Category Archives: Writing

If he could pinpoint it once and for all, X tells me, then he could move on. If he could find Archimedes’ point, or the Kaballists’ primordial point, or just believe in it, that might be enough to move on, he says. If he could find the lever, he says, or the central point, no, the centre from outside the centre, no, the lever from outside the centre to tip the centre to see what’s under it, no, the central point on which to balance the lever, no, the point from which to observe everything from outside everything, wasn’t that what it was about, the point where the observer doesn’t affect the observed, who was that, he says, Humboldt or Heisenbert, Humbert Humbert, no obviously not, what does he know, he says. Maybe the centre’s everywhere, he says, it occurs to him he read that somewhere. If there’s a central point I guess we’re all all being born from it all the time, he says, like the sperm eternally piercing the egg, and everything’s the moment when the sperm pierces the egg, or maybe everything’s the egg, or the sperm, he’s not sure. Or is it you? he says.

No, there’s no way out, X tells me, not from this particular cul-de-sac. He should be happy he’s found his own little corner of the world, away from poverty. He’s happy, he says. Ecstatic. He’s found shelter, away from all the grotesque suffering, away from leprosy and poverty. He’s been lucky in life, he says. He has his one-bedroom flat and garden, he’s white, very white. He can rest easy, he says. Now he should help those less fortunate, do some good in the world, relieve the suffering. Maybe he should get a chinchilla, he says, to keep him company.

He should take a course, X tells me, the writing’s on the wall, he should get involved in something bigger than himself, something real, move to Spain or South America, they’ll show him how to live, barbecues and dancing when the Latino spirit grabs you, move to a hot country, they’re happy there, he says, they have soul and eyes that are alive. Or get into sports again, get some team spirit, get over himself, get some scrapes and bruises. Or go and live in the country, get in touch with nature again, he says. Or do some good in the world, help the poor, stop being so hopelessly white and male. Or get laid, can I find him a girl? he asks. No, of course I can’t.

X tells me that last night he was given to see as clearly as a child’s lesson that he’s an escapist, but now he forgets why exactly. What was it I was escaping from? he aks. I work hard, so it can’t be that, can it? he asks. He could work harder, he supposes, he could get up at six and take on more responsibilities. He could get a dog, or a family, even a mortgage, choose life, choose a future. From life, he supposes, he’s an absentee from life. Or from himself, maybe, maybe he’s playing truant from himself. Or from me, is that it? he asks. Maybe he should get involved in local politics, he says.

He’d rather be quiet, X tells me, but something keeps dragging him along trailing his voice, himself probably, no me, can’t I just shut him up? He’s tired, he says. If I said something, anything, it would shut him up, he’d see his place in the order of things, he’d see how high above himself he’s got and fall in line, so just say something, he says, anything.

The poet, though to be fair he never calls himself this, has lost count of the pints he’s drunk. The girl is keeping up with the empties. She’s pretty as a doll and has stuck a pencil in her bun. The pencil distracts him pleasurably. She’s fast but he’s an expert drinker, that much is true. His work is very profound and becomes more so as the night wears on. Though he’s an expert drinker the poet struggles to keep up with the girl as she moves about collecting glasses. He considers speaking to her but doesn’t. The following day even his eyeballs hurt and his work has turned into a perfect illustration of Romantic excess. Then the real self-work begins, to be undone again at some later stage.

He’s found out what his life’s like, X tells me. It’s going headlong into a cul-de-sac and coming back out only to realise he’s in another cul-de-sac. Isn’t that brilliant? he says. He’s very pleased, he says, now he can move on.

What tipped me over the edge? X asks me. What made me decide not to speak to him, not to listen to him? Was it his stupidity? His sentimentality? Out with it, he says, clear the air. Fine, he says, I’ll just start over. How do I start over? he asks me.

If these were someone else’s words, X tells me, if this were someone else’s speech he might nod solemnly, but it isn’t, is it, he says, it’s all lies, incomplete lies at that, so all he can do is carry on, hope for the best, fear the worst, wade through this morass of clichés, towards what? he asks. A personal language? Absurd, he says. Clearly the enterprise was doomed from the start, he says. Yet he carries on, he says, must carry on, even though I’m not listening.