My flat.
You’re drunk, Priya says.
I am drunk, I say.
So this is drunken you, Priya says. I don’t think I like drunken you.
Have a drink, I say. Catch up.
I don’t want to drink, Priya says. I don’t like seeing you like this.
Like what? I ask. It’s okay. Join me. Come on, you’re staying the night. Follow me down the drain.
You are my drain, Priya says.
So come on down, I say. Flush yourself down.
Am I supposed to feel sorry for you? Priya asks. Am I supposed to patch you up, take care of you, like some tragic fucking artist?
You’re not supposed to do anything, I say.
I’m doing this to you, aren’t I? Priya says. Driving you to drink. I mean why are you drinking today, when I was coming to stay?
Because, because, because, I say.
I shouldn’t get in your way, Priya says. I should just leave you here for you to drink on your own.
Don’t go, I say.
Why not? Priya asks. Why shouldn’t I go?
Because you’re so – fucking – hot, I say. Because you transfigure the world – my world.
Aren’t I part of the natural world? Priya asks. Aren’t I part of the honey trap?
I’m tired of burning out my eyes, writing, I say. I want to look at something … beautiful. And here you are.
You’re so weak, Priya says. You’re a weak man. I despise weak men.
I’m very glad that you’re here, I say. You’re proof that … it doesn’t all suck. The problem is … The problem is … everything. The problem is life. The problem is existence. The problem is time. The fact that there’s more of it. That it never stops.
The problem is the great mechanism’s at work, I say. Pumping on. Making more of the same. More of the more.
The problem is the tedium, I say. It’s the boredom of existence. I hate it. I hate it all.
Yet you don’t hate me, imagine, Priya says. Why is that? You hate everyone but me. There must be something very special about me. To escape your hatred. Your scorn.
My hatred for all things is a sign of my … capacity to love, I say. It’s the inverse of a love – a great love. See, I love the world, too. I love it more than anything. The real world – not this fakery. Not this stage set. Not this scenery … And I love you.
Don’t just say things, Priya says.
I just told you –, I say.
You told me nothing, Priya says. The other day, I was part of nature’s honey trap, or whatever. And today –
Today is today, and full of love, I say. And full of God! Hallelujah!
God was drunk when he made us, I say. He’s drunk as he loves us. And we’re drunk when we turn to him. When we pray. Drunken prayers are the only ones God hears. When we bow our drunken heads. When we speak our drunken prayers. When we slur our drunken words.
God is waiting for us … on the other side, I say. And drinking is the way to go to him. Which is why God wants us to drink. Which is why God wants me to drink more and more.
Let’s dance, I say. Let’s drunk dance. Let’s dance ourselves to death, or drink ourselves to death, or whatever.
Don’t – touch – me, Priya says. You haven’t earnt the right. And you know, drinking like this has been done. It’s very mid twentieth century, alcoholism. No one’s into that anymore. People are more sensible.
I hate sensible, I say.
Alcoholism’s so boring, Priya says. It’s such a cliché. You hate clichés too, don’t you?
But I’m not actually an alcoholic, I say. I’m not even an alcoholic. I’m not even anything. This is just an … afternoon thing. It’s an afternoon melancholy thing. Don’t you ever feel afternoon melancholy? When you started the day with such hopes, such dreams. When you set out to write the best things you could, and then …
Then what? Priya says.
Then you run aground …, I say. Inevitably …
You thrive on this, Priya says. On failure. On nihilism. This is what you’re like.
Do not entrust yourself to failure, I quote. That only makes you nostalgic for success.
You should write about wanting to write a magnum opus, that’s what I think, Priya says. About the impossibility of your writing a magnum opus. That might be more interesting than trying to actually write a magnum opus and failing.
Write about what you can’t do, Priya says. Write about how mediocre you feel. Write about how you disappoint yourself. Write about afternoon melancholy …
Work in Progress 