The concrete realisation of what was merely a dream, or, perhaps, hope might be a more accurate designation; a hope (or hopeful dream) given shape after intense bouts of thought and occasional painful but necessary harangues with two others, actually three others – others that must be described or at least alluded to by words that have the capacity to glint knowingly in the weak winter sunlight – this realisation as I have called it moves ahead. A momentum marked by hangdog expressions of turpitude and a distinct sense of sliding back. The youngest is already over forty and as for the others that comprise our minimal crew we have lapsed into unrecognised seniority: no fame, no fortune, achievements severely limited by inadequacies of both a personal nature and mysterious social “events” that have severely tested and warped our collective capacities. Though it has to be added that the marked individual distortions are a constant source of aggravation and wild comedy.
Have you noticed how noses and eyebrows are antagonistic? A’s heavy, wiry eyebrows bristling at any who come within spitting distance are combined with a nose so delicate, so self-effacing that you might wonder why he bothered to have one at all. Except, of course, there are the functional necessities to be taken into account. Whereas B’s nose rages before him, striated with mad colourings, pores so open you might think they were the openings to his very soul. Sprouting hairs from cavernous nostrils that leave you grasping for non-existent scissors. But then those eyebrows! Barely there, almost invisible against the ruddy leather of a forehead that surely has suffered too much arduous weather, the chemical fallout of a world gone mad.
There had been, after much deliberation, an agreement, a decision made, to head for the beach this weekend. To see the damage, as L put it. And it was true that we had all seen news reports on the terrific storms that had lashed the coasts, high winds and high waves, uprooting and downgrading, in a night of punishment and penance.
Did you mean us to walk?
Is there a problem with that?
I wondered about time. The commitments, unfinished projects, deadlines already long past.
Though I suppose the past is a sort of distorted present.
Did you see that guy, huge as a stuffed cardinal, his hierarchical scarlet has greyed out, patchy with unshriven desire, layers of would-be holiness, but it takes all sorts, I hear you say. Did you see him? No? Carrying his slice of cake. Heading for his friends, oh no, they look like family. A sister and a wife.
I would like to sleep. A ten minute power nap.
If only I could see a way of getting to the point.
P has joined us, P, my wife, though she would prefer me to say ex-wife, we are meeting to discuss money, here she is striding boldly along, heels click clacking on the tiled floor. She looks good, I have to say. Life has only got better for her with each succeeding day since I was sent into exile. Until such time (like now) that I am needed. Otherwise no longer required. Out of service. Awaiting redevelopment. No reasonable offer refused. No planning permission required. Or we might be meeting to discuss the divorce.
But there are one or two details which I have not bothered to bore her with. Much better, it seems to me, to let her believe that I am clinically depressed, and close to suicide. after all she was the one who diagnosed me with a potent mixture (on different occasions it’s true) of obsessive compulsive disorder, something, somewhere on the autistic spectrum, and a chronic anxiety/depression. Well why not?
The beach was a splendid idea. Storm clouds are gathering on the horizon, puffing themselves with pride as they are inspected by their commander-in-chief. She is lambasting them, filling them with thrilling violence, which she longs to unleash on us. As usual we expect the worst but hope for the best. Wasn’t it ever thus.