Work in Progress

 Are you going to fuck me? What are you waiting for – the revolution?


I want to be touched. I want something to reach me. Something I actually feel. It isn’t too much to ask, is it?


How long do we stay infatuated? How long does it last? Sex isn’t comic.


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?


You’re totally self-reliant, with your masturbation. You don’t actually need me. Is it better with me or alone?


Would you prefer I wasn’t here? Am I getting in the way of your masturbation?

That’s how you’ll spend your life: as a masturbator. Self reliant, with your books, your music, with your Blu-rays. Above the fucking world.


I could have picked a better sex toy, couldn’t I? I could have picked someone who could get it up.


There are various positions I like, philosopher. That you’re incapable of. Maybe I’d like to fuck in the shower, did you ever think of that?


See, I can say the word fuck. There aren’t many women who can say the word, fuck. But they’re the same kind of women who are sexually demanding.


Oh come now, I didn’t mean to humiliate you. I didn’t mean to insult your virility. Or maybe I did …


A guy should be able to take you without a word. 

‘Take you’.


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


How shall we do it now? What page of the Kama Sutra have we reached? I’m joking. Don’t you think we should do it more interestingly?


Look at me – I’m blushing. That’s an orgasm glow.


You’re not very virile. The levers and cogs of your body don’t work properly, which is unfortunate.


I was never into casual sex. Too disturbing.

So you’re not sex positive.

I’m sex negative.

You surprise me.


What if I did some dance for you? If I went all … sexy … or is that too sleazy for you? What if I gave you some love-bites? What then?

Then, nothing.

What If you gave me some? What would happen then? Our secret would be out. God, how disgusting we are.


There’s nothing to say about sex. Nothing that doesn’t sound stupid, anyway.

So sound stupid.

I don’t see why we have to talk about it. Why can’t we just do it? There is no philosophy in the bedroom.

That’s where you’re wrong.


What’s the next twist in our sordid little world? What’s going to happen next? What are we going to make happen?


If we followed desire right to the end, what would we find?

Death, probably.

You would say that, death-boy.


My husband used to fuck me in the shower. In our early years. Sing it to the tune of that Barbara Streisand song: You don’t fuck me in the shower … anymore.


Maybe I’d like to fuck in the shower. I’d like to fuck in the shower, please. Please, philosopher – fuck me in the shower.


I was quiet for a while … did you like that? I didn’t say anything while we were … Fucking … yes, fucking. That word: fucking. I don’t mind that word, fucking.

Can’t you just enjoy it?

You’re supposed to be the philosophical one. You’re supposed to be the one who over-thinks … Do philosophers philosophise about sex? What do they have to say about sex?


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.

How can I do this to Alan?: that’s what you’re thinking. But I like doing this to my husband. I feels right to be doing this to Alan.

My husband …

Why do you never call him by name?

Because he’s anonymous. Because he’s a force. Because he’s a collection of husband drives. (Laughter.)


Where does he think you are?

You know – exercise class. Which is why I’m dressed like this. Actually, I have been to exercise class … He’s suspicious now. He follows me, in his car.

Maybe he’s outside now.

Have a look.

There’s no one there. Just the street.


A soap opera staple. A TV drama staple. All the ingredients for a melodrama. And a crappy melodrama, at that.


This deception can’t be good for anyone, can it? It can’t be good for us. Do you ever wonder what it’s doing to us?

We’re demons. Or I am. I’ve become demonic. And I don’t mind, that’s the thing. Which makes me doubly demonic.


We’ve become liars. Dissemblers. We won’t tell the whole truth. Well, I say ‘we’, but I mean ‘I’.

Because you’re okay. You’re just the occasion of adultery. But then you have meetings with him, don’t you, my husband. My provider. You’re lying to him, implicitly …


The other night, I went into the bathroom and found myself just crying and crying. I was, shuddering. And trembling. Quite grotesque … Oh don’t feel sorry for me. I‘m not asking for you to feel sorry.


What are we doing with our lives? Are we being reckless with our lives? Are we spoiling them, our lives? But we’re free to do that, aren’t we? We’re free to do exactly as we please. That’s the thing. That’s the problem with too much freedom.


There’s some other way to live, isn’t there? We don’t have to be who we are. We don’t have to be this. There’s another life. Another way of living our lives. Isn’t there?


