Life is a particular state of mind. I am surrounded by people, some of them friends, a few are simply acquaintances, and one or two I have to admit are even, whisper it gently, American, and I can say that with only one possible exception they are all suffering quite badly from a peculiar case of existence. The odd one out is Australian, which means he is simply peculiar, (but in a very entertaining way).
This ailment declares itself through all sorts of symptoms. Some unfortunates sing songs by Andrew Lloyd Webber, (this is incurable without drastic surgery), a number of them have been known to drink hard liquor, (or in a worse case scenario, herbal tea), and a minority ride bell free ancient bicycles on public walkways encouraging fear in the hearts of pedestrians everywhere. (It is, I believe, the modern equivalent of Roman chariot racing…a sort of Ben Hur without the horses but with double the casualties.)
Life is a fearful thing. There be dragons in every dream, salt in every sugar bowl, and soap operas on every television channel. Each street corner seems to be inhabited by either a preacher for the ‘Church of Dolly Parton and Latter Day Gingham Dresses’, someone painted gold or silver and standing still in the hope you’ll give them money to go away, or a group of musicians from the Andes wearing colourful ponchos and large hats, playing carefully carved wooden flutes. Nowhere is safe from these songs telling ancient tales of the high mountains, Spanish treachery and llamas. (Trust me, I’ve heard Peruvian folk tunes in both Oslo and Aberdeen while the snow has been cascading from the less than blue sky and ice has been forming on the chilled noses of the shivering performers.)
You can’t ignore life, or at least you can try but it will catch you out eventually. You’ll be standing there, minding your own or other people’s business, when something will happen that wakes you from that daze of safety you’ve adopted to get you through the week. A policeman will arrest you for looking drunk in charge of a tree, (this might be a peculiarly British thing), or a particularly vicious pigeon might dive bomb and steal the sandwich you’ve been saving for a rainy day, or perhaps an innocent looking apple will fall from the tree you are sheltering under and render you unconscious, allowing the white slave trader who just happens to be standing nearby to steal your wallet, your identity, and then sell your body for medical research. (Just one of the reasons why I don’t carry a wallet!)
Now, of course, there are some who look upon all such acts as a positive signal, and who use these little episodes to sign their way to a Californian lifestyle of fine wine, money and Puerto Rican housemaids, but I cannot take that road. I prefer to think that life is dangerous, scary, and, what’s worse, uninsurable. It’s best to steer clear of excess, whether that be of light, laughter or, heaven forefend, garlic. But you have to leave the safety of the cave sometimes, and that’s how it happened. I think. Or should that is how she happened…?
When I say happened, I don’t actually mean happened. Actually, nothing has, will, or can happen, as I doubt she really knows I exist. To be honest I’m not sure that I exist. Oh, we chat, share the odd drink, catch the very occasional show, but does she see me, and if she did would she call the police, produce a mace spray, or draw a small revolver and aim it at my heart? Having seen myself in the mirror a few minutes after breakfast, I would tend towards all three. Twice. (Actually, I might claim that we chat but I am stretching a point. She chats while I talk unintelligible gibberish at a very high speed. Why do women have this effect on men, or even me?)
To the story: I am in recovery after spending nearly a third of my life with the one woman. It has taken three years to reach this stage, three years of dark evenings and lonely drinks, of staring through windows as the rain fell whilst all the time hoping the phone would ring and a voice would say ‘I am here’. Three years of fear and anger and hopeless moments, but I am now in recovery, and I can look at this vision in wonder. I gaze at her and my mind is as a blank. She walks into a room and suddenly the lights go on. She has entered the periphery of my world and suddenly I am almost whole, or at least the bits of me that remain seem to show signs of being in reasonable working order, but I’m not insane enough to believe that this will lead to a future spent in her life affirming warmth. I may dare to dream, but…no.
Life on your own can be rather dull and empty, the dullness being caused by too much time in your own company, and the empty being the number of used bottles I have to take to the recycling site every week. I am a huge investor at the bottle bank, have never had an overdraft, and expect a large amount of interest to be added to my account any day now. During these days and nights of solo existence I have taken up many hobbies, almost all of them completely useless. For instance, instead of learning the language of the country I live in, I now collect ancient coffee machines and battered samovars. Rather than read life improving books and novels by impressive authors with unpronounceable names, I gaze longingly at the strange little bar two floors below my apartment and imagine lives for the two or three who seem to spend every waking hour there there. When I could be writing my memoirs, ‘Where Did I Put That Bottle Opener?’, I prefer to spend my time looking for that bottle opener. (I know it’s here somewhere.)
Now, you may claim that I am a very sad person who should stop daydreaming and move forward, and maybe you are right. I will certainly find myself a German class, possibly dispose of several hot drink makers, and perhaps even buy a new corkscrew, much as I like the old one, (I’m sure I’ll find it eventually). I could learn to drive, buy a bicycle, drink less, write more, and find a way to live that gives a little hope for whatever time I have left. The problem is, I rather like the emotions I have been feeling for the past months, even if it makes sleep quite impossible and leads me to burst into songs by Stephen Sondheim on the 46 tram.
Maybe I should take Chet Baker’s advice and say, ‘darn that dream. On the other hand, and I think this is more likely, I might just dive right in and damn the consequences. It doesn’t matter that I might find myself in deep water and can’t swim. Perhaps she’ll rescue me. And if not, it’s only my imagination. Or is it?
