Author: Lars Iyer

I’ve got afternoon amnesia, philosopher, Priya says. I’ve got a bad case of afternoon oblivion. Is it possible just to forget … everything? Except you, maybe. I haven’t forgotten you.

The world’s so still, isn’t it? Priya says. Nothing’s moving. The clouds aren’t moving. Just unbroken white. Just pallid daylight without depth. Where nothing’s revealed. Where everything is as it’s always been. Where banality’s banality and nothing else.

Your flat’s adrift in the sky, philosopher, Priya says. Like in Wizard of Oz. We’re just floating through the sky. There’s nothing but whiteness … There aren’t even any birds. Where have the birds gone? Where has everything gone? Where have we gone?

I want to shout something, just to show that I can, Priya says. Just to be able to do it. 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 want to shout, philosopher. I want to be heard.

Who by? I ask. I hear you.

Not by you, Priya says. But by … God. I’m tired of being lost. I want to be found. I want God to hear me. I want to see God looking down at me through the skylight. God’s great eye. Wouldn’t that be something?

I feel I could fall asleep here, Priya says. And dream of … Expansive things. Big things. Of even bigger skies. Of even wider seas. Of a horizon that goes right out – for fifty miles … a hundred. From which you could see ships coming in from the infinite. And I’d dream of things coming apart, too. Things dispersing. Into their atoms. And atoms coming apart into … whatever atoms come apart into.

Subatomic particles, I say.

Yes, those, Priya says. And they’ll come apart too. Into even smaller things … Maybe things just get smaller and smaller forever. And maybe big things just get bigger and bigger forever. Maybe the universe is infinitely vast and infinitely tiny, both at once. I like that idea.

Silence.

What’s the rest of the world doing, while we’re doing this? Priya asks.

The rest of the world’s busy, I say.

I’m tired of … busy, Priya says.

Silence.

Time doesn’t seem to matter here, does it? Priya says. It doesn’t flow at the usual speed. It doesn’t flow at all, really. It’s like we’ve got lost in the afternoon and we’ll never get out. Like we’re lost in the afternoon labyrinth. The afternoon maze.

Are you looking for an exit? I ask.

I want to get more deeply lost, Priya says.

Silence.

What does all this add up to? Priya asks. Our days together. Our affair. What does it mean?

Why does it have to mean anything? I ask.

You’re the philosopher – you tell me, Priya says. I mean, what did we just do? What are we doing? In the middle of the day. In the middle of the universe … Look at us, lying around. In disarray. Are we allowed to be like this? Are we allowed to do this?

We can do what we like, I say.

But should we be allowed to do what we like: that’s my question, Priya says.

Who’s stopping us? I ask.

The light on the floor, Priya says. That beams through the skylight … The quivering light. What is it?

Light, just light, I say.

I think it’s God, Priya says.

God? I say.

I think it’s all we know of God, Priya says. A quality of light. A patch of light. Is God watching us?

No one’s watching, I say. Unless your husband’s on the roof.

God’s watching, Priya says. That’s the thing … I like using the word, God, philosopher. I feel like I’m allowed to use the word, God, here.

Me, quoting: Is God unknown? Is he manifest as the sky? This, rather, I believe.

Don’t say you’re an atheist – I’m bored of atheists, Priya says. Atheism is so dull a position, especially if you are an atheist. You should always be interesting about God.

Do you believe in God? I ask.

I think God believes in me, Priya says. I think I’m a dream in the mind of God.

So God’s dreaming all this, I say. God’s dreaming you and dreaming me.

Maybe – why not? I say.

Why not anything? Priya says.

Sure – why not anything, I say.

God, I feel afternoon-drunk, Priya says. Drunk on the afternoon. I feel like I’m falling, just falling. And you, too – you’re falling, too. Because we’re both unanchored. We’ve got no … responsibilities. There’s nothing for us to do, except … this. Whatever this is.

Falling in love, maybe, I say.

Are we falling in love? Priya asks. I don’t think so. I think 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 …

It’s like something’s taking place … through us, Priya says. Despite us, almost. Against us, maybe. 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?

I feel so vague, Priya says. 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’ve been placed out of service. We’re not needed anywhere. We’re surplus to requirements. We were ordered by mistake, or whatever, and just stockpiled …

I’m falling, philosopher, Priya says. Not falling in love, just 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. Like you want to keep me here forever.

If I fell asleep now, what would happen? Priya asks. If I feel asleep and woke up and fell asleep and just …

So fall asleep, I say.

