Author: Lars Iyer

Complicity in evil – ultra-evil. There’s no stepping back. No pause. No way of holding ourselves back from the ceaseless screaming horror.

We are made part of the evil. They’ve signed us up for the evil. They’ve conscripted us for evil. It’s not enough that they’re evil – we must be evil too.

 

We desecrate ourselves. We’ve been made to desecrate ourselves. We destroy ourselves. We’ve been made to destroy ourselves. They’ve make us satanic.

 

We live in the world of lies, and we are made liars. We live in the world of death, and we are made dead.

 

Hatred is our truest feeling. Truth – in the form of hatred. Hatred as a way of loving what is true, what is right.

We hate because of what is good in us. We hate because of what is true in us.

 

Our horror: the inverted image of the light. It’s how we know the light.

 

The abyss of the world. The world-abyss. The world that hates us, and that we must hate. The evil that hates us, and that we must hate.

The world is turned against us. Their world – because they own the world. They’ve seized the world and laid hold of the world.

 

Why must we negotiate with evil? Why are we forced into the middle ground – their middle ground. Their so-called middle ground.

 

And this is why we must be fanatics. To resist their hideous strength. Their power of ruination. Their work of death. Their constant operation.

 

We live in the truth. Which is the meaning of our torment. Which is the meaning of our drunkenness. Which is why we are who we are.

Which is why we’ve come to the coast. Like Christians who look to the east for the risen Christ. Or who ascend pillars to await him. At least we’re waiting. At least we know the world is incomplete.

 

The coast is the place. Where the lie is exposed – and continually. By the extent of the sky. By the vastness of the sea.

The coast is for the undeceived. The coast is for the unfooled. The coast is for the not entirely destroyed.

We come here for the truth – to live in the truth.

The fogs of the coast: illumination. The clouds of the coast: brightness.

 

A last redoubt. A last holdout.

Will we be able to resist, at the coast? Will it be able to reach us, at the coast? Will their stormtroopers knock at our door at the coast?

Our hangovers. What could we have accomplished without them? Who could we have been? What could we have written? If we didn’t drink, what then? If we hadn’t destroyed ourselves last night, what might have we done today?

But we did it on purpose. We did it because we wanted to.

 

The world that is busyness, compromise. The world that only deepens your entanglement. The world that only destroys your independence. Your integrity. The world that is only a death-plunge, over and again. That only destroys you, over and again.

A crash – each day. A destruction – every day. And ceaselessly. The continual deepening of the crisis.

Which is why we meet the day hungover. Which is why we must make a pre-emptive strike against the ludicrousness of hope.

We’ve numbed ourselves in advance. We’ve made ourselves stupid in advance. Hangover-stupid. Hangover-blank.

Hangover-stupor: our perpetual state. Which means we never really come into focus. Which means we never really catch up with our emails. Which means we never really come to ourselves. That we’re never entirely alive in their world.

This is your banal phase. This is your banal affair. It’s a normie affair. A normcore affair. Before you meet some European. Some Italian, or whatever. Some fellow philosopher. Some continentalist.

And in the meantime: this. In the meantime … It’s always the meantime. It doesn’t get beyond the meantime. Here we are, in the middle of the meantime. In the middle of the day. And all the days are the same. And we’re just the same.

And we’re wearing through time. We’ve worn thought time. We can see right through it.

To what? What’s on the other side?

I don’t know. More of the same, probably.

 

Our atoms are growing farther apart. We’re less dense. We’re less ourselves. We’re porous … We’re merging into the afternoon. It’s entering into us. Saturating us.

We’re, like, wise with the afternoon. Vast with the afternoon. We’re dispersing. We’ll blow away …

 

Afternoon amnesia. Afternoon oblivion. Is it possible just to forget … everything? Except you, maybe.

 

We’re afternoon-drunk. Drunk on the afternoon. On the white, white sky. On all those clouds, where a blue sky’s supposed to be. Where God’s supposed to be.

Pallid daylight without depth … Where nothing’s revealed. Where everything is as it was. Where banality’s banality and nothing else.

