Life Lesson #16 [or #6A]

Curiosity > Contempt.

With Mint Tea On a Sunday Night; Weightless

What She Knew

People did not know what she knew, that she was not really a woman but a man, often a fat man, but more often, probably, an old man. The fact that she was an old man made it hard for her to be a young woman. It was hard for her to talk to a young man, for instance, though the young man was clearly interested in her. She had to ask herself, Why is this young man flirting with this old man?

—Lydia Davis

It's like the saying: Don't get mad, get even more reasons to be fucking furious.

ME: Oh god I hate people who exhaust me...

MUM: (opens her mouth to speak)
ME:...but more than that I hate that I care about people who exhaust me.
MUM: (closes mouth, look of bemusement)
ME: (sudden manic laughter)

Silence.

LEARN THE GODDAMN LESSON YOU FOOL

Life Lesson #14

You can't stop people from engaging with other people in ways you wish they wouldn't.


[And you'll never stop wishing you could.]

Theater of the absurd

 

 

Ricocheting from home to home, 
banging down doors yelling FEED 
ME FEED ME, never staying long 
enough to be fed, going steadily 
insane with hunger instead, always 
returning hopefully to empty kitchens, 
hands and mouth open, swallowing 
painful clumps of bitter air, still 
surprised at the absence there.

Fish Don't Fly (Karma Cola 2.011)

Hands full of glasses, lungs full of smoke, large laughs, little skirts, high heels, big dreams. It scares me when people look this good and stand so tall, confident taking up space and conducting their lives, zero jhijak, full throttle. Empty bottle. Khali botal, masti total. The scene has gone beyond the hotal, and spilled out across Delhi's spacious periphery. Dust blows back from under their wheels into the city's interior as they emerge from it, unscathed, unfazed, freshly bathed at midnight. Like a compulsive calorie-counter, I begin silently to compute how many hours went into that make-up, that hair, that outfit. Not just tonight; years of practice until the right shade, the right style, the right fit. Every one of them self-trained in a highly evolved curatorial art.

I bite. I am mesmerized. I stare at the women and even peel open an eye for the men. How did these people happen, and where have they been? Are they the same kids I went to school with? I didn't see it, but they must have grown past routine considerations of social etiquette, likeability, glamour; past even bravery, to blossom into a realm of pure, unselfconscious being. How did they do it? How do they do it? I simmer, humiliated that the implicit altitude of my high road hasn't actually allowed me to transcend anything. Here I am, craning my neck, watching these strange beings casually stand around on my glass ceiling. I experience a sort of myoclonic jerk, and almost fall. When I realize the ground is still beneath my feet I feel euphoric with relief.

They must always have been around. They must have looked different before now. Or maybe I wasn't paying attention. Now I am, and here they are. Groomed. Lipsticked. Perfumed. Pleated. Yelling one more song. Shelling out bills like handfulls of confetti. Air kissing on both cheeks. Talking to each other like they have something to say. They must do. But what is it? I am aware of a web of knowledge being spun and respun all around me. But what is it transmitting? They all know something I don't. They are serious about it. They understand the importance of trading this information. I don't know what it is or why it's important. I'm full of questions. I can't tell if they're good ones. I think they started out rhetorical, but now I don't know my own answers.

Does it mean something when a kid hoots about holding MDMA during a drug-satire? Why am I drawn to the one man in a Fabindia vest? Why does the word fuck seem to have an echo? Is there something to say about the blond girl weaving intensely in front of the blond boy, both sets of pupils exploding? The lead singer's wig, the musicians clothes; the drunk Tibetan girl throwing up in the loo; the posh Delhi club and the reference to Frantz Fanon; the tiny top-hat in the hair of a girl from Lucknow---are these things noteworthy?

The taxi driver plays Sai songs. He introduces himself with his name, followed by the focus, location and progress of his education. He's at the same college as my Dad. I went to the same college as his cousin. He plays cricket and goes home to eat his mother's homecooked food. His brother owns a cab company of thirty cars. He's an extra for the night. He drives like a mosquito flies; a mosquito propelled by jet fuel. He calls me ma'am. For the first time ever, I don't protest. I lock the gate, go upstairs, call my mother to let me in. Pixie-cut still perfect, she comes to the door. I debrief briefly, and say goodnight. Five minutes later, she calls me to say hi. Ten minutes later, I have my face in a navy blue silk sari that once belonged to my grandmother. Three hours later, ma'am is asleep.

Words from a crying little boy:

"I can't even call you on the phone because I'm not old enough."

NY7 - Vanity

Many many people sneaking strange glances at me on the street and the subway, in bookstores and cafes. Brief visual interactions that appear neither appreciative nor critical. Recognition, mostly, with a tinge of either embarrassment or bemusement, as though they'd all seen me in some seedy internet sex-tape or silly YouTube video. Oh how I hope it is the latter. Or perhaps, much better, we're all simply feeling observant and brave, noticing each other and interested enough to stare a little. I don't mind. I do it all the time. Bright pink boat shoes and slim progress into 2666. Thick-knit rust-coloured scarf and an equally thick, spring-yellow copy of something published by Gotham Writers Workshop; extra cilantro. Grey-sweatshirt genius slipping out a SoHo street door. Still, I feel I am being watched. Like that guy whose life turns out to be a reality TV show, and his bright blue skies a well-painted backdrop. Hope these blossoms I've been looking up at aren't made of styrofoam.

Jagger would have something to say about this.

I said to them, Let's do things with our lives that aren't just about looking cool, and they cocked their heads and ruffled my hair as though I were a child.

I asked for companionship and she made promises full of youth and you.

I demanded his life and he sent me a schedule.

Sermon of the day (with a half sandwich).

The true threat of social media is that it falls us in love with people we don't actually know. Its value lies in its inverse ability to disinfatuate us with those people (or ideas or things) we might've cared too much about had we known less. Quite egalitarian, really: fair, if mediated, odds of succeeding or failing at rendering oneself romanceable.

I'm just keeping an eye above the spectacle while I eat my tomato and cheese.

(See what I did there?)

Of Naturalized Artifice and Other Revelations

Thanks to SongSoo, bright spark, significant person.

Awake for ever in a sweet unrest

Attachment is such a difficult thing to undo.

Eugene Capstone #2: The wrong kind of lit.

You know you're a geek when the smart-arse salsa vendor who flirts with you at the farmer's market gets a napkin with the name of a novel, rather than your number, on it.

Not sexy. Even despite the fruitsicle, hot jalapeno relish, and one more game of Guess Her Nationality. Sexier, perhaps, was the look of bemusement I exchanged with his small female coworker who had no doubt witnessed the putting of the same moves on other vegetable-shopping Eugene chicks several times today.

Technology + Alcohol + Entitlement =

Nothing wakes you up like a call from a drunken stranger at three in the morning, asking you who you are. Except, perhaps, being told to stop being an "uptight bitch" when, on the third phone call, you finally ask her what she wants.

Thanks, Trish.

Oh, and if you really want to "make it up to me," STOP TALKING AND HANG UP, for fuck's sake. And the next time you lose your phone at the bottom of what I can only assume was a keg of Keystone Light, maybe try not being such a perfect asshole to a stranger who, if she'd actually stolen your phone, probably would not have picked it up three times in the middle of the night.

Our generation, ladies and gents.

Life Lesson #5

It's not a good idea to hope for rescue from someone who is also waiting to be saved.


[You can't be both Damsel and White Knight.]