He was watching her intently. She was strolling around the room and
absently flicking off the ash from her seventh Gauloises every now and
then, which came down in big flakes right on the worn persian carpet.
"Maisie Gallagher. I can't believe this." "What is it that you can't
believe?" She looked at him in bewilderment, not noticing that quite
evidently, to him, whatever Maisie Gallagher may or may not have done
was clear as glass. He might not approve but he sort of understood her motives.
"George! I can't believe George is still a thing! I cannot. How can she
stick with him like that? He's always been a moron, but that's like, a
matter of taste, I reckon? Or ignorance? Whatever it is, now the whole
world is aware of him being a complete douche, too, so why would she-
oh, Christ's sake! I can't believe this!" She stopped for a second,
another portion of ash tumbled sadly to the ground. The cigarette seemed
aware that it wasn't being smoked and the realisation of the utter
futility of its existence must've been hard for the poor thing to bear
as it died out slowly and inevitably.
"Not that I cared too much, mind
you," she resumed, "I'm so over trying to tell her, and everybody else
actually, how they're wasting themselves on bullshit. Because they
always know better, don't they, the little sweethearts." He chuckled.
She furrowed her brow. "Why'd you laugh? What you laughing at?" He
sighed. "Nothing. It's just funny how worked up you get about this." "Oh
God." She stood with her eyes closed for a moment, to open them like
drawing the curtain in a theatre, like she always did, as if it was the
overture to a sermon she was about to deliver, as he'd witnessed often
enough. "I don't get worked up- it enrages me. Mostly because I am
usually the one she comes running to with a backpack full of tears, when
something happens," she said dryly. There was a silence and he thought
she was being unexpectedly brief. "Well, did you tell Maisie?", he
asked. "Tell her what?" "What you think." "The hell I did! I have tried a
hundred times before. She says I don't understand," she added
theatrically and shook her head in complete and utter disapproval. He
felt a bit bad for poor Maisie Gallagher who had probably tried to
explain herself using terms such as 'love', or 'feelings', and cried whilst saying things
like 'for the sake of what we had', or 'it's something special'.
He
tried to catch her eyes for a minute or so, but she was staring out the
window. "You wouldn't be taking any hits, would you." She gave him a
pretty bewildered glance, as though his remark had insulted her by just
allowing the possibility that she might. "No," she answered in a cocky
voice. He sighed and she finally sat down on the armrest of a sofa and
took a drag from what was left of her cigarette. "Well, tell me- would
you?" He was now slowly stepping around the carpet in patterns.
A record
player was spinning quietly. The music was pretty mesmerising,
swallowing the listener: layers on layers of seemingly carelessly
arranged guitars and synthesisers, modified by just about every pedal in
the world, and the sound of an omnipresent pad holding all threads
together. He walked over and picked up the sleeve of the record. "This
is good, isn't it," he said. "Oh yes, it is. I swear I've had it playing
for like two weeks on loop. So good. Really something to get lost in."
She sat with her arms crossed, watching the disc turn. "I think my brain
just pauses when I listen to those songs."
He adjusted the collar of
his shirt as though it was hindering his breath, put the sleeve back and
sat down next to her. "Can I ask you something?" She glanced at him
briefly, tossed her cigarette butt into a nearby ashtray on the floor
and lit another. "Sure. Go ahead." "You're not really into love, are
you. And still you love those songs so much. That's literally all
they're about, love. How come?" She gave off a little laugh, he sat
still for a moment, wondering if that had been a smart move. "I mean,
I'm just asking because I know that you despise Maisie's decisions about
Georg first and foremost because she's in love, and that's her only
reason to not give his butt a massive kick out the door, even though she
should," he resumed. "I've heard you talk about it - remember, the
other night at Greta's, when Georg and Van threw up all over the
kitchen? And Mrs. Wazkovsky from downstairs threatened us with a frying
pan because it was late and we just wouldn't be quiet? You literally
gave a speech about how you'd never surrender your dreams and ideals to
drives and hormones that people disguise as this crazy, mysterious,
almighty thing; that you would never let it get to you this much - all
that."
He broke off, leaving space for a silence that was not as much
awkward as it seemed to be picking up speed; that is, to him it did- she
was merely sitting on the armrest, smiling to herself and
carefully arranging an answer and the piles of grey flakes and powder in
the ashtray that she picked up from the floor. "Well, first of all,
they're also about breakups and moving on, and changing, and all that
stuff. Primarily so, actually. Not to mention that I hugely enjoy the fantastic
melodic composition. But you know what," she said, "incidentally, I've
asked myself the same question as late as yesterday. And I'm not sure if
the answer I came up with is satisfying to me, or will be to you. And
if it's an answer at all, and not just a poor excuse." She finished
composing a perfect circle out of the ash with her pinkie, sat down next
to him and placed the tray back on the carpet between her feet. He
watched her. "So? What's the faux answer?"