I can’t even finish a sentence, Priya says. It’s being drunk without being drunk. Fuck, I can’t think a single clear thing … I feel so fucked. God, how will I ever get up? How will I ever do anything again?

I kinda want to get dressed and go, Priya says. I kinda want to drive off home. I kinda want to actually go to the gym instead of pretending at the gym … Anything except this. But then I like this …

And you’re not going to save me – I know that, Priya says. You’re not going to break my fall. You’re not going to do anything.

You don’t need saving, I say.

What do I need? Priya asks. 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? Priya asks. Are we praying or something? And to who? Who’s listening? Who’s watching?

The day will never end, Priya says. It’ll never be over. It’ll just go on forever. This moment is, like, a forever moment. Of nothing happening. Of nothing happening, forever.  

My flat.

In bed.

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

So what’s stopping you? I ask. Leave hubbie. Move in.

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

I’d like you here, I say. I’d like to be with you.

Would you, though? Priya asks. This whole … thing is predicated on our not being together. On separation. That’s its condition. If we were together, we’d just bore each other to death. We’d be just like everyone else. We’d … irritate each other. All the annoying things that you do and all the annoying things that I do. We’d get on each other’s nerves, you know that. And that’s how it would play out, like it plays out for everyone …

And maybe we’d reproduce to distract ourselves, Priya says. Which would make things worse.

Would it? I ask.

I can't imagine you with a child, Priya says. It would get in the way of your work.

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

Maybe you want me to have your child, Priya says. A cuckoo in the bourgeois nest. Would you like that?

I’d like you to stay the night, at least, I say. I’d like to watch you sleep. I’d like to hear you breathe.

I like it when you say things like that, Priya says. I like being able to arouse that in a man, even if I don’t believe a word. Anyway, maybe you’ll get your supposed wish when my husband finds out about us. When he kicks me to the curb. Which is what I deserve, after all. And then what’ll you do? You’d have to take me in.

But he doesn’t suspect, does he? I ask. He has no idea.

I’ve told him you’re my gay best friend, Priya says. What a cliché. Actually, I didn’t say you were gay. He just assumed. He’s from Middlesborough. They’re provincial up there.

And what about you: do you want a child? I ask.

My husband doesn’t want one, and nor do – did – I, Priya says. You know what: I’d like to scandalise him by just saying, I’m pregnant, and it’s not yours …

So cruel …, I say.

I resent him, you see, Priya says. That’s what happens after fifteen years. And I even like to resent him. God, What we’re doing to him, my … husband. The way we’re humiliating him. And ourselves – what we’re doing to ourselves! So greedy. So impulsive. We’re such animals. God, that should sound erotic, shouldn’t it? But it just sounds tawdry. And disgusting. We’re disgusting.

Sin – we live in sin, Priya says. That’s the only word for it: sin. Although I don’t know what it means: sin. And I don’t even feel guilty – about what we’re going to him. I feel the ghost of feeling guilty, that’s all. I feel that I’m supposed to feel guilty, even if I don’t actually feel guilty.

Maybe it wouldn’t have happened if I had something else going on …, Priya says. Children to look after, or whatever. Or writing a magnum opus, like you. But you know what? I don’t believe that. I think I would have wanted it anyway, our affair. An affair. Any old affair. I would have wanted the experience. As a kind of self-debasement. Because that’s what this is, I think: an exercise in self-debasement.

And don’t think you’re innocent in all this, Priya says. What do you think you’re doing to my husband? What do you think you’re putting him through?

He’s your husband, I say.

You shook his hand, Priya says.

I did shake his hand, I say. I had to. He’s my new boss. The king of organisational management … I answer to him directly. I meet with him all the time.

All the while secretly enjoying the fact you’re fucking his wife, Priya says. Did you want to humiliate yourself, too? Did you seek out … degradation? Did you want the drama of feeling?

I liked you, that’s all, I say. I thought – I think you’re beautiful. I think you’re the centre of the world. I think that while you’re here, there’s hope for me and hope for everyone, and hope for the world. That it’s not all just careening into darkness.

You like the darkness, too, Priya says.

I like your darkness, I say. I like you like this.

I’ll bet you didn’t bet on this, Priya says. I’ll bet you didn’t think I had it in me … See, I’m becoming you. Your personality is bleeding into mine. We’re becoming indistinguishable. Is my personality bleeding into yours? Are you becoming more organised? More managerial? It’s like that film I saw once … that film on the coast, the Swedish coast. Persona. Very arthouse. The nurse becomes the actress and the actress becomes the nurse … or something.