 

Falling through the afternoon. Is that what we’re doing? Falling, just falling. Unanchored. No … responsibilities. Nothing to do, except … this. And what is this?

 

What’s love, anyway? We’re just contemplating love. We’re holding it at a distance, and looking at it. We’re far from love, just like we’re far from everything …

 

Something’s taking place through us. Despite us, almost. Against us. Something that’s not ours. Some kind of event – or non-event. Something that’s not happening. That’s subtracting happening from happening. What the fuck am I saying? What is this room doing to me?

 

The world’s still, isn’t it? Nothing’s moving. The clouds aren’t moving. Just unbroken white. There’s no wind. Nothing I can see, anyway. There aren’t even any birds. Where have the birds gone? Where has everything gone? Where have we gone?

 

Your flat’s adrift in the sky. Like in Wizard of Oz. We’re just floating through the sky. There’s nothing but whiteness.

 

I feel so vague. Do you feel vague? Are we supposed to feel like this? Like, we can’t think anything. Anything clear, anyway. Anything precise … We’ve been disarmed. We’re out of service. We’re not needed. We’re surplus to requirements. We were ordered by mistake, or whatever … And now what? What are we supposed to do? Just be, I think. Just float.

 

If I feel asleep now, what would happen? If I feel asleep and woke up and fell asleep and just … lived here, what then?

Would you like to live here?

Right now, I would. Right now …

 

I can’t even finish a sentence. It’s being drunk without being drunk. It’s getting lost when you’re trying to finish a … sentence … You don’t know where it’s going to end. Fuck, I can’t think a single clear thing …

 

I’m tired of being lost. I want to be found. I want to see God looking down at me through the skylight. God’s great eye. Wouldn’t that be something?

 

I feel like I’m falling. When I close my eyes, I get vertigo … Why do I come out here? Why do I feel these things? Does this flat do this to everyone? It’s like you’ve cast some spell over me. No – it’s like a spell’s been cast over both of us. Here at the coast.

 

I want to shout. I want to be heard.

Who by? I hear you.

Not by you. But by … God.

 

I want to shout something, just to show I can. Just to be able to. Just to be able to do anything. I don’t want to just give everything up. I don’t want to surrender. I don’t want to yield to this.

 

I feel so fucked. God, how will I ever get up? How will I ever do anything again?

I want to get dressed and go. I want to drive off. I want to go to the gym … Anything except this. But I like this …

 

You’re not going to save me. You’re not going to break my fall. You’re not going to do anything.

You don’t need saving.

What do I need? What do I want? What am I doing here? What’s anything? Why anything?

I don’t know what I used to know. And what I know now … isn’t good for anything. And I’m not good for anything. And nor are you, but you know that.

 

Are we meditating, or something? Are we praying or something? And to who? Who’s listening? Who’s watching?

 

The day will never end. It’ll never be over. It’ll just go on forever. This moment is, like, a forever moment. Now what? What next? It's not like it’s going anywhere. It’s not like it has a direction.

Do you ever feel everything you say is in quotes, like it’s been said before? By someone else, maybe. Or by us in another life … Do you ever feel that all this happened before, and we’re just living it again? That all this is part of the whole of life flashing before your eyes as you die?

 

Do you ever think it’s all been said before – that everything’s been said before? That we can’t say a single new thing? … It’s like all the words have already been prepared. All the scripts for lovers’ talk. All the things lovers have said. And we only get to quote …

 

Do you ever think that I might say something profound, just by chance? That would surprise you, wouldn’t it, philosopher? That I might be the clue to the truth of all things. Out of the mouth of the organisational manager, eh, philosopher? That I might be the key to it all … It might speak through me, whatever it is …

 

Where does all this talk lead? Where does it take us? Nowhere. The same place as we were before.

But everything’s a little bit different.

No, everything’s even more the same …

 

We’re so meta. Talking about his stuff. Instead of just … romancing. Fucking, or whatever.

Talking’s part of it.

I don't belive it.

