Waffles and guns

Forgive my forwardness - it is, after all, the season for such behaviour. I intend to present you with a list of wishes; directed at you, whoever you are, all of humanity, whoever finds him or herself in my vicinty; please:

Have some, if only minimal, grasp of the fundamentals of communication. Do not expect me to read minds, and do not sulk because I can’t.

Apologise where apologies are due.

Know the principles and workings of tact and common courtesy.

Do not cause your peers any inconvenience because of your own troubled conscience.

If you have a problem, either be willing and able to let it go, or state it, in plain words.

if you want to smile, smile.

Thank you. Next year, this despicable holiday is canceled, and no one shall gain the opportunity to bother any one with guilt-induced misery; and no one’s heads are to be burdened with anything heavier than hangovers.

Sometimes the paragraphs are lined up and connected: they support one another and make sense. And sometimes they don’t.

I wanted to say something about stories, and about me, and the people I spend time with. And who we think I am and what I think they are and why things are that way.

This is a memory:
A novel arrives in my mailbox, sent anonymously, but I know, without a doubt, who it’s from. And I can never read the tale again, or feel remotely similar to how I felt when I first sat down to read it, without at the same time recalling the words on the attached note, and the face of the one who wrote it.

This is another:
We had very little in common once the beer was gone, you and I, but there was this: ever so often we would rush to town together searching for the same book. Then we took it home with us; battled over who would get to read it first, or maybe if one could read while the other slept, and when I reached the end of the last chapter, I could rely on you: you would know when to light a cigarette for me, or you would roll about and hug me back, for no other reason than the excitement about the story. You understood that, and while I no longer particularly want to hug you, I am a bit sad that there was no one to replace you for those sort of moments.

And I find myself talking to someone new: I talk and talk until, quite suddenly, I do not talk anymore, not even enough to say good night before I disappear. Had I been meaning to tell a story, I would be showing my audience why, but I am not, so I won’t. I forget, most of the time, that people are people, and not stories. I forget, I think, that I am not a story either, but I can’t get rid of the narrator.

Until in a rush of dread and panic I remember: and then there is no story anymore, and that I do not know how to respond to. I retreat to my bookshelves, and do not bestow any good night wishes upon you. I tell the stories of what is and what was: of the things that never were, and others that likely never will be, and a hundred thousand scenes in which I did not play the part of the clown, and I fall asleep.

The night sky has no numbers floating in it.
Yet this is my one obsessive-compulsive habit: I play connect-the-dots with the stars until sunrise.

Irritation is an animal which lives
together with Self Pity, in your throat.
They threw Perspective out last night.

Please don’t try to justify your little growl:
You are tired. It’s been a long day.
“Surely, no one can smile all the time.”

Here - this is Proper Conduct’s address.

“When you start writing your novels, I have quite the life story to tell you.”

In the shop; we’re quiet and aimless; I suppose we needed some groceries but neither of us keep lists. It doesn’t work that way. Maybe this thing will cheer someone up - or that one - maybe we should learn to talk to each other beyond what can be said after all the whisky, beyond the brief exchange of jokes in the car. Maybe I need to learn about the talking: The words don’t come easy. My mouth is shut tight.

“I’ll hang up now. I know it’s not easy to talk, for either of us.”

A thousand insufficiencies nailed to my voice. Was that the only thing she said to me that corresponded with my reality, and not just hers? Countless more things were said to the contrary; statements to make you twist and struggle and turn; and run, run, run. Her daughter asks if I will help carry the coffin. I say yes, if that’s what you want. I didn’t, four years ago. I was drunk and spent days with another drunk man; the talk came easier over that café table than it ever has between anyone in this house, in this town. He stops by the counter and asks if I am okay with this one rather than that one.

“It tastes a little less like nothing”, he says.

And I am lost in the outdated November. I nod with my mouth full of nothing. I never got the story she intended, but there’s enough of them still; Of course, I’ll help carry the coffin.

Who are you?

The words in your head or the voice in your mouth? The ticked off checkbox in this weeks questionnaire, or the wish behind the answer? Is who you think you ought to be something separate from who you are - if so, which one should be giving the answers, which one is more real? Do you believe you have a self, a legendary apple core, or are you given to the suspicion that you’re merely an onion - behind this layer, there’s just another one?

Your initial reaction should be a simple enough matter, but how easy is it to record? Do you even catch a glimpse of it? Is there another hand in there armed with erasers and waterproof markers, leaving no trace of the raw smudged-pencil feeling? Is this hand yours too, as much as the first and the third?

How many bits of you can you count, and how distorted are the mirrors at the back? How many answers are you allowed to give? If you are X, how many values can you calculate?-

One, two or zero?