We’re mockers, that’s what I think, Priya says. Despoilers. That’s what the light knows.

What light? I ask.

The skylight light, Priya says. That beam of light, shining there on the floor. The light knows that we’re enjoying loathing ourselves. That we’re just indulging in self-hatred. Twisting the knife. As a way of entertaining ourselves. The light know that we’re perverse. And we’re disgusting. And that we don’t know how to be anything other than disgusting. And that we want to indulge in new depravities, just for kicks …

The human condition, I say.

I need a … wash, Priya says.

Take a shower, I say.

I need a spiritual wash, Priya says. I need to be spiritual cleansed. So much evil and so much horror. Running through us. Coursing through us. We’re filth. We see filth and are filth. We breathe filth. What isn’t disgusting? What survives of the non-disgusting? What isn’t just death, in this disgusting world of ours? Tell me, philosopher … Tell me what survives …

Love, I say. Love survives.

Liar, Priya says. Look what we’ve reduced love to. This. Some … cuckoldry. Some affair. We’re depraved, that’s all. We’re depraved and we love our depravity. Love indeed.

But why do you think love has to be this pure thing? I ask. Why can’t you accept that it’s bound up with … darker things?

I need something to be pure, Priya says. As pure as light – that light.

The light you called God, I say.

The quivering light on the floor, Priya says. Reflected from the skylight. The quivering light. The light of God, quivering on the floor … Compared to that …What we call love is death …

My flat.

In bed.

This is some indulgent existence, Priya says. Who has the right to live like this?

We do, apparently, I say.

Why? How come we deserve this? Priya asks.

We’re luxuriants, I say. We’re self-indulgers. We’re emptying the chocolate box of life.

Surely all this is bad for us, Priya says. Surely it’s ruining us in some way or another. We’re going to be punished, I know it. You don’t get a free pass for this. You can’t just live like this. You can’t just abandon everything. There are consequences, I’m sure of it.

How come you’re so full of qualms? I say.

This must be doing something to our souls, Priya says. Do we have souls? You tell me, philosopher. You’re the expert.

I don’t think I believe in souls, I say.

How disappointing, Priya says.

And I don’t believe in your attack of conscience, I say.

We are pleasing ourselves, aren’t we? Priya says. I’m pleasing you, aren’t I? I'm pleasing me at least. I like lying around, half clothed. I like all this. I like you. I like your intellect. There, I’ve said it. But I do. I like your dedication. I like the fact that you really want to do something.

I like your ambition, Priya says. I find comical. And charming, And admirable. I like that there might be Important Thoughts in that dome of yours.

And you know what else I like? Priya asks. Taking you in hand. Touching you. I like taking you in my mouth. I like the fact that I can make you think of nothing else but fucking. It turns me on. And I like to be turned on …

Now you have to say nice things about me, Priya says. That’s the game. Do my beauty again – go on. Go on.

Your beauty, I say, sitting up. Changing every room you enter. Becoming the centre of the world, for everyone. All anyone wants to do is look at you. Like, bathe in your beauty. Everyone wants to pay you compliments. To talk to you. They feel elevated just by your presence. Your magnificence.

And you’re being supremely generous just by passing through the world, I say. Just by … sharing your body. By curating your body. Enhancing its beauty. Making it yet more fabulous. More special. More exceptional. Dressing it. Bathing it. Making up its face. Making it yet more radiant.

Oh stop. You’re over the top, Priya says. You don’t mean it. I can tell by your voice.

But what you really like is feeling your power’s suspended, I say. Being a little uncertain of your effects on others. Becoming a little unsure … As if there were a gap in the adoration that you’re used to. So you have to win it back. So that the world isn’t completely yielding, completely seducable. So that things don’t always go your way …

A little Doubt, I say. A bit of Uncertainty. The lights go out for a moment. You’re bewildered, for a moment. Loveliness can’t do all the work for you. Beauty, by itself, isn’t enough. There are other games – larger ones, greater games. You have to earn your way by more than beauty and your beauty’s curation …

Is that what you think’s happening now: your greater game? Priya asks.

I think you want some risk, I say. You want some challenge. Your life’s too positive, too straightforward. It’s not that you’re unhappy. But you want … a bit of unhappiness. You want to sabotage things, or the potential for sabotage. Because you’re bored in some fundamental sense.