 

Do you worry that we’ll never get to the point? That we’ll never talk about what really concerns us – what’s really important? Do you ever think that everything we say just gets in the way?

 

Listen to me. I used to be an organisational manager. What am I now: a philosopher?

 

All this talking, and we never get to the point.

What point?

There’s something important to be said, I’m sure of it. Something that wants to be said.

 

That’s enough shit-talking for one day. Have we talked enough? Have we decided things? Who’s listening, anyway?

God, maybe.

Does he tired of our wittering? He’s supposed to love us, but who could love us. I don’t love us.

 

All the stuff we’re saying echoes with something. What’s important is the echoing. What echoes through what we say.

What is it?

Some great rumbling. A roaring – but very far away.

What is it anyway? We always talk of it. Our being together. Our lust. Our ‘love affair’ in inverted commas. It. Like it had a life of its own.

Sure. It’s at work. It’s working through us. It’s doing things to us – with us. It’ll get tired of us at some point.

What’ll get tired?

It – just it. Our romance …

And then what’ll happen? Will it just disperse into the afternoon and disappear? God … And we’ll be none the wiser. And this whole affair will be like something we just dreamt up … The enchantment will lift. The spell will be uncast, or whatever. And we’ll wake up wondering what happened … Like Bottom’s dream, or whatever …

 

Are we getting tired of each other? Are we wearing it out, whatever it is. This thing. This it. That’s taking over our lives. Well, my life, anyway.

 

It conjured us up. We’re the poles of a relation called ‘it’. That’s just playing out through us. By means of us. Using us for its own ends.

Nature, you mean. Reproduction, you mean.

Don’t get all evolutionary biologist about it. It’s, like, more alive than us, greater than us, wider than us. Closer to the sky. Closer to the state of things. Closer to what’s real.

 

It’s happening. Through us. Despite us, even. Despite what we say or think we want … 

Nature, you mean.

Sure, but all of nature, like Spinoza said. All of the world. Which means God, too …

 

It’s happening. Through us.

Nature, you mean.

Yeah – nature. The mechanical world. The universe of fucking death. Which I’m part of, and you’re part of .. The same old mechanism, perpetuating itself.

Who’s capable of love nowadays, anyway? Who can do it? We don’t even believe in love. We don’t expect anything of it, not really. We know the fantasy stuff’s just fantasy. We’re grounded. We’re down to earth.

Speak for yourself.

We know it’s just hormones. It’s just nature’s way of making us reproduce, or whatever. We know it’s just chemicals. It’s evolution. Of course we do. We don’t expect anything of love. We’re not like that anymore. We’ve grown up, haven’t we? We’re not the naïve types we were …

Tawdry realism: is that the lesson of fifteen years of marriage?

Better than your pseudo religious stuff.

This is what maturity looks like.

Then God help us. God – literally – should fucking help us.

 

Nature wants to keep us together long enough to reproduce. Three years, where you’re addicted to each other, can’t live without one another. That’s enough to gestate a baby, see it through the first year of life.

What if we’re not natural? What if we were produced against nature?

Nothing’s against nature.

But what if? What if we’re some fluke? Some flaw?

Fuck you. Nature has the last laugh.

Does it?

 

Everything’s reduced to … hormones and chemicals and Nature capital N. All psychology has become, like, evolutionary psychology. It’s miserable. We, like, know everything, but it’s miserable, and it doesn’t matter that it’s miserable.

You can discount your feelings, right? You can explain them away. Psychological states … Just this feeling, that feeling. Nothing to do with what’s real … You explain yourself away. You can explain everything, and you don’t even have to believe in any of the stuff you say …

And what are you left with? God – these times. So overbearning, and so banal.

 

We don’t believe who we’re told we really are. We can’t believe it. We’re liars. We lie to ourselves – we have to. Because we can’t bear what we supposedly are.

 

No one believe in the grandeur of love anymore. No one believes in the dignity of the lover. 

 

I love you more than anything else in the world: what if I said that? What would it mean? What do I mean when I say that? Is it true, do you think?

