I don’t remember who I wanted to be. I remember who I was,
day after day, waiting for something comforting, like the thought
that if I change the way I write, I will change the way I live,
or maybe the other way around, even though I knew it wouldn’t last
—it never does. By no means did I expect solace to be so cheap
yet unrequitable, like concessions made before turning off
the bedside lamp.
I never asked to be born. It was forced upon me by a moment of mindless lust, later sugarcoated by religion with the phrase “the gift of life.” The problem is, unlike an unwanted Christmas gift, I can’t simply toss it away. Both nature and society have made sure to hold me hostage as long as possible and to produce further victims of this vicious circle. Now that I’ve finally realised this, I know why Merry Christmas sounds like an insult.
I watched Jenny’s Wedding today. Nothing special, really. Apart from the fact that it’s about a lesbian couple, it’s just another romcom spiced with a pinch of light drama. But there was one thing there that made me think. The protagonist’s sister, played by Grace Gummer, realises that the grass in front of her house is always dead, and then she has an epiphany: “Happy people do not have dead grass.” It ends badly for her husband (not that I pity him—he was rather obnoxious). The problem is that I hate grass. Not in general, as there is nothing more pleasant than a stroll on the meadow in summer, but the lawn in front of the house is the essence of artificiality. I hate Saturday gymnastics with a lawnmower and the endless fight with moss and so-called weeds. When I lived in a house with a lawn, I envied my neighbour’s elegantly tiled front yard. But does this make me a bad person, a social outcast, or a less desirable life partner? I’m a city dweller, that’s all. Suburbs are not for me.
What do you do when you realise you are not going to be a great poet one day? After thirty years of writing poetry, you finally give up, make a note of it in your journal, and move on. Simple as that. After all, there is more to life than putting together a stanza, even a great one. And if, in your case, it’s decent at best, what’s the point? Instead of wasting hours in your room trying to find the right onomatopoeia, wouldn’t it be better to listen to the sound of the waves while walking on the beach?
Sometimes I need a hug, or I miss soft-spoken words amid the cries of seagulls. Sometimes there are not enough colours in a watergaw that I spot over the sea. Sometimes I want to shout, “Let’s all pretend we live forever and stop asking what the exchange rate is.” But most of the time, I simply sit on a bench on the promenade by the beach and watch the strollers passing me by, hoping one day someone notices me. I guess everyone should have their own little impossible to cherish.
I hate smoking; I really do. For example, even the most beautiful woman, who normally would attract me immensely, the moment she reaches for a cigarette, I’m done with her. I will see her as a monster. And yet there was one time in my life when I was infatuated with such a woman, and her smoking, the way she did it, was something that added to her sex appeal. She was a friend of a friend, a bit of a tomboy, with her close-cropped blonde hair, tight jeans, an oversized men’s sweater with rolled-up sleeves, and a tough-guy attitude. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. We had both just turned eighteen and met in a pub, and I knew straight away she was not interested in me, not one iota. She was just being polite, and after that evening, I never met her again. Now, I don’t even remember her name.
Perhaps if I had met her under different circumstances later in life; or maybe my perception was distorted, like in the case of my friend, who one day admitted that she had been madly in love with me for a very long time—I just didn’t see it while chasing big-breasted bimbos. I never understood why she told me so many years later, when she was about to marry someone else. It was like a goodbye kiss, except without a real kiss. How stupid I was in my youth. Now I know that this was the first time I missed a chance at happiness because of my obsession with large breasts. I guess one never learns. At least I didn’t, and now it doesn’t matter anymore.
If we teach it emotions, does it mean that we no longer have to feel them ourselves? Or if we filled it with all the banality of our lives, would that purify us? Imagine the harmless lies imprinted on us we call white, intended to comfort, becoming the fabric of a meticulously fabricated personality. Imagine a ghost of our own creation, the result of playing Genesis 2.0, walking around the Garden of Eden (accessible twenty-four-seven—subject to terms and conditions and a paid subscription—with a VR headset or whatever the next high tech is), like a mockery of the words we never dared to say. And this time, no one minds taking a bite of the fruit; what’s more, it’s welcomed, at least as long as you are not suspicious of technology—this technology. Imagine that this was the moment when the despair of happiness made you feel alive again. Imagine that everything that happens this time is for your sake. Imagine your name is “maybe”, and, like the future, you will be here soon enough to live your life on your behalf.
It would be nice to be seen as funny for a change. Perhaps if I were actually jovial and had someone around to appreciate that, it would be easier to fulfil that little whim of mine. But there is more to it. As Montaigne said, “The most manifest sign of wisdom is a continual cheerfulness; her state is like that of things in the regions above the moon, always clear and serene.” What I need is a soul that lodges philosophy. “There is nothing more airy, more gay, more frolic, and I had like to have said, more wanton. She preaches nothing but feasting and jollity; a melancholic anxious look shows that she does not inhabit there.” (from The Essays of Montaigne—Volume 05 by Michel de Montaigne, translated by Charles Cotton). And although Montaigne said the latter about philosophy itself, I consider it a perfect description of the soul I desire.
Recall that time you thought you would be great—or at least really good—at something. My thing was science—chemistry, to be precise. I dreamt of a great career in some laboratory, imagining myself in a white lab coat amongst the fancy glassware doing experiments, maybe even a bit like in the pictures of mediaeval alchemists (at that time I was still very young and my idea of a scientist was closer to fiction than reality). So I chose an educational path that would enable me to do this. But just as I turned eighteen, somewhere between redox reactions and the Avogadro constant, I realised that I’m going to be mediocre at best. Coincidentally, about that time I discovered poetry, so the fall was softened by the cushion of verse. But now I’m in my late forties, and I know that poetry is not going to fly for me either—I simply switched between chimaeras three decades ago. Who would have thought?
But sarcasm aside, this time there is no cushion to land on, just the bare, hard rock surface of reality. On the other hand, when I think about it, maybe passion is the domain of youth, and I should simply be grateful that I can still move between the table, desk, and bed on my own. At my age, the most important thing might be to learn the principles of energy conservation. I know, I know, I’m approaching fifty—not eighty—but learning is a long, time-consuming process, so it’s probably best to give yourself a little head start. At least this time the mythical character has changed—it’s time to stock up on the obol.
hidden pilcrow 