And that’s why I’m in your arms? Priya says. Maybe. You’re getting the best of me here, in this room, you know. Not the boring me. Not the mundane me. Not the pub conversation me. You wouldn’t like me, I think, if you met my friends. You’d find me dull. My conversation wouldn’t interest you.

I’m better here … This suits me in some way …, Priya says. This way of talking … I’m interesting when I come here. I interest myself. I say unexpected things. I talk into the air. You bring it out in me. This … situation.

I like … becoming philosophical, Priya says. Talking like this, which I can never do usually. Just saying these things. These big things. Just speaking into the afternoon. Seeing where words lead me. Where they lead us.

Maybe you’re used to this, philosopher, Priya says. Maybe you think like this, talk like this all the time. Well, not me. Not usually. Not even when my husband and I go on long car drives. When we drive down to the South to see our friends. Our relatives.  

What do you talk about? I ask.

Our friends. Our relatives, Priya says. Our plans. Work. People we know. All that kind of stuff. My dream business, that I want to set up one day. That’s what I should have done, instead of becoming an academic. That would have occupied me, like properly. I’ve always thought I’d be better off doing something practical.

Do you have an amazing business idea? I ask.

I have several, Priya says.

I don’t believe you, I say.

Actually, I’m just someone who could go into a business and reorganise it, Priya says. Make It more efficient. More … productive. Amazing. I could operationalise it more effectively.

Is that an organisational management word? I ask.

Yes. Is it barbaric? I don’t mind it being barbaric, Priya says. See, I don’t take organisational management – that’s what we call it – as seriously as you take philosophy. I’m not an organisational management person through and through.

Thank God, I say.

Fuck you, Priya says.

Silence.

I’ll bet you wish I was all European and mysterious, Priya says. More pouty and moody. I’ll bet you wish I were French, or something. All demanding. All petulant and impossible. Impossible to please. To get in the mood. That would be a proper challenge for you. That would engage all your intellectual resources. And your emotional ones. And your seductive ones. A European would really suit you.

I like you the way you are, I say.

Liar, Priya says. God, this is all very convenient for you, isn’t it? I come to you. I visit you in your room. I park my car and press the buzzer and you let me up. You don’t have to woo me with flowers, although I do like the occasional email. You don’t have to do anything. Except be hard. And you’re mostly hard.  

It all comes to your door, doesn’t it? Priya says. It comes on a plate. Here I am … Maybe I should withhold myself. Maybe I should be more mysterious. A bit of distance … that’s what you’d like, I’ll bet. A bit of mystery. I should be more elusive.

Silence.

Priya, looking up at the skylight. The sky’s so white. Like a great white eye, seeing nothing, just blind. It’s, like, God up there.

God’s dead, baby, I say. God’s dead.

Who’s watching through the skylight, then? Priya asks.

No one’s watching through the skylight, I say. Unless your husband’s climbed up there.

I don’t think he’s interested, Priya says. I don’t think he gives a shit.

It is God. But a blind God, I say. A dead God, maybe. And the light from the skylight is his judgement on us. The fact that he doesn’t judge. That what we’re doing doesn’t matter, not really. God’s looking down at us by not looking down at us. Seeing us by not seeing us …

Fucking in the afternoon and talking about God, Priya says. That’s what my life’s about now.

The absence of God, I say.

We’ve been having sex in broad daylight, basically, Priya says. It’s bright, bright. You can’t hide from the sky. Not here. Not with your skylight … And there’s no one to witness our shamelessness. To really tell us off. To really upbraid us. And there’s no one there, just the … afternoon. Which means we’ll always feel disgusting, just disgusting, because there’s no one to forgive us.

I forgive you, I say.

You can’t forgive me and I can’t forgive you, that’s the problem, Priya says. Though, God knows, we don’t deserve to be forgiven.

What are we doing here? Priya asks. Just lying about. 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? But what for? What are we living for?

We’re depraved, aren’t we? Priya says. We’re depraved and we love our depravity. It’s what gives us the feeling of being alive. But we’re not actually alive.

What’s it all supposed to Mean, philosopher? Priya says. Does it mean anything at all? It just holds off the boredom, doesn’t it? It’s just some … novelty. A bit of time-off for you. A little holiday from working on the magnum opus.

And for me – what is for me? Priya asks. I’m greedy, I admit that. I wanted it. I drove it. I started it. I think I wanted to disgust myself. I think I wanted to appal myself. Drive myself into some … debasement. Because I am debased. And you’re debased. And what’s worse is that we don’t mind being debased.

I don’t think I believe in your anguish, I say. I don’t believe you feel guilt, real guilt.

