Life is not a pop video

Before TheSolidWallOfWriting existed, I wrote a novel called Introspective Kills and so much of it still seems relevant to this day.

I woke up alarmed. I didn’t know where I was at first and then a sense of perspective and an understanding of my reality quickly seeped in. Like any seeping liquid it trickled until there was enough to become a gushing stream and by the time it gushed, I was fully aware of where I was. For no particular reason, from the moment I was aware that I was alive I could feel the beginnings of an irrational down. Irrational Downs would customarily consist of feeling low for no discernible reason, which meant feeling so with no chance of logically redeeming the situation.  Like a cold or flu, you had to ride it out and let it take its course. There are ways to lighten the symptoms and in the same way that there are flu remedies there are some irrational down remedies. Considered that it is a form of depression, antidepressants might be a good start, but I’d sooner prescribe alcohol and smokes.

In this type of mood everything seems amplified. The pain in my hand seemed to be throbbing, my mouth seemed sore from where I had bitten into it the day before, and the urge to get out of the apartment seemed frantic. I got dressed in a hurry and looked in the mirror to see if I looked as bad as I felt. Of course I did. It would be impossible whilst on such a downer to look ravishing. I looked in the mirror and told myself: You’re a beautiful fucked up mess this morning. I would be fine, or somewhere in the vicinity of being fine. I’d be fine but down.

I live only near other residential buildings and not near one coffee house, so downtown seemed to be the only place to go. I thought that I could do what had worked before and find inspiration moping in coffee, but this time with musical accompaniment. I picked up my personal stereo, a small black shining box with sleek digital display and easy fit earpieces. Marching around town to music tends to be an overly emotional experience and my downer could either be drowned out or exacerbated, depending on what I was listening to and which buttons were pressed. I put on my long leather coat and looked through the music shelf for ammo to stuff into my long pockets. I could probably grab a cross section of cassettes and moods and see where I’d go from there. I was armed with six or seven tapes, a full load and the most I could fit into those pockets. I unravelled the earphones and packed those into my ears. I checked the stereo and found it was empty, so I picked up one other tape feeling that, with my pockets stuffed but nothing in the machine, I had filled the magazine but had nothing loaded in the barrel.

Before turning on my music I stepped outside and faced daylight and fresh overcast air. I exhaled loudly and pondered whether it was heartfelt or whether I wanted to add dramatic effect to my life, as though it were needed. Everything seemed annoyingly and arduously far away from my doorstep. It looked most likely to rain, and it was cold. On my doorstep for only the briefest of moments I was caught, as I often am, between being here and being there. I’d be safe and warm if I was upstairs, but I’d be upstairs wanting only to go outside. Should I go out, I would only long to return to the warmth. For some reason the proactive thing always seems to win out in these cases. If it takes more of a struggle, it must be worth doing. It is also common belief that traipsing in the rain that would surely come is much more inspiring than observing it from your bedroom window. Although much is to be said for the latter as it had only been a few days before that I had last done so. I turned on the stereo and with music I moved out.

The buses were as uneventful as ever, the undead being carried to their destinations. I had waited in line with four strangers who all chose not to think of eye contact. We all travelled without saying a word, as the only thing we knew we had in common was a suburb that we all shared and that attributed to no camaraderie. I stared out of the window at the rain when it began to spit. I continued to stare as we moved through the burbs and nearer the city. The noise in my ears was sinking in and everything continued to feel ever more serious, as serious as you can feel sitting on a city bound bus. Sitting watching the rain felt like a snapshot taken from a pop video. Shit, that’s too serious. Despite how seriously I take my life I never feel it to be as serious as a pop video. A few years back a personal stereo manufacturer ran a billboard advertisement that showed a rush hour crowd getting on a train with one man fighting against the crowd to get off the train. The one guy pushing against the flow was pulling his tie off whilst listening to his stereo. The caption stated: A good song can make you late for work. A great one can make you quit your job.

