Notes from a Room

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.

X feels shown up, he tells me, as if his whole life has been declared invalid. As if he’s being shown everything he’s done is wrong. They’ve seen through me, he says, they’ve seen through my façade and they know I’m a fraud. I’m not even close to the real thing, he says, whatever that is. And everybody knows, he says, even myself. Boohoo, he says. He needs a do-over, he says, a mulligan. What makes him feel this way? he asks me. Is it himself? Is it me? Maybe, he says, or maybe it’s God, or the Devil, or the Unknowable. Maybe someone’s cursed him, he says, cursed him with fraudulence. What’s he not living up to? Can I find a girl for him? he asks. They’re probably right, he says, he probably just needs to get laid. But I’m the worst one to ask, he says.

He’s ruined it, X tells me, he’s ruined everything. He’s ruined his life. But he can’t even ruin his life right, the way he imagines a ruined life, with grace and poise. It’s his feelings, he says, they’re all over the place. How can he repress his feelings? he asks. How can he learn from the English? he asks.