She looked up from the floor
and caught his eyes for a split second, then he looked away. "In brief, I
probably parasitise other people's emotions." He snorted. The smirk on
her face remained intact. "Is this it? This really is unsatisfactory. I
mean-" He paused, apparently to compose himself for his next argument
that brought about a slight bitterness to his face. "David..." She
laughed out loud. "What about him," she said. "He's...You had a pretty
massive crush on him, didn't you," he resumed. "Van said Dave tried to
ask you out a million times and what he got was a few very elaborate,
very elusive replies that could only be read as It's Not Gonna Happen. I
don't get it. You could have him, easily so. But you just wouldn't. Why
soak up, and indulge in someone else's emotional experiences - or no,
not even that- someone's artistic reproductions of their emotional
experiences, rather than have your own?" He looked as though he wanted
and didn't want to know at the same time. She blew smoke out of her
mouth to inhale it back through her nostrils.
"You ever read
Jameson?" she asked. "Yes I have," he said, "but I-" "Look, it's very
relevant, in case you were going to say it's just philosophy," she
interrupted. "Hit me if I'm wrong but I think it was him who said that
people these days prefer to experience a controlled de-control of
emotions, and not to subject their entire being to affective
experiences, all that kinda stuff." "That was about drugs, as far as I
remember." "Yeah, but it's the same thing, essentially, isn't it? It's
some funky chemicals going nuts in your blood and brain, no more. And I
think I'm into that. I just borrow what went into the music for the few
minutes I listen to it, then go ahead living my life. Don't we all? We
want stories, we devour them in songs, in films, in books. That's not
really a quirky thing to do, is it. Everyone does it."
He shook his
head. "It's not, it really isn't. And it's not that I can't follow you,
all of this is actually quite apparent, really." She gave him an amused
look. "But?" He sighed. "But I believe people mostly do it for a lack of
worthwhile stories in their lives. You, on the other hand, seem to
consciously avoid every chance of a story." Now she shook her head.
"It's not like all stories revolve around being with someone. You know
that. As of now, I believe I'm better off this way." "It's not like it's
always already a commitment, you know." This came out of his mouth a
lot more impatient or desperate than he intended. "I know," she said. "It's not about
that." She turned to him, grinning impishly. "What are you trying to
do, anyway, set me up with Dave, or what?" He, slightly flustered, met her
gaze. "This is the last thing on earth I'd want to do, honestly." There
was a pause that felt a bit like leaving a cake in the oven for a tad
too long. "What the hell are you scared of?" he asked finally. She
leaned back against the cushions. "Letters from the tax office, mostly,"
she said, "and polar bears being extinct." He couldn't help laughing.
Half an hour later she was swearing to herself about all the ashen traces on her beloved Persian carpet. At that same time, he was walking down Vanderbilt Avenue, wondering if there was a chance for him at all.
amazing. just amazing. please continue!
ReplyDeletethank you!! I'll try.
DeleteThis feels like you. I mean, the Salinger is definitely there as an undercurrent, a foundation, you could call it, but everything visible above ground is in your hue of thought (and perhaps overthought, but that's the fun part). However, you come out not knowing what you actually think, and sort of with the feeling that you don't know it for yourself either. I like your thoughts, though.
ReplyDelete-A
you mean as a reader, this doesn't hold any particular statement for you, because it feels like I didn't state anything straightforward for reasons of not having made up my mind? hope you don't mind elaborating on that a little because I'm verrry much interested/curious now and would gladly read what you have to say. Also: thank you for the Salinger comparison, I am flattered.
DeleteWhat I mean is that I got the feeling that you don't know what your own opinion is about people and love and stories and involvement in life, but you feel you've got to have an opinion so you're using your characters' uncertainty to express your own. And maybe I'm just imagining this into here, but I also felt like you expect yourself to have an opinion, but you don't, so you're trying to create one but you're unsure as to what it should be, and you somewhat feel as if you should have a certain viewpoint that aligns with the rest of your worldview, but you don't feel that's right and you're kind of confused and you don't know how to explain yourself to yourself, if that makes any sense.
DeleteSo on top of that, it's hard for me to know what you think, but maybe that's just me. And isn't it wonderfully fun to be told things about yourself?
-A
thanks, that was interesting. It is indeed wonderful, or at least amusing. I am pretty confident though that I'd subscribe to the girls' views whereas the boy and Maisie are probably something like a means to show how these are not quite the views a majority of people hold, or allow themselves to at least understand, if not relate to, and that it's noticeably difficult to coexist that way, for both sides. Also, I don't know if that's relevant but that story is about a quarter based on a conversation that actually took place, sort of (I had to explain myself on that topic and my observation is that a lot of people don't even try to understand what they don't stand with right from the start, which is sad).
Delete
ReplyDeleteVery helpful advice within this post
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