an afternoon in orleigh park
“I wish I was interesting.”
The words hung there for a moment, meaning many things. He processed for a while, and ultimately settled on one that was not at all what she meant.
“You know I think you’re interesting. If what you want is someone who thinks you’re interesting, why won’t you go out with me?”
“Mother fuck. I don’t want people to think I’m interesting, I want to be interesting. And if I won’t go out with you, why do you keep hanging around me?”
It was a good question. Too good a question. It never registered consciously.
“How can you not think you’re interesting when I’m fascinated by you? Constantly.”
“Because I haven’t done anything. I don’t do anything. I want to be something new, to do something nobody’s ever done before.”
“Too easy. Just put together a sentence nobody’s ever said before. Like, um, ‘That dog upped a pencil on the tramway pretty nicely, Penny.’ Done. Brand spanking new – I can’t possibly imagine anyone would have ever said that before. Put me in the Guinness Book of World Fucking Records. Now you go.”
“Fuck off.”
“No good, pretty sure that one’s been done.”
He was pleased with himself. He was right, of course, but that was not nearly as important as he supposed.
She, on the other hand, was lost in her philosophy. She felt bad, but she felt a largeness in her badness, and that kind of felt good.
“Don’t you ever feel like this? Don’t you ever feel like you’re not amounting to anything? Like you’re making mistake after mistake, and when you figure it out and start correcting your mistakes you just make bigger mistakes? Like there’s nothing for you to do and no time to do it even though you’re not doing anything and everybody else has it figured out? It can’t really just be me. My paranoia about being paranoid can’t possibly be justified. That would just be all wrong.”
“What?”
“You’re being a facetious asshole.”
“Kind of yes and kind of no. I mean, if you’re asking if I ever lack purpose, I guess sometimes. But I don’t now, and I guess that makes it hard to remember what it was like when I did.”
“Well, what’s your purpose, then?”
The regret had started before the sentence was finished.
“I want to be with you.”
“Oh, fucking hell. Am I not making it clear that a) I don’t want to and b) I’d make your life a farce if you were with me?”
“A beautiful farce.”
“Oh, fucking hell.”
There was quiet for a while. A light breeze, fumbling with cigarettes, processing, frustration. She broke the silence.
“Look, just listen to me. As a friend. Please.”
“I have for months, I will again.”
“Thank you. You know I care about you and I want you to just hear me. I want to be interesting. I want future generations to know me and to respect me. I want people to feel lucky they met me. I want to feel like I change people just by being near them. I can handle being sad, but I want to be sure that the sadness has purpose.”
“So you don’t care if you’re happy?
“It’s not that I don’t care, I’m just not sure it’s important.”
“And that’s what you want, to be important?”
“Yeah. I mean, yeah, I guess I do.”
“And will you still be important when the sun consumes the earth in six billion years?”
“Fuck off.”
“No, I won’t fuck off, not this time. I’m serious. Think about it. It doesn’t matter how important you are because it will stop eventually. Think about all the ancient Greeks who bled out their ears with efforts to be important, and now how many are left? After only four thousand years? We can name, what, maybe three? Jesus seems pretty fucking important, but the earth is still going to be consumed by the sun. Thanks for nothing, Jesus. Seriously. It’s not going to matter, and it won’t be that long until it doesn’t matter any more. But now, what you feel now is real, and if you pay attention to it, it is important. You don’t need to keep killing yourself for some kind of ‘As Seen on TV’ immortality.”
Silence again. Processing, smoking, gentle breeze. Car alarm somewhere in the distance.
She sighed and looked away from him before speaking.
“Yeah, I mean, I don’t agree. I can’t argue with you, but I just feel like I don’t agree. I don’t know.”
“I do. At least for now. At least this time.”
“Well, I’m happy for you. Really. I envy your certainty. But fuck this. Let’s go get high.”
With that, they grabbed the knapsack.
Walking, laughing, wanting. Being close and being far away.
The words hung there for a moment, meaning many things. He processed for a while, and ultimately settled on one that was not at all what she meant.
“You know I think you’re interesting. If what you want is someone who thinks you’re interesting, why won’t you go out with me?”
“Mother fuck. I don’t want people to think I’m interesting, I want to be interesting. And if I won’t go out with you, why do you keep hanging around me?”
It was a good question. Too good a question. It never registered consciously.
“How can you not think you’re interesting when I’m fascinated by you? Constantly.”
“Because I haven’t done anything. I don’t do anything. I want to be something new, to do something nobody’s ever done before.”
