Work in Progress

Something bad’s happening. Something vast and bad. There are evil forces. Do you believe that?

Yes.

Or maybe good forces … I don’t know which.

 

It’s like we’ve been drugged. Like we’ve been stunned. Like we’ve been dealt blows to the head.

Something’s Happened, capital H, but it’s too vast to notice. Something at the level of … the cosmos.

Maybe it began a long time ago, and is still playing out. Maybe it’s really yet to happen. Who knows? And who knows what the repercussions are, and where it will all lead. Who know where it will take us.

Maybe it doesn’t concern us – it’s too vast. I know it’s indifferent to us. Like some vast black hole. Like some tear in space and time. It’s indifferent to whether we’re here or not. To what the point of us is.

So it just ignores us. Maybe it’s a catastrophe. Maybe it’s a blessing. Maybe we live in the age of miracles. Or the age of disaster. Maybe we can’t tell them apart.

Vast things, philosopher. Beyond our understanding. A great, secret disaster. In space. That’s all of space, perfectly indifferent to us.

And maybe it isn’t happening. Maybe nothing’s happening. Or everything’s happening. Or both, interchangeably.

Whimsy, philosopher. This is my whimsical phase. This is my unbearable phase. I’m sure some people would find me unbearable. Because I just … say … what … I … like. And you listen. And you listen, don’t you, philosopher?

I suppose this is all some disgusting mating activity to you, philosopher.

 

Is there ever such a thing as the philosopher in the bedroom?

 

I bet you think of me as a hindrance. As a pest. As a necessary evil to assuage certain of your needs. I’ll bet you hate your needs, don’t you? I’ll bet you wish you had the courage to castrate yourself, just like that. And remove all temptation. And just become a slave of work. That’s right, isn’t it?

You could write all day and all night without any disturbance.

 

This doesn’t teach you anything, does it? You’ve entered this reluctantly. It isn’t what you want, not really. Your body betrays you, doesn’t it, philosopher?

See, I thrive on this, and you … You’re not suited to romance.

 

Is there such a thing as a wisdom of romance do you think? Is there something you can learn from romance? Does it let you think in a way you couldn’t do otherwise?

Are romantic thoughts interesting thoughts? Philosophically valuable thoughts? Is there an insight in romance?

I can’t sleep, philosopher – that’s the problem. Only three or four hours a night. I want to sleep with your heavy philosophical sleep. To sleep with your philosophical tired-from-thinking-sleep.

 

If I could sleep, I wouldn’t be so … immoral. Maybe. It’s sleep disturbance that brings me here. Really, I come here to sleep, not fuck …

I’ve been thinking about you all day.

 

So are you actually going to kiss me?

 

What do you like? Is it hard for you to talk about? Aren’t you ready? It’s okay … there’s no rush …

 

Do you like when I touch you here? And here? And when I kiss you – what then?

 

Bed is a very serious place. We can’t be laughing, philosopher.

 

I want you to watch me.

 

That was epic.

 

Did you come? Are you too mournful to come? Are you okay?

My husband likes it when I talk about work. He likes to give me advice. He likes to be the Man. To be Useful. My husband … likes to protect me. To tell it loke it is. To lay down his law. I like the idea of him being in charge: that’s how it’s supposed to be, isn’t it? That’s how it works.

 

Come on, trash talk my husband. Show some jealousy.

Make an offering.

To who?

To Poseidon. He’s the God of the sea, isn’t he?

What, the North Sea?

I thought he was a god of the Mediterranean. It’s too cold to have a God.

Offer something to a Norse god, then.

Who was the Norse god of the sea?

 

Do you believe in reincarnation, philosopher? Do you believe you were born before? And that you will be born again? Or are you too materialist for that?

Maybe I’ll be born again …

Does that happen?

 

Write my name in the sand. Write your name. Draw a love heart around them. We’ll be together forever, in this eternal moment. Where time touches eternity, or whatever.

Just let yourself fall asleep. Relax into sleep. Relax your massive brain. In your massive head. Even a thinker must sleep. So sleep.

 

I like feeling this tired. I could sleep, I really could. I’d sleep alongside you. If you slept, too. We could sleep together. In, like, perfect intimacy. Wouldn’t that be something?

Distracted talk like this … Talking about nothing … Saying nothing in particular with each other. It gives me such a sense of ease.

Ease? Like, relaxation?

Like … calm. Talking like this … It’s about clearing a little space. Clearing a grove in life. Clearing some time … We don’t have any time, do we? Except for now … except for times like this …

 

I’m glad we can talk like this. About nothing. About everything. I like talking when talk doesn’t go anywhere. When we don’t have any answers. When it’s all questions and questions … When we’re just asking. Asking God, maybe. Asking the sky, maybe.

It’s only human beings who ask why. Animals can’t. It’s because we don’t have a niche – a biological one.

I thought we were supposed to be tropical animals.

Sure. We evolved near the equator.

If we lived in the tropics, we wouldn’t ask questions. We’d just luxuriate.

What if we were eaten by tigers?

Is that what happens in the tropics?

 

I think we ask why for everything else in the universe, for all the mute things –

The gulls are hardly mute. They’re loud.

– For the animals and the trees and the plants …

Why do they need us to ask for them? They’re happy as they are.

 

I’m not sure organisational managers ask questions.

That’s because organisational managers think they have answers.

So real questions don’t have answers?

Sure – they’re just a why. And a why is … a cry. A demand. You cry up to the heavens, and who hears? Who answers? No one. And that’s what makes a why a why.

If we didn’t have death, what then? If it wasn’t all going to end, would it make sense? The fact that we have to seize the day, or whatever … That used to be my motto when I was young. Seize the day. That, and To live at all should be miracle enough. Banal, wasn’t I?

 

I always thought life was a gift, philosopher …  

That’s so slavish. To the world. To this order of things. The way everything goes round and round.

Like the seasons, you mean. I like the seasons.

Like the seasons and the year and the week and the day and right now. All turning round the same nothingness. The same question, why? Which resounds without answer. Which just asks itself, over and over again, at the heart of everything.

Why are you so hateful, philosopher? That’s my question.