Small talk. What a load of bullshit it really is. Here we are: two conscious, imaginative organisms on a rock spinning at 1000 miles an hour as it circles a giant ball of fire in an infinite universe, and the best we can do is utter the same robotic, throw-away sentences dozens of times everyday about the weather and how we are always ‘fine’. You know, the: “hey, how’s it going?”; “Yeah fine, you?”; “yeah fine as well thanks.” How has it come to this? What happened? How have we all become such socially and culturally programmed drones and clones incapable of cutting through the superficial mundane blah blahs about the rain and work to say something genuine and individual? Is it really ‘polite’ to subject ourselves and each other to this monotony? To this scripted hell?
Maybe our brains have been starved of wonder and life so long that they have become some sort of semi-automatic operating system whereby breaking through the superficial level of small-talk would cause us all to start questioning things like society, philosophy, economic doctrines and existence a bit deeper perhaps. Maybe if we allowed ourselves to be fully conscious of the wonder of life and utter insanity of existence on a spinning, floating rock in an infinite universe then people would revolt, rebel and break free of their monotonous jobs to go out and climb trees in Madagascar or something. Perhaps, in this way, small-talk serves the function of keeping all of us suppressed in our places within a consumer-capitalist society. In this perspective, small-talk is a protective psyche of the masses, acting as a barrier between a shared cultural operating system and the sheer wilderness and anarchy of the higher conscious thought of a wild space-monkey.
This means that for the thoughtful introverts, the free spirits, the spiritual Sallys and the potheads out there, small-talk is nothing short of a form of verbal torture, whereby the person is thereby forced to utter the formulaic, predictable mundane sentences about how cold it is outside, how everybody is just ‘fine’ and how thankful they are that it is Friday once again. Every sentence, scripted and socially predetermined, being uttered simultaneously by millions across the globe; slowly the conversation dwindles to a dead-end before the exact same conversation is repeated once again when the human organism next comes across another human organism in his or her’s immediate space and time. Predictable and as robotic as clockwork.
It is with this frustration, and this hatred of the mediocrity and self-imposed slavery of the mind that small-talk serves, I put forward to all out there: Can We Please Kill Small-Talk? Every man and woman out there. Please. It’s not polite; it’s not friendly. It’s dis-empowering. It’s self-abuse of consciousness. Lets round it up, bring it to the gallows and kill small-talk in a great public ceremony that is accompanied with extravagant fireworks, flamboyant dance, psychedelic drugs, and long conversations about the complexity of consciousness, the purpose of Deja Vu and the wonders and meanings of existence on this floating rock-ball. Oh, I do dare dream about this prospect! Perhaps one day we will all connect as a species, kill small-talk and begin to all create beautiful art and songs and dances as we feast upon the colour of life. Oh I do dare dream.
But for now, if you should see me in the street, all you need to know is:
“I am fine thanks,