It’s not like I have an excuse. I wasn’t brought up really savagely. There was no major trauma in my life. I wasn’t, like, abused or anything.


What sort of person am I? The sort of person who doesn’t care what sort of person I am – that’s clear. Who doesn’t have a conscience. No, who doesn’t act on her conscience.


I’m not even mean. I’m not even calculating. I just helped yourself to this. I wanted an affair, and I got to have an affair and that was it. Simple. No qualms. No inner objections. No wrackings of conscience. No anxiety. No: who am I if I do this? No: what kind of person does these things? No: who am I becoming?


I must be … two dimensional or something. I must have no depth. No soul.


Look what we’ve reduced love to. This. Some … cuckoldry. Some affair.


I’m searching for it, my guilt. I’m looking for it but not finding it, my sense of guilt. Some last shred of decency.


I think I wanted a bit of drama. I think all this is about drama. I wanted something to happen. I wanted to be caught up in some imbroglio. Is that the word for it: imbroglio?


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


We’re mockers. Despoilers. Isn’t it enjoyable: loathing ourselves? Aren’t we indulging in it: self-hatred? Just as a way of entertaining ourselves.

Twisting the knife. Turning it deeper. On ourselves. Just for the drama …


What are we living out – what psychodrama? Where’s this supposed to be taking us? Hell, probably. Somewhere dreadful. But it won’t, will it? We don’t really feel that. We don’t fear that. This isn’t the fucking middle ages.


What does God see? What does God think of us? Not very much. God’s thoroughly sick of our kind …

Piles of seaweed, rotting. Flies.

I that flostam? Is that what flotsam looks like? How do you tell it apart from jetsam?


The tide’s out. Life’s out. And we’re just stranded. Nothing has any meaning – any context. Nothing’s borne by anything. It’s just deposited. Just left here. 


Everyone’s gone mad from low tide. From this extra low tide. Will there be an extra high tide now? Will Cullercoats essentially flood?


Those guys with metal detectors. What are they looking for? What are they hoping to find?


There comes a dog. Hello, dog. What do you want, dog? Where do you stand on animals, philosopher? You’re down on nature in general, I know that.

We’re misusing our time, Uma says. We’re desecrating our time. Doing wrong things with it. This isn’t how we should be living, is it?

I don’t know, I say.

We’re at the bottom of some pit … looking up …, Uma says.

At what? I ask.

I don’t know, Uma says. God, maybe …

Silence.

We don’t have to live like this, Uma says. Things don’t have to be this way. But we do, don’t we? We’re sinners …

We’re fallen, Uma says. Desperately so. Because we don’t lament our fallenness. We don’t experience it, not really. It hasn’t reached us …

What are you turning me into? Uma asks. You and your philosophy! You’ve infected me with philosophy. You’ve made it okay to talk like this – as no one should be allowed talk. No one should be allowed to say these things …

What if I said that I’m terminally ill? I could be terminally ill. I’d actually like to be terminally ill. It might give some meaning to my life.


It’s like we’re dazed. Like we’ve been the victim of some terrible accident. Yet we’re unscathed. Yet we’re fine. Yet nothing happened.

It’s like we’re the victims of some hit and run. Like we’ve been destroyed, or half destroyed, or nearly destroyed. But we’re okay. We’re just fine.

Nothing happens here except the clouds change. The clouds move. There are different kinds of clouds.


Not a cloud in the sky. The lids off. The day’s open.


The sky’s thinking about itself. It’s thinking its own thoughts.

Is it thinking about us?

It’s got other things to think about.


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.

All the questions we ask.

No one’s going to answer, are they? No one’s interested.

God, maybe. The sky, maybe. The light, maybe.


Nothing up there, anyway. There’s nothing we can count on. There’s that light, that’s all. That quivering patch of light.


Why are we so fucking low?

We look upwards, but what is it we see? What is it, the sky? 


How can this world be lifted from us? The weight’s too great … The pressure …

The world, crushing us. Our limbs, so heavy. How can we, like, get up at all? How do we stand upright? How can we get to our feet?


A patch of light. That’s all that’s left. But what does it mean? What does it do?

Lovers always talk about their love. It’s smugness. We’re pleased with ourselves. Pleased with what has been given us, by way of the other. In our little bubble of love.