You should know.

Should I? Turns out we don’t know anything at all.

I don’t think we’ve ever drunk enough – that’s the problem. We’ve never reached perfect drunkenness. Or if we have, we haven’t sustained it. We haven’t let drunkenness carry us with it. We’ve never followed its movement.

 

There’s a drunkenness we have to reach. It takes training. It isn’t easy. It’ s a discipline. You have to dedicate yourself to drinking. Night after night.

 

There are super-drinkers out there … like super-athletes. They’re paced for the long term. They’re dedicated. Disciplined.

 

Drunkenness isn’t the aim – it’s the byproduct. There’s something else you’re looking for when you drink. A way of tuning in. An attunement. There’s a way of sensing deeper movements. Like tectonic movements. But of the spirit. Spiritual movements.

 

I just think there are other planes we can reach. Of perception. Of being. We can live in other ways.

Through drinking?

There are ways of attuning ourselves to … God knows what. To God, maybe. To the movements of God. To the dreams of God. To the longings of God.

What does God long for?

Us – to turn our faces to Him. To acknowledge Him. To say: we are Your creatures. We were created by You.

 

There’s a glory … almost beyond our reach. But that we can touch, when we drink. There’s truth. Just there – just over there. That we could reach, if only we could reach out …

 

God is waiting for us … on the other side. We just have to find a way to go towards Him.

And drinking … Drinking is the way. The drunken way. The giving-it-all-up way.

 

We have to discover the current. Let the current carry us. Take us there.

Where?

To God, of course. To the kingdom of fucking heaven.

 

We can be flawed. We can be fools. We can be borderline alcoholics, which we are. But God doesn’t mind. God will forgive us. God is bigger than that.

God knows we thirst for him. God knows we’re holy drinkers. That drinking is the path. That it’s a way in which we’re allowed to come close.

 

I’m religious when I drink. This is all I know of religion, practically.

God is here. I know it. God wants me to drink. God wants me to drink more and more.

A religious drinker. A drinker who gets more religious with every drink. It’s beautiful … it’s all beautiful.

What’s beautiful?

God’s creation. God’s drunken creation.

 

I want to hear a drunken sermon. What’s our text for tonight? This bit from Paul. The powers … the fucking principalities.

… For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places … take unto you the whole armour of God.

Fucking A.

 

I like your drunken smile … I love it, your drunken smile.

 

Bless me father … bless us all … we need your benedictions. We need to feel as though we are good. That we can be good. Bless us all.

 

Tonight, we’re following God’s plan. We’re giving ourselves over to God. We’re putting ourselves in God’s fucking hands.

 

Tonight, the whole world is drunk. Tonight everyone and everything is drunk. We’re drunk in the world-drunkenness. We’re messianic people. We’re God’s people. We’re drunk and drunk and drunk … We’re God’s elect. A drunken choir. We sing upwards …

 

Tell us, Cicero. Fucking testify. Tell us about God. Tell us the most beautiful God-stories. I want to hear about angels. About Adam. About the Son of fucking Man.

Tell us the most beautiful things Jesus did. Just the words. How he overturned the tables. How he told those parables. How he was crucified – fucking crucified. How he was fucking born again. How he rolled away the fucking stone.

Cicero, in his cups. Cicero, drinking. Epically. Heroically. All day. And now he’s reached an end of the day wisdom. A whisky wisdom. A coming of night wisdom.

Cicero, calm. Cicero, wise, with the wisdom of God. He knows what God knows. He’s Certain, with the Certainty of God.

Cicero’s traversed the day like you traverse a life. Cicero’s lived everything. All lives. He’s been to the end and back. And now he’s ready to share his wisdom.

Cicero’s reached the apocalyptic night. He’s reached the last night of all. He’s speaking from the end – the utter end. He’s voicing what’s to come. Last things, eschatological things. They’re second nature to him, at this time of night. It’s the language he speaks. He couldn’t speak otherwise. Truth, truth. And all you can do is listen.

 

My hatred of the world: you don’t take it seriously, do you? 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.

