Work in Progress

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.

Who are you going to be with when you die? Do you think you’ll be with anyone? Will you have settled down? Have had children, maybe? I can imagine it: an older child. Attentive. Serious. Mopping your brow. Looking after you. Holding you and singing songs from your childhood, or whatever. Wouldn’t that be something?

And what about you? Are you going to outlive your husband?

Definitely. He’s twenty years old than me, you know … Unless I’m the sort who dies young – I can’t tell. Who dies of turbo-cancer aged forty-six, like one of my aunts did. And these things pass down the family line … They are inherited … And as for you: you’ll die age eighty-six, full of years, a distinguished intellectual career behind you. Having written many celebrated books, all lined up on your shelf. And translations. A whole oeuvre …

What are your sexual fantasies? What’s in your head, philosopher? I want to know what’s in your head.

Do you like the whole college girl thing? Backpack on and all that. Pert little pony tail?

 

If you paid for sex, what would you pay for? What services? What would excite you?

Why do you want to know?

 

I’ll bet you want an apocalyptic fuck. A fuck at the end of time.

The last fuck in the universe. The last fuck that anyone will have, ever again.

I’ll bet you’re into apocalyptic sex play. Do you have apocalyptic sex toys? Actually, that’s a business idea: apocalyptic sex toys.

 

What is apocalyptic fucking actually like? I wonder. Pretty urgent, I suppose. Is it any different from messianic fucking?

I think they’re part of the same thing.

Does the messiah actually fuck?

It’s not about the messiah, it’s about the messianic. Different thing.

Does the messianic actually fuck?

 

I’m going to warm up your cold philosophical heart. With some Organisational Management loving.

 

What’s an Organisational Management turn on? The opposite of a philosophy turn on.

Is the opposite of Organisational Management a turn on?

What’s the opposite of Organisational Management?

Philosophy, of course. Is philosophy a turn on?

Who do you want me to be for you?

An Organisational Manager for the end of time. An apocalyptic Organisational Manager. Who’s, like, organising the apocalypse.

You can’t organise the apocalypse.

The Organisational Manager of chaos. Of disorder. The Organisational Manager of the end of times. The last Organisational Manager.

 

Let’s have some apocalyptic thrills. Let’s, like, enact apocalypse in the bedroom.

 

Apocalyptic roleplay! Do you have any apocalyptic outfits? Apocalyptic handcuffs?

Aren’t we too old for all this … romance. This supposed romance. Aren’t we too jaded for this? Aren’t we too tired for this? Haven’t we heard it all before, many times? How many times? Haven’t we seen scenes like this played out on soap operas and crappy movies? Hasn’t all this happened before? To people just … like … us?

 

What if I did leave my husband? What kind of life would I have? Who would we be together? What kind of couple would we make? How long before we’d just be like everyone else? How long would it be before we couldn’t bear one another?