it and we were not put here to run the place and we are connected with the rest of Life on Earth. Life on Earth is frustrating, sometimes frightening, occasionally miraculous, going nowhere. It is not for sale and it does not make sense. The gift (and the exercise) is in accepting.

As Gary Snyder pointed out:

‘To be truly free one must take on the basic conditions as they are – painful, impermanent, open, imperfect – and then be grateful for impermanence and the freedom it grants us.’

See you in there.

Why I Live in a Shed

why i live in a shed

The north wind is behind me

And I’ve planted out my sweet peas

The money tree is thriving

But the best things here are free

When people ask, I tell them I am writing a book about housing called Why I Live in a Shed. What I am actually doing is running, singing, surfing, drinking, cursing, worrying and waking up in the dead of night to make marks in the dark with a pencil.

I have spent the winter housed. And now it is spring and the time has come to say goodbye to my latest insulated, centrally-heated, multi-roomed holiday (bathroom, washing machine, fridge, hot water) and wander back through time and space to the shed, via an off-grid wooden gazebo, some meditation (not medication) and a quick trip to Portugal.

But first I am going to offload some thoughts, facts and statistics that represent the thin end of a wedge the size of Wales. Think of it as backstory.

I thought I lived in a shed because there weren’t enough houses to go around. Politicians across the spectrum all seem to agree that what we need is housebuilding on a scale not seen since the second world war. Turns out this is propaganda (also known as Total Bollocks). The reality is that there are 65 million bedrooms in Britain for just 55 million people. And while it is true that 1.8 million households are waiting for social housing, it is also true that 737 000 residential properties that could house 2 million people are brick and mortar bank accounts, kept deliberately empty so they can be bought and sold to turn a profit.

The Prime Minister pleads with a journalist ‘Please don’t make me look like a prat for not knowing how many houses I’ve got’ and The Sultan of Brunei applies for a 10% discount on his council tax because his London house is not his first (or second, or third) home.

[Pitchforks]

We do not need to build more houses, unless it is to create yet more inequality. ‘The purpose of much of the world’s construction is construction, its primary function is to provide contracts for the companies that build and perks for the officials who commission’ writes George Monbiot.

We do not need to build more houses, unless it is to speed up the elimination of the human race. ‘Concrete production is among the main sources of carbon pollution worldwide’ observes Danny Dorling.

I live in a shed because government policies designed to inflate house prices and make the economy look stronger than it actually is (in private life this is called cooking the books) mean it is effectively impossible for anyone under the age of 40 to buy a house.

I live in a shed because I would rather live in an uninsulated tin can on the side of the road several hundred miles from anywhere with no toilet or hot water than bite my nails for the privilege of renting a boxroom in a house full of semi-strangers, from which I am obliged to erase all evidence of my existence every time the letting agent lets himself in with his own key to perform one of his ‘regular and invasive’ inspections.

Call me old-fashioned but I’m a 36 year old introvert who craves order and stability and has already lived at 17 different addresses, not including 2 years in a van and 3 years at university.

Renting, in my experience, is miserable, unaffordable (in the year to 2013 median rents in London rose by 9% while wages rose by 2%), insecure and unregulated. In spite of the fact that private landlords are subsidized by taxpayers – that’s you and me – to the tune of £17 billion (housing benefit) 1 in 3 private rental accommodations don’t meet the government’s (pitifully low) standards.

I live in a shed because I am by nature a writer and musician and living in a shed is the only way I have a hope of realizing my dreams and projects. I have wasted more time and tears than I care to count trying to squeeze myself into a square hole. I do not think that only individuals with trust funds should have the chance to be artists. I do not think this would be good for people or for art.

Mainly I live in a shed because Thatcher sold us the narrative of consumerism to pit against the narratives of class and communism, which did not serve her. (Just like she sold the council houses, often in job lots to cronies who went on to become millionaire private landlords.)

It is true that our homes represent our selves in material form. But the important, creative link between home and selfhood has been hijacked and monetized by consumerist ideology. Our  nests reduced to disposable nest-eggs. Instead of telling the world something about who we are, in myriad intriguing ways, our houses try to tell the world how much we are worth. The bigger the house, the more worthwhile the person. But this is a childish waste of life. Logically speaking, we can never be worth more or less than anybody else, no matter how big our houses are, no matter if we call ourselves the Sultan of Brunei or the prat from Chipping Norton.

I live in a shed because I hate consumerism with a visceral, seething, spitting hatred. It threatens the ground beneath my feet, the stars in my eyes, the salt on my tongue, the futures of my sisters’ children and everything else that I love with all my heart.

This housing crisis is a symbolic manifestation – a cancerous symptom – of consumerist ideology. Housing is not just an economic problem. It is an existential problem.

‘The effect of focusing on the house as consumer commodity has an effect on the social structure as a whole’ writes Jessie Hohmann. ‘Housing is important in the formation and protection of identity, community and place in the world.’

Housing is central to an ideological debate that needs to rage and rage, because when we lose our place in the world we lose everything. We forget that we belong here, to this green and gold and lovely planet, and behave like angry squatters, shitting on our own doorstep.

But we do belong, literally, with every cell in our bodies, as Leonardo Da Vinci neatly observed nearly 600 years ago – ‘Man is called by the ancients a world in miniature and certainly this name is well applied, for just as man is composed of earth, water, air and fire, so is the body of the earth’.

Which is something I have experienced first-hand, through living in a shed. So listen up, because I’m going to sing you a whole new song.

For a more lyrical shedlife extract please visit Dark Mountain.net