 

I’ve retired from frontline thought. From teaching, in other words.

From teaching!? What a loss. Cicero’s famous disaster lectures. Cicero's famous messianism lectures.

 

I thought you were going to write a magnum opus.

Life is my magnum opus.

Drinking yourself to death will be your magnum opus.

It’s a honourable death. We have to admit we’ve been defeated.

 

Do not struggle. They’ll simply use the energy against you. Sink. Fall. Embrace the catastrophe. Make sweet love with the catastrophe. Fuck the catastrophe – why not? Be fucked by it. Or are you too busy with Ava? But then maybe she is the catastrophe, who knows?

 

All the exits are closed. The doors are sealed. It’s really only a question of how you’re going to kill yourself.

 

The only honest thing to do is drink. Is fade away. It’s only death games from now on.

 

There must have been precedents in defeat. Who are our precursors? The utterly routed? What did they do?

Just died from depression. Wasted away.

Is that what’s going to happen to us?

 

The void – is that it? We have to head into the void. The void will come to us. We don’t have to head anywhere.

The void will knock on the door, like the secret police. No – the void is already inside you. Understand that. It’s in your head. Your own head.

You’ve been hijacked. Everything good and compassionate about us has been hijacked. Every kindly impulse we have. They know how to do it. They have the behavioural psychologists. The nudge units. The techniques.

They’ve seen them succeed. Beyond their dreams! And now they’re emboldened. Now the master plan – their master plan.

 

Fade-out – that’s the best we can hope for. To just go under. To have the good taste just to die of despair.

 

Killing yourself grants too much power to them. It’s their gesture, not yours. Sink down, and wait to die. Sink down, and drink, waiting to die. There’s an honour in that.

 

As in the days of fucking Noah, right?

I don’t know what to do. I feel … posthumous. Like I died long ago. And I’m just outliving myself. I’m living for … nothing. I’m doing nothing. Nothing good.

 

You thrive on this. On this … nihilism. This is what you like. Fuck.

 

How do you keep going? What drives you? Just fucking nihilism?

 

I don’t like seeing you like this. I like you all noble and aspiring. About to write some masterpiece and so cute. Not all blowsy …

This is alcoholic me.

You’re not even an alcoholic. Which makes it even more depressing.

You’re not even drinking yourself to death. You just want to be … stunned, or something. Hit over the head.

 

Now you’ll have an excuse for not finishing anything. For not achieving anything.

 

Now everyone can talk about ruined promise. About what you could have been. Even though you know you couldn’t have been anything.

 

Anyway, it’s very mid twentieth century, drinking yourself to death. No one’s into that anymore. People are more sensible.

I hate sensible.

 

What happened to your lofty philosophical dreams?

I thought you had contempt for my lofty philosophical dreams.

At least you had dreams. At least you had something.

It’s a one off. I’m drunk, true … but it’s just an … afternoon thing. It’s an afternoon melancholy thing.

It’s an afternoon drinking-yourself-to-death thing.

 

God … How did this happen? Do I have such poor taste? Where exactly did I go wrong?

See, you like masochist death boys. Philosophy boys. You like the death-drive. You want to follow me down the drain.

I come here for sex, not death.

 

Alcoholism’s been done. It’s so boring. Drinking and drinking and then what?

God, the amount of literary drunks. And God knows, philosophical drunks. And artistic drunks.

 

You’re drinking too much.

Maybe I am.

Day drinking. Can’t be good for you. Shouldn’t you wait until it’s dark at least? Until the sun crosses the yard arm, or whatever.

 

You need to move. You need to get away from the coast. It’s not good for you.

 

You need looking after. You need some poor sap to look after you. Who will she be? Whose life are you going to ruin? I mean,  apart from your own.

 

So join me. Have a drink.

How am I going to get home? That’d be a giveaway, wouldn’t it?

I thought your husband was in Bulgaria.

Go on then. Pour me a glass. I’m going to join you in degradation. I want to be a cliché, too.

 

I could stay the night.

So stay the night.