Music can make life seem serious enough to turn around and quit your job in an instant. We all want to be a snapshot from a pop video, an advertisement for modern life, a statement, a frozen moment in time, to be defined in a single image. It is the casually cliché, so complete, three-minute bursts, flashes and blurs of all the best bits. It is abstract and like modern day lyrics, in need of very little definition. We make of it what we will. Heaven and pop videos are ideals. I wondered in the rain, on the bus, watching water streaming down the windows. What logo or slogan would they run under this snapshot? The image was no longer mine. It was not me on the bus. It was a pop star or an actor, but it was no longer me.

The bus dropped me downtown near a diner that does good coffee. As I got off the bus, the rain had slowed to a sideways falling drizzle. I sometimes think that our rain, this city’s rain, is unique. In the final analysis it’s all H2O but ours seems different to me. I guess everyone thinks that their rain is unique. As Heather Nova says, “Nothing falls like London rain.” But rain is rain. To escape the drizzle, I unplugged my ears and headed for the cover that the diner would provide.

Stepping through the doorway of the diner seemed to allow expectations to melt at the doormat. Unexpectedly the inside seemed quaint rather than vibrant and I had expected something vibrant. Obviously quaint was the new look but it didn’t seem to be doing too much for business as the clientele seemed far fewer than I expected. It felt wrong being there but caught halfway between the bar and the door it was easier and made more sense to go on rather than to go back.

By the time I got to the bar the man at the counter asked in a measured company policy tone, “Can I help you?”

     “Can I get a house blend coffee?”

     “Sure,” he said whilst grabbing at a cup, any cup, regardless of size.

He placed the cup on the counter and reached behind him for the coffee pot marked regular. He started to pour and got only halfway before he was staring out the window. I couldn’t help but feel that I was missing out on something as he put the pot down and stared at somebody coming in. I didn’t argue. I simply picked up the pot and poured myself my own coffee. I added the milk as the woman who had now entered came in shaking her umbrella. The man behind the counter smiled to the point I wasn’t sure if it was genuine.

     “How ya doing? It’s always nice to see you.”

She kissed him on the cheek, and I moved away pretending not to see them kissing their hellos. Instead, I poured the milk to the point that I was making it into a latte. The only other person in the diner was a young pale looking woman in her twenties who sat reading a paper never noticing me. There were papers strewn about the counter for the enjoyment of the customers who would choose to read through them. I felt no urge to read the news, someone famous had died, it was no one I had heard of. I looked around the diner to see anything that could hold my attention, distract me from my humdrum downer.

If something happened here, would it change anything? Whatever happened in an empty diner to anyone? I sat on a bar stool at the bar and began to know that someone was looking at me. I looked up at the woman who was reading the newspaper, but her gaze settled into what she was reading. I turned around a hundred and eighty degrees on my bar stool until I was facing the window only to be disappointed to find that the stare I had felt intensely boring into me was a phantom stare coming from a woman standing on the outside in the rain. She was not looking at me but rather at herself, her reflection. She stared at it whilst she straightened her stockings and checked herself over without ever noticing me staring back through her reflected image. It was still raining and the woman was getting wet. She ran her hands through her wet hair and then frizzed her fringe a little to the style she seemed to be happiest with. Then she walked on never noticing me. I was only halfway through my coffee by the time the whole scene was freaking me out. I had to leave before I followed my urge to run screaming from the place.

I moved on and headed towards what I had found to be successful the day before in Java World.

I didn’t particularly feel anything when I left the diner.  I really couldn’t manage to feel anything. The streets blurred past me. I’m a high-speed zombie. I was hanging around, downtown by myself. I walked and took little of it in. Town was hardly there, it could be any town, it was just a blur of one. I was marching toward a goal, a pointless one. I was headed to a place where I could buy coffee. Nothing else was assured. Once there I would linger because it seemed to be the only place I could imagine myself being and this was only based on the minor success of the previous trip there.