“Too easy. Just put together a sentence nobody’s ever said before. Like, um, ‘That dog upped a pencil on the tramway pretty nicely, Penny.’ Done. Brand spanking new – I can’t possibly imagine anyone would have ever said that before. Put me in the Guinness Book of World Fucking Records. Now you go.”
“Fuck off.”
“No good, pretty sure that one’s been done.”
He was pleased with himself. He was right, of course, but that was not nearly as important as he supposed.
She, on the other hand, was lost in her philosophy. She felt bad, but she felt a largeness in her badness, and that kind of felt good.
“Don’t you ever feel like this? Don’t you ever feel like you’re not amounting to anything? Like you’re making mistake after mistake, and when you figure it out and start correcting your mistakes you just make bigger mistakes? Like there’s nothing for you to do and no time to do it even though you’re not doing anything and everybody else has it figured out? It can’t really just be me. My paranoia about being paranoid can’t possibly be justified. That would just be all wrong.”
“What?”
“You’re being a facetious asshole.”
“Kind of yes and kind of no. I mean, if you’re asking if I ever lack purpose, I guess sometimes. But I don’t now, and I guess that makes it hard to remember what it was like when I did.”
“Well, what’s your purpose, then?”
The regret had started before the sentence was finished.
“I want to be with you.”
“Oh, fucking hell. Am I not making it clear that a) I don’t want to and b) I’d make your life a farce if you were with me?”
“A beautiful farce.”
“Oh, fucking hell.”
There was quiet for a while. A light breeze, fumbling with cigarettes, processing, frustration. She broke the silence.
“Look, just listen to me. As a friend. Please.”
“I have for months, I will again.”
“Thank you. You know I care about you and I want you to just hear me. I want to be interesting. I want future generations to know me and to respect me. I want people to feel lucky they met me. I want to feel like I change people just by being near them. I can handle being sad, but I want to be sure that the sadness has purpose.”
“So you don’t care if you’re happy?
“It’s not that I don’t care, I’m just not sure it’s important.”
“And that’s what you want, to be important?”
“Yeah. I mean, yeah, I guess I do.”
“And will you still be important when the sun consumes the earth in six billion years?”
“Fuck off.”
“No, I won’t fuck off, not this time. I’m serious. Think about it. It doesn’t matter how important you are because it will stop eventually. Think about all the ancient Greeks who bled out their ears with efforts to be important, and now how many are left? After only four thousand years? We can name, what, maybe three? Jesus seems pretty fucking important, but the earth is still going to be consumed by the sun. Thanks for nothing, Jesus. Seriously. It’s not going to matter, and it won’t be that long until it doesn’t matter any more. But now, what you feel now is real, and if you pay attention to it, it is important. You don’t need to keep killing yourself for some kind of ‘As Seen on TV’ immortality.”
Silence again. Processing, smoking, gentle breeze. Car alarm somewhere in the distance.
She sighed and looked away from him before speaking.
“Yeah, I mean, I don’t agree. I can’t argue with you, but I just feel like I don’t agree. I don’t know.”
“I do. At least for now. At least this time.”
“Well, I’m happy for you. Really. I envy your certainty. But fuck this. Let’s go get high.”
With that, they grabbed the knapsack.
Walking, laughing, wanting. Being close and being far away.
posted by H. Now at 6:31 p.m.
4 Comments:
I'm very fond of Kipling's poem IF which is ultimately a paen to pointless labour - "If you can meet with triumph and disaster / and treat those two imposters just the same" -"If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken, twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, and see the things you've given your life to broken, and stoop and build them up with worn down tools" ... then you'll be a MAN!!! or words to that effect. Ultimately (a) I don't want to be a man (being happy being a woman) and (b) I'm not sure why pointless labour is a good thing but (c) despite these contradictions, I believe both that it's futile to try to change the world & that it's v groovy morally & psychologically healthier to try. Years of therapy are doubtless needed ....
I'm not sure that's the same as being important vs not but there you are....
The line that is just begging to be said is:
'I wish she was interesting too'
but I can't say it because
a) it's too smartass-ish and,
b) it's not true, since it's a good piece of writing...
thanks all. I enjoyed doing this - gave me a chance to give voice to both sides of a debate I have in my own head. It'd be nice to be Einstein, but he's just as dead as anyone else, so I'll be me instead.
What are you doing as an academic? You need to be writing fiction. Seriously. This is fantastic.
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