Here in the void. Here in the fucking void.

 

God, I’m off the tracks. I don’t know where I’m heading. Nowhere good … What a waste of life. We’re just spoiling … everything … When my husband comes back, I’ll sober up. I’ll live sensibly again …

 

Like attracts like. Like knows like. We’re pretty similar, you and I.

Don't fucking say it.

 

You’re wondering how you might meet some cute young thing who would take pity on you and look after you and stop you drinking yourself to death. Someone who’d be fascinated by your literariness. By your philosophicalness. Are there girls like that anymore? I don’t think there are. Too bad for you.

 

Our little death drive. Our little death detour … We took a wrong turn. It isn’t supposed to be like this.

What isn’t?

Life. All of life. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

 

Let’s dance. Let’s drunk dance. Let’s dance ourselves to death, or drink ourselves to death, or whatever.

 

You should write a philosophy of drinking. Is there such a thing?

Oh, there can be a philosophy of anything.

A philosophy of fucking?

Definitely a philosophy of fucking.

Do you like it when a girl says, fucking?

I do, actually.

I can tell.

 

Something’s happening. Vast, and corrupting. Some horrible something.

How vague.

Don’t you feel it? Something demonic, maybe … And we’re part of it.

Are we?

 

Something’s out there, preparing to make its move. Something evil. I know it. There’s evil out there. There’s evil, planning. Seeing that we’re weak – distracted. Seeing that we’re looking elsewhere.

Evil’s getting ready. Evil’s readying itself. Evil’s gathering its forces, out there in the darkness.

 

Sometimes you just have to lie fallow.

Is that what we’re doing?

You have to fall below the world. Fall below yourself. Have days where you don’t talk to anyone. You don’t see anyone. Just opt out. Close the curtains, or whatever.

 

Lifestyle’s not enough for you, is it? You want to destroy your lifestyle. You want risk. You want the void. You want it because your life’s too positive. You’re unhappy. No – you want to be unhappy. You ant sabotage. You want to destroy your life. Because you’re bored in some fundamental sense.

 

This is part of some peculiar psych-game with your husband, isn’t it? Some negotiation …

 

You like this humanities world. It gives you a thrill. Peps you up. I think you’re basically fucking the humanities.

 

Humanities types, floating above it all, never having to make money. It’s an easy life. Just thinking yourself superior to everyone else. A beautiful soul. Floating above the real world … I suppose you’re dreadfully left wing. And communist. Are you a communist? I’ll bet you are. Fucking commie. I have a commie lover. Laughter. Fuck me, comrade.

 

Is this how lovers talk?

You should remember. With your husband.

Oh that was years ago. I’m not sure I want to remember.

Was there a honeymoon period?

There’s always a honeymoon period. Then there was a humdrum period. Then there was a blue period – a fifteen years together and what for period.

And what period are you in now?

The illicit period.

Gosh, how exciting.

 

You’ve never told me you love me.

Because I don’t. I don’t even love you. But I don’t not love you either.

What’s that supposed to mean?

This.

Don’t think you can hide it by kissing me.

 

I don’t think anyone’s found me interesting before.

I find you … hot.

That’s not the same thing.

I think you take me seriously. And I like being taken seriously. I don’t think I’ve ever been taken seriously before.

 

You should be with some blue-haired humanities type.

Do you think?

A real radical. Instead of an organisational management person.

 

Lovers are so pleased with their love. They think it makes them so exceptional. But really …

 

We’re, like, flattered by our feelings. They make us feel exalted. Like something important is happening.

 

I think it must be nice to fall in love a couple of times a year. Keep things fresh. Like, hack the body to release just the right amount of serotonin or dopamine, or whatever.

 

Tell me something surprising. Tell me something you’ve never told anyone. I want a confession. Something intimate. That’s just shared between us.

 

Wouldn’t it be nice to have a mini-break?

Where would we go?

Somewhere in Europe. Paris, or wherever.

Paris? I wouldn’t know what to do in Paris.

Have you never been there?

I don’t think I could go. I might explode.