That’s because you don’t believe in God, Priya says. And I do. Maybe. Maybe now.

Silence.

My sister had this great religious phase, Priya says. While she was at university. She ended up living with these nuns.

Fuck, I say.

And we weren’t brought up religiously, Priya says. And definitely not Christian. These weren't Hindu nuns.

So how do you account for that? I ask.

Residual cultural Christianity, or something, Priya says. I dunno.

Why do you care so much about God? I say. I thought God had no place in the organisational management world.

Maybe God’s the ultimate organisational manager, Priya says.

God the manager: that’s frightening, I say.

God. What we’ve come to, Priya says. Tawdry, tawdry. I need a shower. I need to get OUT of this place. It’s dragging me under. This is no way to live.

You can’t be anonymous, I say. You can’t be just no one. You’re at the centre of the world wherever you go. What’s it like to be at the centre of the world? What’s it like to change every space you enter?  Its rules. How it operates. As everyone makes way for you. Stands back, for a moment. As everyone’s startled.

God, don’t try that on me, Priya says.

What an effect to have, I say. But you’re drawn to the one upon whom you don’t have that effect. It’s like dogs drawn to non dog lovers. You’re interested in the one immune to your charms …

My flat.

I’m the sort of person you ought to loathe, philosopher, Priya says. So why don’t you? You’ve invited the enemy in. You’re betraying yourself. And your people. And philosophy. And everything.

Maybe it’s my revenge, I say.

On what? On organisational management? Priya asks. Because I’m the head of department’s wife … I see it … This is your way of lobbing a grenade into the enemy camp … Well, maybe.

He doesn’t seem like a bad guy, your husband, I say. I like way he dresses – his three piece suit. It gives him some distinction. Is that why you went for him?

The question is why I went for you, Priya says.

I suppose you’ve had a series of lovers, I say. I suppose he likes it.

No, actually, Priya says. Nothing like that.

And his northern accent, I say. And his easy going manner. He seems very affable.

He is affable, Priya says. He’s really very nice.

And there’s the management style of your husband, I say. The organisational management style …

My husband thought it was a good idea, bringing philosophy into organisation management …, Priya says. Exploring synergies.

And you can say that with a straight face? I say. You can repeat those things? Anyway, they made him do it.

They did make him do it, Priya says. But he has a good attitude, unlike you. I know you’re sneering. And maybe you’re right to …

Where are you going to tell him you’ve been your husband? I ask. How are you going to account for yourself?

I’ll say I was at the gym, as usual, Priya says. At exercise class.

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

My body’s not elsewhere, Priya says. I fuck him too.

You’re so shameless, I say.

I am, aren’t I? Priya says. How can I do this to my husband?: that’s what you’re thinking. But I like doing this to my husband. It feels right to be doing this to my husband.

Why do you never call him by name? I ask.

Because he’s essentially anonymous, Priya says. Because he’s a force. Because he’s a collection of husband drives. Anyway, I don’t want to think about him …

But there’s a reason we’re here, isn’t there? Priya says. Are you waiting to get down to it? For the real business to start? You’ll have to court me first. Compliment me on what I’m wearing. Tell me I have … sparkling eyes. Notice my new hairstyle. I haven’t actually got a new hairstyle, but you get the idea. I want to hear some sweet nothings. Some sweet philosophical nothings, if necessary. I want to be re-seduced. I want to be seduced all over again.

Win me. Win my heart, philosopher, Priya says. I want to feel like the most important girl in the world. Make it all about me. That no one matters to you but me. Come on, complement me on my outfit. On what I’m wearing. On my earrings, for fuck’s sake. I’m wearing pearl earrings …

Flatter me. Seduce me. Make me horny, Priya says. Do you like that word, horny? I can see you flinch. Am I a bit too brazen for you? Would you prefer a little reserve? A little mystery? Am I offending you in my gauche organisational management way?

I do think you’re beautiful, I say. Which is part of why I want to defile it.

Beautiful, philosopher? Priya says. What do you mean by beauty?

You today. Your face touched with light, I say. The fascination of your eyes. Of my being looked at, by those eyes. Of those eyes, turning towards me.

That’s more like it, Priya says. Continue.

You can make things happen – just by your presence, I say. People are shaken out of themselves. Reminded …

Of what? Priya says.

The fact that beauty is alive, I say. The fact that beauty can pass through the earth. The fact that beauty can arrive here, in this town, on these streets. The fact that miracles are possible and the world really can be overturned.

