March 3, 2007

• "I'm a friend of the division of labour.  People who can't do anything should make people, and the rest should contribute to their enlightenment and happiness.  That's how I understand it.  The mixing of these trades is done by hosts of fanciers, of whom I am not one."--Fyodor Vassilyevich Katavasov

  you're supposed to change your focus.  depressed people are stuck on depressing thoughts, everything becoming proof of the decay that supposedly surrounds them.  i was there in that murky deep, once.  rifling through the uncountable sensory inputs, fingers wanting to twitch, but not able, all i could do was close my eyes.  the muted, grey light of an overcast sky blinded me to the other possibilities.  everything was false.  i must have been closer to an ongoing consciousness of entropy.  the very green of the leaves, the utmost nooks and crannies, the forced laughter of sitcom actors augmented by canned guffaws and push-button applause--all of it amassed to an ashen landscape of prufrockian futility. 

  when i walked into the indian place for lunch today, i had to follow in the footsteps, quite literally, of what i'll hastily dub a couple of normal white people.  the woman was young looking, firm and rounded where the media told her she wanted to be, and dressed in what looked like her teenage daughter's clothes.  her lunch companion was older, less firm but more rounded, gruffly mustachioed, and dressed with the same degree of nonchalance as my own father, who cares only that the stitching in his seams not be fully unraveled.  as i walked up the steps behind them, all the while trying to exude an air of "you just happen to be going where i already wanted to go," my appraisals kept changing.  she was the daughter after all; her ass an advertisement spelled "von dutch".  no, they're a long-married couple, just at the point where the conversation is starting to run dry.  no, no; she's the middle aged one, but he's actually her younger-looking-than-his-years retired meal ticket.  i was almost offended that they were going into the same place i was headed. the audacity!

  i'd wanted samosas for lunch.  samosas with mint chutney were going to make me very happy, very quickly, so that i could get back to work and finish out another friday.  it turned out that the all-you-can-eat deal didn't include any; i found the chutney while spooning out a bowl of rice pudding, but they didn't have samosas.  i wanted to get some to go, but started worrying that i'd be the only person ordering take-out during buffet hours.  at least i wasn't the only solo lunchist.  they seated all the loners at the center of the restaurant, down this one, long column of tables between the booths.  i'd brought my copy of anna karenina, but didn't dare touch it.  the guy next to me was coughing nervously as he read his paper.  when he left, he actually asked the waiter if he wanted him to throw it away himself, like it would be this incredible favor. 

  everything went by in a blur; the frenzied pace kept recalling childhood memories of piano recital jitters.  every bite, i paused to wonder whether what i was doing was wrong or not.  do people wipe the masala gravy from their plates with little torn rags of naan?  i wanted something caffeinated but was too busy avoiding attention and eye-contact to even consider that it might make things worse.  nervous energy fueled my non-stop effort; one bite invariably followed another without pause, until everything on my plate was gone.  thanked god for having allowed enough small bills to accumulate that i wouldn't have to wait for change.  stormed out in a paranoid huff.  the host seemed to be relieved at my departure. 

  where once there was only decay, now there is nothing but awkwardness.  instead of the world crumbling around me for lack of meaning, it's me that's crumbling while the world watches disinterestedly.  is he lying?  is he crazy?  what does it matter, so long as he does it quietly, somewhere just a little further over there, and hopefully without leaving too much of a mess where the rest of us might still step in it.

  • 5:36 am
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