The falling rain helps to blur the scene, and I can’t be sure whether it’s invigorating or debilitating. There is sometimes nothing quite so invigorating as being defiant in a downpour. I don’t think I was striding with defiance in mind though. My purpose was beyond silly enough to make any defiance seem redundant. There was no sense of, “Fuck you weather! Fuck you world!” What would be the point today? “Fuck you. I’m going to buy coffee, and you can’t stop me.”

From outside you could see that Java World was packed. I opened up the door, slid my earphones out of my ears and looked around immediately for a seat, somewhere that I could place my coffee and my notepad. I edged to the counter where no one else was waiting to be served and subsequently I was asked too soon by the girl behind the counter, “Can you tell me what you want?”

     “Sorry?”

     “What can I get you?”

She smiled. She was not the cute server from last time out, but she was her own kind of cute with red bobbed hair that I thought might be fashionable. She smiled with only a little bit of attitude, which is good for a coffee salesperson. I was figuring that she was a drama student, working part time and acting out the role of Java salesperson. I had no idea what I wanted so I went with the first thing that came to mind. “I’ll have an Americano, please.” I tried to smile but as ever I didn’t have much faith in it coming out as intended. We went through the ritual of deciding the size of cup as she held up regular and tall and pointed to Grande. I opted for the tall and then paid and stood looking at the lack of seating. Most of the people at the tables were couples and I didn’t feel good about crashing those. I walked up the big wooden curling staircase that angled around to a seating area that you couldn’t see from downstairs. That was all busy with murmuring groups. Some murmured in foreign sounds, others seemed to be students, very few seemed natural poets, plenty seemed to be the mock type.

Balancing my Americano in one hand and with my pad under my arm I took small steps back downstairs until I spotted one free space at the window bar. I hesitated before moving towards it. The procrastination was dumb, but it immediately hit me. Cute blonde girl by window, all alone, sitting by the only free seat in the building. The first issue I have is that I really didn’t want to look like I was trying to crack on to her. I didn’t want her to think that I was sitting next to her because I was some horny guy with nothing to do. The second problem was that I felt like a horny guy with nothing better to do and that is not who I wanted to be at that moment. That was not the plan here and I didn’t want to have to deal with those sorts of issues right now. I deposited my coffee and pad as softly as I could and tried not to look to see if she was as cute face on as she was from side profile. As I sat down on the stool she turned and looked at me. I tried to think nothing of it. As I was sorting out my newfound workplace and placing pen to paper she again turned to me.

     “I’m sorry, is my umbrella in your way?”

     I looked down and thought that her umbrella was hardly in the way at all.

     “No, that’s fine. No. It’s okay.”

She smiled and returned to her magazine that she was reading and moved her umbrella nearer to herself.

To the left of the girl next to me there was a slight outbreak of conversation between strangers. I tried not to listen. I wanted to do my own thing. I wished the real world would just stop hassling me. Everyone else’s words were drifting into my space and all of them reminded me that I didn’t feel capable of conversing with anyone. I sat still pretending to read a leaflet that had been left lying on the counter. FEED YOUR HEAD, was written in blocky letters. It was advertising a book club that I would never want to go to. Had it been the white rabbit who spoke those words or was it the door mouse. Shit, who said feed your head? Was it the Airplane? Hang on. Who’s ever heard of a talking airplane?

Fragments of real people’s lives drifted by and disjointed discourse slid together to make sense to only someone. There was a guy on the phone letting his friends know, “Well I just got into town about an hour ago.” He seemed to be excited about it and every now and then his phone would go off, and he’d say the same thing over.

A couple sat at a table nearby and seemed to be having a tender moment. He whispered to her, “I lie and I’m easy. You know this, right?”  The whispers went through the girl and floated to where I was sitting. Then I’m sure I heard her saying, “I’m fine. I could roll with that.”

Two straggly looking guys sat opposite each other, both looking like out of work musicians, the one furthest from me leant forward, his drinking partner leaned in too. He looked ready to break into story telling mode, as though he could burst if he kept his stories inside himself much longer.