I thought you were supposed to be a European philosopher. My God. A European thinker allergic to Europe. I’ll bet philosophy’s in the air there. I’ll bet everyone talks philosophy night and day. Is that what you’re frightened of: being found out?

 

See our lives are open, up here. Anything could happen – don’t you think?

Except you leaving your husband.

Why do you have to bring up that?

 

The world’s crashing, that’s the truth of it. There’s some giant crash happening, so slowly we can barely notice it. The whole universe is crashing.

Into what?

Into itself. In some way. Galaxies colliding, or whatever. Or not colliding. Just passing through each other. Some catastrophe greater than anything. That is everything. That is the universe itself, catastrophizing.

Is that it? Impressive. Quite a spiel.

Do I qualify as a philosopher? Is this how you guys talk?

If only.

 

God. I’m turning into a philosopher. Turns out philosophy’s infectious. Turns out I can play philosopher.

 

There’s no reason to talk and there’s nothing to talk about. It’s just the great futility.

Maybe you need a new lover.

Ha ha.

Maybe you need something else to distract you.

Maybe.

 

Here we are, post sex and pre showers. And pre putting our clothes back on. What are we doing here? Just lying about, waiting for what? Just being here. Just being alive. Just breathing. Our hearts beating, or whatever. Our brain braining. Our livers detoxifying. Our kidneys doing whatever it is that kidneys do. All that stuff. We’re supposed to catch cancer several times a day and, like, defeat it. Isn’t that something? We’re being kept alive, but what for?

 

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.

That the great mechanism’s at work, at work. Pumping on. Making more of the same. More of the more. It’s tedious. It’s tedium. It’s the boredom of existence. It’s the nothing of the all of the everything and the anything. Is that it? Is that your language?

It’s all organised to death. It runs in its grooves.

 

We need some sex toys. We need some variety.

Do you think?

 

I like you up here. I like you being here. I wouldn’t want to see you anywhere else. Like, out in the world. You don’t belong in the world.  You’re better than the world.

 

Aren’t you worried someone will see us?

What, hand in hand? All lovey-dovey? I like being in love.

Is that what are: in love?

Of course. What else? Like any other lovers.

We are like any other lovers.  

That’s what they all say.

I swear time’s slowing down. It’s supposed to go quickly when you’ve having fun.

Is that what we’re doing: having fun?

Write something for me. To me.

I’ll send you a love letter.

Okay, then. Send me one. Maybe sure it stands out. An old style love letter. By post. Pay tribute to me. Turn me on.

I’d like to wake up with you in the morning. I’d like to go to sleep beside you at night.

So what’s stopping you? Leave him. Move in here.

What would I be doing living with you? I’d only get in your way.

I’d like you here.

Would you, though? This whole affair is predicated upon separation. That’s its condition. Scarcity. You’d have too much of me. I’d always be here.

This flat’s too small for you – that’s what you’re saying. It’s not grand enough. It’s not some big Gosforth house.

They’re all tossers in Gosforth. At least there are real people in Cullercoats. Scuzzy people. Real people.

We’d bore each other to death. We’d be just like everyone else. Best to remain up here. Best to have just this. Contemplating the possibility of a regular relationship, whilst never actually having one.

We’d get on each other’s nerves, you know that. We’d irritate each other. All the annoying things that you do and all the annoying things that even I do. My God.

And that’s how it would play out, like it plays out for everyone. And maybe we’d reproduce to distract ourselves. Which would make things worse.

Would it?

I can't imagine you with a child. 

I can imagine you with a child, though. Cute.

I want some intensity. Something to feel. Am I being greedy? Should I just settle down and be happy? Just accept what I’m supposed to accept?

I’d like to watch you sleep.

I like it when you’re all romantic like that. I like being able to arouse that in a man. To have an effect. Isn’t it nice to be thought beautiful? Even though I’m anything but. I’m getting old, aren’t I? I’m losing my charms. These are the last of my charms …

Anyway, maybe my husband will get rid of me. Wouldn’t that be something? Maybe he’ll kick me to the curb. Maybe that’s what I deserve. And then what’ll I do? I’m used to a lifestyle. I’m spoilt, you’d say. What would I do?

