Chris J. Desmet | Musings

 On the erosion of heroism and the poverty of language From David Bowie to the Foo Fighters , from The Stranglers to countless others, popular culture keeps returning to the same figure: the hero. Songs, films, books — too many to count. We appear obsessed with heroism. Which raises an uncomfortable question: do we truly understand what it means, or are we simply in love with the idea of it? What makes a soldier throw himself on top of a grenade, absorbing a blast that would otherwise kill an entire platoon? What makes a fireman run into a burning building, on the brink of collapse, to rescue a resident while fully aware it might cost him his own life? What makes a passer-by jump into an icy, wild river to save a drowning child? Why do some people overcome their most primal instinct — the fear of dying — in order to save others? Is it a split-second decision, a momentary lapse of reason? Or something closer to standing at the edge of an abyss and feeling the urge to jump? We tend...

  H3N2 subclade K and I don’t get along. At all. Whether it qualifies as a super flu or not, it certainly isn’t superfly. Day five now, and I am thoroughly sick and tired of this bug. My bone structure appears to reject the tissues around it. My muscles have declared independence and now live lives of their own, refusing all calls to action. My throat feels lined with sandpaper. My brain seems to be testing the limits of my skull. And then there’s the constant, unpredictable switching between freezing cold and simmering hot — and back again. Sleep is impossible; the nagging pain simply won’t let go. I haven’t felt this miserable in decades. I had honestly forgotten this was still possible. I drift in some undefined dream state, somewhere between consciousness and oblivion. My attention span has shrunk to almost nothing — probably the worst part, since my brain is my only real asset. Now I can’t even hold a thought, let alone finish one. At first I tried to fight it. Useless. So for...

  False notes , true courage and beautiful failure. Once , a long time ago , a man walked into my pub holding a battered saxophone . He was either pushing sixty , or life had dragged him there against his will . He looked like he’d walked home from Woodstock and taken the scenic route. Without a word he chose a stool at the bar, placed the sax on it like a pet, and ordered a coffee. The usual banter died instantly . My regulars stared at the odd bird ; he stared right back, unphased , sipping his coffee. Questions followed , of course. Where are you from ? Are you a musician ? Who’d you play with ? The man’s expression suggested he’d heard these questions a thousand times before . He launched into a monologue clearly polished over many years . Yes, he was a travelling musician , currently between gigs . He had toured with A-list artists , done session work for famous stars, rubbed shoulders with the greats — tho...

 From Caesar to clickbait: writing lasts forever… What is truth, really? Is it something we all agree on — a kind of social contract? Or is it merely what each of us chooses to believe? Day after day we are bombarded with information presented as absolutely true: online, in news feeds, newspapers, comment sections, expert panels, you name it. Take climate science. I’m no scientist. Yet almost daily I stumble upon alarming articles predicting the end of the world due to global warming. How am I supposed to verify these claims, based on research models I’ve never seen and wouldn’t know how to interpret even if someone handed them to me? Does my ignorance make the predictions true? I’m no computer genius either. Still, I’m told that AI will do more harm than good. Once again, ignorance gets in the way and I’m expected to simply trust one of the countless experts. Hence my growing questions — and apprehensions — about the very concept of truth. We tend to believe what people with autho...

  Way back when I was a kid — eight, maybe nine — just like every other boy in the neighbourhood, I dreamed of becoming a professional football player. The streets where I grew up were basically our playground. The only cars that ever interrupted our matches were those of the neighbours or the milkman’s van. In summer we made an exception for the ice cream vendor, obviously. We kicked that ball around nonstop, pretending to be Juan Lozano or Robbie Rensenbrink. Granted, I never lacked ambition. At one point flying fighter jets seemed irresistible and I briefly promoted that dream to first place. Watching war movies even had me considering joining the army once I was old enough. But none of those secondary mirages could beat the main objective: life on the pitch, the sacred grass. There was nothing better. In the dream I’d wake up at eight, plenty of time for a healthy breakfast — lots of fruit. Then off to the training centre. Some banter with the lads in the dressing room. Out ont...

How many artists today dare to bite the hand that feeds them — and still get fed? How many artists can we name who are embraced by the establishment yet remain its sharpest critics? I suspect very few — perhaps none today. And yet that tension between belonging and rebellion is exactly where true art is born, where ideas take root that only generations later will be fully understood. There is no shortage of artists today. Musicians, actors, painters, conceptual artists, writers, photographers — the list is endless. And still their trajectories tend to look remarkably alike. A fiery start in youth, fuelled by rebellion and restlessness. Then success arrives, and the rough edges begin to soften. Some even turn completely, adapting themselves to whatever the cultural mainstream demands. Punk rockers going commercial. Former rebels becoming polished brands. The desire to belong to the establishment proves stronger than their early defiance. And so their art becomes flat, harmless, meaningl...