Anything could happen to you, I say. You could just be swept up. On an adventure. Have a string of lovers.

I’m on an adventure now, aren’t I? Priya says.

And who doesn’t want to delight you, just to be able to see your face, delighted? I say. Who doesn’t want to charm you, just to see your face, charmed? Who doesn’t want to make you smile, just to see you smile?

Oh, you’re good at this, Priya says.

Beauty: is proof that God exists, after all, I say. That we’re not all doomed, after all. That we’re not all destroyable, replaceable, murderable, strangleable, chokable, shootable, stabbable.

Don’t be so dark, Priya says.

You awaken the desire to court, I say. You surprise potential lovers by their new wit. By their attentiveness. It’s as though they were in a musical, or something. As though their business was to delight you. To make you laugh, just to watch you laugh. Just to hear it: your laughter. Just to see your laughing face. Its marvel.

You’re a virtuoso, Priya says. Even if I don’t think you mean any of it.

You’re getting hotter, I say. You’re peaking. This might be the height of your beauty.

And why do you deserve my so-called beauty, philosopher? Priya asks. Why do you get to have it? You tell me …

Because I appreciate it, I say. Because I’m a connoisseur.

The connoisseur of me, Priya says. I like that idea.

In bed.

I like my body when it’s with your body, Priya says. That’s the thing. And I like your body. I like what it does. I like how it does it. I like all these things … I like exposing this. I like licking this. I like putting my tongue on this. And I like … you doing the same.

Oh – my – God. How do we work up all this lust? Priya asks. We’re so virile. You’re so virile … Are you wishing I’d shut up? Maybe I’m wishing I’d shut up …

Later.

I feel like I’m purring, Priya says.

You’re very good at luxuriating, I say. You were made for luxuriating. You’re the kind of person who feels at home on holiday. Who knows what to do on holiday. Right?

Implying that you’re not, Priya says. And that not knowing what to do on holiday is somehow superior.

You were made to luxuriate, I say. You luxuriate in luxuriance. This is an idyll in life for you. It’s a grove. It’s a vista.

It is, Priya says. And I suppose I’m to be ashamed at that?

It’s like you’re playing with me, I say. You can play at romance with me. Your real relationship is elsewhere. So all this is a … toying. A playing. Some idle distraction.

Oh, it’s a bit more than that, Priya says.

Come on, it’s just Something to Do, I say. It’s a Diversion. It’s a little escape.

I like our Thing, Priya says. I like your Thing. Anyway, I suspect that you might be playing with me. Do you mind me being here? Am I a distraction? Do I get in the way of your work? Ha – I quite like getting in the way of your work.

Silence.

You have an optimistic and trusting nose, Priya says.

How can you tell? I ask. What have noses got to do with anything?

You can see everything in the nose, Priya says. And the chin. And in the shape of the eyes. And you have such kind fingers, though your thumb looks rather stubborn.

Is this how lovers talk? I ask.

I really wouldn’t recall, Priya says.

What about with your husband? I ask.

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

Was there a honeymoon period? I ask.

There’s always a honeymoon period, Priya says. 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? I ask.

The illicit period, Priya says.

You’re an attractive couple, I say.

Oh I’m sure we are, Priya says. But I really don’t want to think about it.

You must be comfortably off, I say. Your joint salary.

We’re the bourgeois you no doubt despise, philosopher, Priya says. And who you’re getting your revenge on right now.

Is that what it is, revenge? I ask.

All these books, philosopher, Priya says. They’re all about revenge. They’re written by people who didn’t know how to live. So they wrote books instead.

Is that the secret? I ask.

All these books by Karl Marx, Priya says. So it’s true about humanities types. You really are Marxists … And all these books about world revolution … Do you think it’s going to happen, world revolution? Are you doing your bit for world revolution by sleeping with the enemy?

Well, the day’s wearing on, Priya says. I must away. I can’t think of a good excuse why I should be away any longer than this.

Getting dressed.

Look at my cheeks – I’m blushing, Priya says.

That’s a post orgasmic glow, I say. Do you think your husband will notice?

I think my husband might be out with a lover of his own, Priya says.

Do you think? I ask.

It would make things easier, wouldn’t it? Priya says.

<Next phase: working up / combing what I've written so far into dramatic scenes.

Plot: a philosophy department in peril. It's being moved to Organisation Management. The old head of philosophy, Cicero, has jsut retired. The new one, the narrator, is having an affair with a fellow lecturer, the wife of the head of the School of Organisation Management. >

There’s a sweetspot of drunkenness you can hit. Where it becomes just improvisation. You can say whatever you want. Extemporizing, infinitely. Taking it where you want to. Fuck.