Organisational management means you see everything as a management problem. Existence is a management problem. Sex is a management problems. I daresay I’m a management problem. Only you like me because I’m not quite manageable.

Is that it? Is that why I like you?

There’s a kind of chaos you can’t organise – did you know that? It was there at the dawn of time … no, before time, before the creation. And it’ll be there after it. And everything, ever since, has been failed attempt to impose order on it.

Come on – there’s order everywhere. There are laws of the universe, aren’t there? That’s what physics is about.

Yeah, but order isn’t ultimate. You’ve heard of chaos theory. Of complexity theory.

Is that what you write about?

I write about the tohu vavohu.

What’s that?

The unmanageable, in essence. It’s Hebrew.

So you know Hebrew?

I write about a whole rabbinical tradition of commentary on the Bible. And contemporary commentaries on the Bible.

And do you actually believe in God?

I believe in chaos.

And chaos is going to eat God up – that’s what you believe. Chaos is going to eat everything up. And that’s a good thing. That’s a true thing. And you’ll be happy, even as you’re eaten up.

Why not?

Who’s the organisational manager’s organisational manager? Who’s king or queen of organisational management I want to know. Who organisational managers talk about in reverence? At, like organisational manager conferences? Organisational manager meet-ups. Who’s, like the organisational management legend? Who’s the O.M. GOAT?

Stop taking the piss.

How, like, old is the field? When did organisational management begin? Do real organisational managers read academic organisational managers? Seriously. I want to know.

Just because your subject’s ancient and prestigious and totally useless.

Where are you going to say you were, to your husband? How are you going to account for yourself?

I’ll say I was at the gym, as usual. At exercise class. Or was working late.

Does he suspect? Surely he must suspect. He must have some sense that your mind’s elsewhere. And your body …

My body’s not elsewhere. I fuck him too.

Fuck. You’re so shameless.

I could father a child.

Please.

A secret child. And your husband could bring it up, thinking it was his.

Would you like that?

He’d dote on the child. He’d think the child was just great. A tribute to his ID card pushing virility, or whatever.

You’re too drunk to fuck now. You couldn’t get it up. You’re not exactly potent at the best of times. Nothing’s going to spring from your loins.

You don’t think?

How does he spend his time, anyway?

Consult. Put in funding bids. Zoom calls to Bulgaria and other half arsed nations. Tajikistan. Uzbekistan and the rest. Giving them advice. As if they haven’t got other problems.

What advice does he give them? What does he know about business?

He’s a professor of organisational management.

How could I forget?

He’s consulted with all kinds of people. He’s published a few things. He's actually very productive.

Woo – productive!

Now what?

Why do you always say now what. Isn’t this enough?

I want to do something. I don’t want to lie around, half clothed.

I like lying around, half clothed.

God … Imagine if I moved in. What would we do all day? Lie around? Fuck?

Treat ourselves very well. Eat Cullercoats fish and chips, or whatever. Walk the seafront. Maybe we’d get a dog or something.

A dog?

We’d need something to do … Maybe we’d have a child. Set up home. Buy one of those fancy buggies. Wheel our child along the seafront.

Who would we be, if we were together – properly together, I mean? Different from all the other couples? Would we be able to keep all this alive: the fucking?

Forget it. We’d fall away from all this. You’d start nagging and I’d start … withdrawing … And then we’d split up …

You don’t need me. Not with all my … baggage. You should start anew, afresh. With someone young and cute. Foreign, maybe. Who isn’t as jaded as I am.

Jaded: is that how you see yourself?

I think I’ve gone off a bit. Curdled. And I’m getting old, don’t you think? Too old for you. You need an innocent. Someone cute. With a cute young face. Someone young and unjaded. Not all knowing, like I am.

Anyway, why haven’t you got a girlfriend?

You’re my girlfriend.

A real girlfriend. Not like me.

Maybe this is all the girlfriend I need.