     “Okay, Six a.m. day after Christmas, I throw some clothes on in the dark.”

His friend, the more straggly one, nodded and added, “With the lights out, it’s less dangerous.”

Then, the story telling straggler stopped. I think he caught my gaze but I can’t be sure. Then he dropped the volume to a level I couldn’t hear and the rest of the story tailed off.

Somewhere near me, in the corner of my eye, I could see a pale faced shaven headed guy in his thirties. He had a strange baby face, cherub like. Bizarrely, he looked like an ice-cream man I once knew. I couldn’t see his friend, but I could hear him saying, “I’m not sick but I’m not well.” It sounded like it was offered as an excuse, but it could have easily been a twisted statement of fact.

     “But can you fake it for just one more show?” the cherub man wanted to know.

A guy with a receding hairline drifted into my line of sight and I could hear him muttering, “So much to say, so much to say, so much to say…..” He muttered it like a mantra and then was gone.

There seemed to be something serious about the conversation between the couple sitting around the corner from me. I can’t see them, but I hear them.

     “I’ll take you home. Let me take you home.”

     “It’s okay. I’ll call someone. I’ll get someone to give me a ride“

     “You want me to take you home, don’t you?”

     “No, I know who I want to take me home.”

     “Why do you have to fight me on this?”

     “Please, don’t make this you versus me. This is not a matter of you versus me.”

     “Look, I’m sorry that I hurt you, please don’t ask me why.”

     “I know what you’re saying, so please stop explaining.”

I could hear every murmur.  I pondered a spontaneous conversation explosion of my own but my soundbites all sounded lame in my head. The girl next to me ignored me. I have one friend who insists women are mortally wounded when you don’t make a pass at them. Should I be making conversation here? Were the words, I’m sorry is my umbrella in your way, an invitation to talk? Suddenly I began to hate myself for dragging myself into this way of thinking and it seemed that the only safe place for me to be was moodily walking in the rain. All I could do for that moment was stare at my coffee and sometimes out the window. I began to write about my coffee cup and how my coffee somehow seemed undesirable. My mind drifted and at that moment I felt and wanted to feel so far away from just about anyone I’ve ever known and doubtless ever will. I was somewhere that was so purely mine. I never noticed the girl get up and leave. If anyone were to ask me what I was thinking I could give no answer beyond a shrug because what was in my head was mine alone, un-transplantable to anywhere else, not even to paper, so it seemed as I looked down at a blank spot that lay under my notes regarding undesirable coffee. I left my coffee unfinished and walked like a ghost to the door and out into the rain where I was still unsure as to whether the downpour debilitates or invigorates.

The bus ride was full of ghosts like me. Again, none of us spoke. I went home and wrote depressing poetry about the end of the world and how it all begins with an earthquake. I lay on my floor and scribbled away. I looked out the window at the rain falling and knew how it felt to ponder and wander in it. I lay on my floor in the afternoon and watched the night appear in the sky. My irrational down had lasted all day, and I couldn’t get away from it. Sleep seemed to be the only answer. I could solve all my problems by turning on the TV and going to sleep. In the absence of something that feels good I would settle for a new day and a new chance. I crawled towards the TV but stopped, hit by the notion that TV means brain corrosion and I’d rather think fucked up thoughts than watch TV. I lay on the floor and stretched out to the point where I reached the wall that intersects kitchen and living room. I ran my hands up and down the wall and picked myself up a little until I was on my hands and knees. I pressed my head to the wall and then, in jest, placed my mouth against the corner of it. I bit at it. I sank my teeth in as though it were all enough to make me chew the walls. And then I laughed. I found it funny. From nowhere I had found something that seemed funny. It made me feel good. Inspired, I took on a big chunk. I bit and the wall crumbled a little. I laughed because it was funny. I chewed a little more. This time as though I meant it and then I lay there until I really felt tired.