We think we’ve escaped the world, but love is part of the world. It’s just a little … give in the world. It’s a little leeway. It’s what we’re given as freedom – as a taste of freedom. But it’s still part of the illusion – and perhaps the worst part. Because it entangles us more deeply.  

We’re trapping ourselves. We’re being trapped – by nature. It’s nature’s honey trap. Nature’s seduction trap. Which is how it opens as apparent freedom what is really only a deeper form of servitude.


Nature’s thrown us a treat. We’re supposed to be grateful. To moon over one another in gratitude. When really it’s part of the whole machine.


Love isn’t part of the machine: that’s what we think. That’s what we’re supposed to think. We fool ourselves. We want to be fooled.


Our disgrace. We should fall to our knees … and …

And what?

Pray to be released from the world. Its traps – its snares. Pray for an opening … Don’t we want out? Sure we want out. We want the exit. And that’s what we want in love. We want to be an exodus for one another. A way out of the trap. When really it’s another part of the trap …


It’s the honey trap. Nature’s honey trap. That’s what it’s called isn’t it: when they lure you in via someone pretty. Some hottie specifically sent out to target you. Nature wants us trapped. Confined. Seeking all our salvation from another, when in fact … the only salvation comes from outside.

Outside what?

This world. This life. This … universe of death.


The stupidity of lovers. We think this is an exception. That we’ve been given all this as a special gift to us. All these feelings … This elation … This craving … This very sane madness. This rational irrationality. This law-abiding prohibition. Which happens to virtually everyone. To which all of us succumb. That lifts us all up. And up to what?

Aren’t we lucky? we think. Why can’t everyone be as lucky as us? Until we become evangelists of love. Trying to pair all our friends up. Telling people the story of our romance. How we got together. Our ur-story. About when the world relented. When the remorseless logic of it all just pulled back for a few moments. When we were granted an apparent reprieve.

And now we think we know what the world is about. What things really are. As if everything had been revealed to us anew. As if for the first time. The world, all aglow. Colours, more vivid. The sky, a little wider … It’s a con …


Our story … how we escaped. How we weren’t subject to all the laws. How it wasn’t just the same old for us.  We think we’ve been elected. Saved. Lifted above the fray. Because Nature wants us to make more of ourselves. Nature wants the multiplication of Nature.

Love … makes you feel exalted, doesn’t it? It makes you high. It makes you feel like some secret aristocrat. If only the world felt what we felt: that’s what you think. It makes you smug.


All the world loves lovers. And lovers are always in love with themselves. With their love. With their being in love. It’s a recipe for smugness.


Do you think we look like we’re in love? Do we charm people? Do we lovebirds remind them of the possibility of romance?

It’s like we’re elevated above everything. Like this is the most important thing in the world. Do you feel it, too? Are we in love, in love, in love?


There’s an absolute divide between us, and them. Because we’re in love. We’re, like, a loving elite. Who feel their love more intensely than anyone else. Who live more intensely. Or something.


Lovers staring at each other. Pleased with themselves. With their love. Pleased with themselves in love.


I want to thank nature personally. Thanks, nature. Thanks hormones. Thanks, desire. Thanks, lust.


Like we’re exalted. We’ve exalted ourselves. Lifted ourselves out of the common run.


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.


This is like a holiday romance. It’s like we’re on holiday, and it won’t last once the spell is broken. Once we have to go back to reality.


This is our sentimental education. Do you realise that?

What are we supposed to be learning? What’s the curriculum?

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


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?


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.


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 want to shout. I want to be heard

Who by? I hear you.

Not by you. I want to be heard by … God, maybe

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.


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’m not good for anything. And nor are you, but you know that.


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 …


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.


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 …


I don’t know what I used to know. And what I know now … isn’t good for anything.


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.


I feel like I’m falling. When I close my eyes, I get vertigo …


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?


What do we add up to, we two? What do we add to the universe?


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 …


Falling through the afternoon. Is that what we’re doing? Falling, just falling.


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


Are we going to live long lives, do you think? I know the answer: I think we’ll live forever. That’s what I think this afternoon.


This bedroom … where it happens. Where it doesn’t happen. Where everything is lost. And found again. And lost again.


Just falling through the afternoon. Falling to where, I don’t know.


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


The day’s going on without us. The day’s doing its day thing. And we’re doing our you and I thing. Whatever that is.

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

The rest of the world’s busy.

I’m sick of being busy.


What does all this add up to? Our affair. What does it mean?