Where do you want to take it?

I don’t know. I don’t know what I want.

Anyway, God … back to God.

You always want to come back to God.

That’s because God … God … means something. Or nothing. Or nothing that’s something. Or something’s that nothing.

God’s the biggest thing you can say. The greatest thing.

How long are we going to talk like this? Forever? I get tired of it …

One day well reach something. One day, we’ll say something. We’ll find our way there. Where? Wherever it is. Wherever it goes to. What goes to? Our … path …

None of this matters. None of this .. matters. All this talk.

I agree. But we still talk. We talk because time goes on forever. And talk can go on forever, too. All this talk. It’s disgusting in its way. All this time to waste.

Waste is a form of prayer.

Is it?

Deliberately sacrificing time. Giving it up.

To what?

To this.

To being stoned?

God’s been revealed as NOTHING, that’s what Scholem says. That’s all God is: the, like, VOID.

At least it shows that God is something.

No, he’s nothing.

But nothing is a something.

Nothing is the absence of something.

Which means there’s something. Nothing – the nothing – points to something. Dialectically.

Either God exists or he doesn’t exist – it’s simple.

Unless existence itself isn’t something you can say of God – Eckhardt said that in, like, the thirteenth century. And got burned at the stake for it.

Which just means God, like, super-exists. That he exists, in inverted commas, in some higher way. God is absent, and that absence is present … in certain experiences. You can, like, feel God. Tune into him.

Sounds good.

So you can get on God’s wavelength. On, like radio god.

And what does radio god play?

Bands like the Divine Absence, the Holy Whatnots, the Negative Theologians, the Meister Eckhardt Five, The Angel of Silesius ..

So do we have freedom? Are we actually free?

We have the freedom to laugh at our lack of freedom, the fact that we have no freedom, and that we’re even lost without freedom.

Is this our freedom: sitting around talking shit?

We’re hopeless. But we’re hopeful in the way we share our hopelessness. In our capacity for hope.

Is that it – is that all we get, a fucking capacity for hope?

The conditions for hope are there.

Why, because we can talk about our hopelessness? Because we can say how shit everything is?

The worst is not, so long as we can say, This is the worst: that’s what Edgar says in King Lear. Hopelessness is not, so long as we can, We’re hopeless …

The way we’re hopeless is very old hat. It was a European philosophy cliché from 1940. It’s been done. By Jean-Paul Sartre or the theatre of the absurd, or whatever. It’s all mapped out for us, our so-called hopefulness. It’s all become a cliché now: despair, hopelessness, the usual existentialist bullshit. Especially anxiety. It’s all been done, written about, dramatised, or whatever. There isn’t any room for us. Everything we feel and think and say is a cliché.

So let’s kill ourselves, or has that been done, too?

It’s all been done. We’d better just live on, which we will do anyway, in total mediocrity.

Anyway, the time to actually kill ourselves is long past. We missed that appointment, like we missed everything else.

At least they had war and stuff in 1940. And communism. At least they could nurture revolutionary dreams. See we should really have lived during the Russian revolution. Or the French Revolution. Or some revolution. When things could change. Instead of just getting worse.

I think we’ve covered everything.

I think we’ve covered everything in shit.

We’ve said enough.

We’ve always said enough. Everything we say is too much. Words on top of words. Layers of words reaching up to heaven.

 

The nihilism’s become too great. It’s, like, flipping over. Like what’s supposed to happen with Earth’s magnetic poles.

 

Why do you get to have me at the height of my so-called beauty?

I share it with your husband.

Why did you deserve anything?

 

That face you do. That one. When …

When what?

When we’re fucking.

Do you like it?

 

You’d like a serious love, wouldn’t you? A heavy browed French love. All moody. This doesn’t quite measure up, does it? Poor you. You want someone who takes it all desperately seriously.

 

You think there’s some vast, silent coup going on. Some sublime takeover from on high. Maybe you’re right … Is that what we’re living through? Are we fucking in the middle of that? When there are, like, Great Historical Things happening?

 

What if we were actually together – what then? Who would we become? Another unbearable, stifled couple. Another mediocre couple. Isn’t that what the world needs: more mediocre couples?

 

I hate nature.

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?

 

We’re approaching the heart of the afternoon. We’re going to catch the afternoon out. Doing whatever it does. Afternooning, or whatever.

