Monday, March 19, 2012

Imagined conversation with someone interested

(Bear with me please, and there will be a reward for you at the end.)

(General hubbub of conversations around, say, a table at a bar or a pub. A voice is heard over the hubbub, asking a direct question aimed particularly at someone. In fact, at the "I" of this story:)

So, you know, Anna, how come you're like on your own, are you like, you know, a bit of a man-hater or something [jokingly, but maybe with a hint of seriousness]?

me: NO. I would've thought you'd see that I'm not? Deary me. No, you see, the real reason lies within myself. The fact is I don't know how to fall in love with someone who would actually have me.

Aww but no, come on, surely not, it's just that you haven't met the Right Person, … blah … and so on… [obviously, the imagined party doesn't say "blah and so on", okay? "Blah and so on" is shorthand for the bland things people say, the sort of things people very often say, even if they're nice and intelligent people, just because us people we have - it seems - a need to tell a person who seems to be hurting or, I don't know, something, that "it isn't as bad as all that", thinking that this will make them feel better. It doesn't, of course. It should, however, be noted, that the "I" of this story replies with absolutely no aggression or hostility - for although the matter is one that brings an amount of sadness, it just is the way of things, and sadness shouldn't be mixed up with bitterness or anger or whatever.]

me: Oh p-lease, don't get all fortune-cookie soppy-wisdommy on me, give me a bit more credit. I have given this some real thought, you know, and obviously, I've had a few relationships in my time, and I have seen and realised and identified my pattern, and it's just a fact. I know a thousand and one ways of being in a relationship which isn't a relationship [again, please - "a thousand and one" should not be taken literally here, okay? No need to think the speaker is a total slag, it's a figure of speech]. Which never will be a relationship. I have empirical evidence that spans three decades. Every time, it is someone who will never, ever have me, although the ways of them not having me are (usually, thankfully) different. And you know, during these three decades, there may well have been one or two people who actually would have had me, but then I just really didn't want to know. Or it freaked me out and put me off them. Or I went for it and then went off the whole thing.

Ummm. Hmmm. Ahemm. Hrrmmm [uncomfortable].

me: Oh it's okay, please don't start feeling sorry for me or you know, get all worried that I'm going to cry or something. I don't even need your sympathy, but I would love some understanding. Yes it is often lonely, but it really isn't the worst thing in the world at all, being alone. It's way worse being caught in a violent or loveless or just plain unworking relationship. You just have to be able to get along by yourself, that's all.

(Lo, herewith reward: a Portrait of the Artist as a Tourist. Photo courtesy of Mark Maher, artist and a truly fine travel companion.)


trousers said...

No, the reward is in the words themselves. Recognition.

I think I've said enough.

Anna MR said...

Young housut - thank you. No, really, properly, thank you and kiitos; for "recognition" is just like another term for "some understanding", which the "I" of the tale stated they would love.

And so, for that, I thank you. It is also very lovely indeed to see you. Hope all things are as well as life itself will ever allow, with you, my legweary friend.


Reading the Signs said...

I see you put this up a week ago and find myself surprised that I didn't, somehow, know - psychically, like. But anyway, I'm here now, ready to tell you like it is (I feel my reward should be earned): it seems that you have (suffer from?) the Groucho Marx complex, he of the "I don't want to belong to a club that would have me as a member" fame. I rather like Groucho, so a few gold stars for that. Gold stars too for the getting along by yourself thing, which is something I have never really done much of because have always (apart from a few months off here and there) been in a relationship. Now tell me, hand on heart, which of us two sounds more rockanroll? Bearing in mind that we are both, of course, very rockanroll. But you have the edge,Schwestah, a fact which you cannot deny. So if I were you, standing on the balcony of a high-rise igloo, I'd put that in my cigarette and smoke it.

Feel sorry for you? Sheesh! Mwah!

i'm *so* rocknroll said...

Actually, I go through of liking and despising the Marx Brothers, but either way, my favourite is always Harpo.

Why? Because he's the stupendously talented physical dude (as the actress said to the bishop. wuh! wuh!)

Happily, as we are not in the "I know I'm _more_ rock'n'roll" competition… we don't need to find out a winner betwist us two super hot rock chicks.

Right on!


Reading the Signs said...

You have reminded me of my feelings for Harpo. Yes, he is the gifted, beautiful one and I suspect he might be an angel - the physical kind (wuh! wuh! as you so rightly say). Actually, between me and you, I met Groucho once and he was - a bit of a grouch, really. Some charity lunch do in a grand mansion, I was about ten so all a bit vague. I had the feeling he didn't like events like that, so we did have a smidgeon in common. Cathy McGowan was there too - you won't remember her, a 60s presenter from Top of the Pops. Why am I telling you this? Your robots are saying 'owelprel and silitu' which suggests that they are beginning to fine-tune a little, though I still do not like them.

I think if one inhabits the terrain of loss it does bring (as sung from the breast of the singer) diamonds and rust.

Anna MR said...

How very, very cool and interesting that you should compare Harpo to a physical kind of angel. I likes that, Schwesterling, I likes. For you see, this associates in my mind, intercontextually like, with two things: one, the philosopher Slavoj Zizek compares the Marx Brothers to the Freudian three-way divide, so that Groucho is superego, Chico is ego, and Harpo is id - as he describes it, embodying "utter corruption and innocence" just like the id does [please see under my name for the snippet, and if you haven't seen the full three-part programme, it comes with my recommendation, the guy is hilarious in his odd intelligence. Zizek, I mean, although obviously so is Harpo, too]. And from this I associated to the Nietzsche thing I remember quoting to you at some point, charmed as I was by it - something about the human being "angels singing in the attic while mad dogs howl in the cellar". That, too, I believe, has been Freudianly compared to superego and id…but then, you see, my superego sure ain't angelic, it's a right bastard instead…and I rather like the view of angels embodying "utter corruption and innocence" (whilst howling with the mad dogs in the depths of our very souls - Danke sehr, Herr Doktor. Have a Zigar).

Madif and edcab. I am proving I'm not a robot. Or two robots.