 

We’re zombies – we’re already dead. They’re just letting us wander around, the walking dead. But they want us more dead. To die deeper.

 

All the illicit affairs people have had. All the animal affairs, by all the bored people. All the restless people.

 

I make up long speeches to say to you, but then when I get here, I forget what I was going to say. I walk around talking to you in my head. Just imagining you.

 

You have an optimistic and trusting nose. How can you tell? What have noses got to do with anything? You can see everything in the nose. And the chin. And in the shape of the eyes.

 

You have such kind fingers, though your thumb looks rather stubborn.

 

The sky’s changing. It’s purple. Rainclouds coming in. Or whatever. I didn’t think a sky could be purple like that.

God, the way you can see the whole sky.

 

Rain on the skylight. It’s very calming.

 

I was never into casual sex. Too disturbing.

So you’re not sex positive.

I’m sex negative.

You do surprise me.

 

Walking to St Marys.

Are you worried you’ll be seen?

Maybe I’d like to be seen. With my lover.

What about you couple friends: what if they saw you?

Our couple friends are quite dull. We’ve had a million dull evenings. Very dreary. This is far more exciting.

But it won’t be exciting forever.

 

We want to live we’re pigs, right. We want to wallow in this debasement. We want to be damned. To damn ourselves. We want to be punished by God or something. We want to be sinners.

No we don’t. don’t fucking fool yourself. don’t pretend to be growing a conscience.

 

Look, our affair is as mediocre as anything else. It’s not even risky. It’s not even life or death. It’s just another consumer option. 

 

Do you want to push yourself to become the best organisational manager you can be? Rise to the top in organisational management studies?

 

Do you fuck your husband, or make love to him?

 

Today could be the greatest day in the history of the world.

 

You think I talk too much, don’t you? You’d like me to be solemn. You’d like me to be serious. You’d like me to say Serious Things. You’d like a muse. Are you disappointed?

 

Maybe we should invite another woman along to pep things up. Or a man. Maybe we should be a thruple. It’s a consumer option, right?

 

Look, I’ve got you to smile. Woo.

 

Have we wasted time all our lives. Have we wasted our lives until now. Will we waste them afterwards?

 

I remember the first time I wanted to kiss you.

Do you?

 

What are you supposed to do on days like this?

Gaze into the nothingness.

 

Vagueness: do philosophers ever write about that? They should. The fucking vague-out.

 

Why do you care so much about God? I thought God had no place in the organisational management world.

Maybe God’s the ultimate organisational manager.

 

I got all dressed up for you. And now I’ve undressed for you. Come to bed, philosopher.

 

I’m just living from orgasm to orgasm these days.

 

Do you mind that no one knows about us?

 

And it’s not as if you’re the man of my dreams. You were just there, that’s all.

Thanks.

It’s not as if I picked you from a crowd. It’s not like it was you and only you.

But you’re here, aren’t you?

I’ve been drawn in. You’re intriguing, I admit that. I’ve been caught up in your mad little world.

 

I love you more than I ever felt possible. What would it mean to say those words?

Would you like to say them?

It always sounds like we’re quoting. Everything we say.

 

This is playing at love. That’s what we’re doing, both of us: playing at love.

 

Are we just fucking or is this something else?

Just fucking.

 

I shouldn’t be falling for you: isn’t that what lovers say?

Is that what you feel: that you’re falling for me?

 

Thinking about what our romance might be. What it could be. If we allowed it …

We’d be just like anyone else.

 

I don’t even know who you are. You’re a mystery. Capital M. I only know you as a sexual animal. That nothing can hold back.

Grr.

 

Let’s go back to the day when sex was invented.

 

This is our … heyday.

 

You’re the kind of person who feels at home on holiday. Who knows what to do on holiday. Right?

You were made to luxuriate. You’re at ease with being at ease. You luxuriate in luxuriance. To have, like, romantic intrigues.

 

Love is just the obverse of organisational management. You’ve turned the world into organisational management, and you want to escape. Love is what organisational managers dream of. That’s where you put all your hopes.

 

There’s something about all this that’s meta for you. You’re enjoying your enjoyment. Savouring it. Luxuriating in it. Like a cat.

 

I think you incite cruelty. You bring it out in others. You want it. You’re a submissive, is that it? And the way you don’t really react.

I just want to be cruel. I don’t know if I like myself like this. I don’t know whether it’s good for me. See my husband will just tell me to stop. Whereas you … encourage it.

I’m glad this is just an affair, I’m glad we’re not married, or anything. I don’t know what I’d do to you.