Chapter Thirty-Four -
Someone's Lost the Plot
Annabel is wearing her old
jeans covered with plaster and paint. She is standing on a
set of steps, painting the ceiling of the hallway.We've sold the
bungalow, and we're painting the rooms with ridiculous
colours to the order of the purchaser. I stand at the bottom
of the steps and look up at Ann. Her face is very white and
her hair is held back with an elastic band in a long
ponytail.Annabel. I am
looking at you. I am seeing you as a poem, which my literal
mind does not write, but which my sensual mind sees, feels
and explores.Annabel. I am
looking at you. I am seeing you as a song, but I would never
sing it, even to some cute little tune, but I can feel it
bubbling away somewhere inside me.Annabel. I am
looking at you because I love you. I love you as you stand
there in your filthy clothes painting some silly ceiling.I am beset by fears
that now I have something I didn't at first want I may be on
the point of losing it.Why is it that one
never wants what is offered, and then suddenly feels it to
be so desperately important the moment it is about to be
taken away?Tonight we will
drive home. Annabel will have a bath, and go up to see
Terry. I will say goodnight to the children, and sit in the
drawing room watching the flames curl round the great hunks
of logs. I will pretend to be working at something. I will
have a piece of paper on the floor, and a pencil, and I will
write the odd line, which is supposed to be the first line
of something desperately important which will spring from
the depths of my emotional condition, which is strung to a
taut vibrancy, and this work will echo down the ages with
the energy of a flame and the tension of that taut spirit.Of course, none of
these first lines will be the slightest use in starting
anything at all. None of the first lines will say anything
that isn't either weak or maudlin, or indeed both. If I were
a proper man I would not mess about with paper and pencil,
writing rubbish.If I were a proper
man I would get drunk and fall flat on my face on the floor.If I were a proper
man I would stride up next door and catch Terry by the
scruff of his neck and punch him backwards through his
living room window, and drag home my errant wife by her hair
and give her a good hiding to stop all this damned nonsense
right now.If I were a......But I'm not. I went
to some fancy school and learned to be a modern, tolerant,
totally mixed up, confused adolescent, whose head was filled
with such a pile of avant-garde nonsense that he has had
trouble finding his way out of the resultant tangle ever
since.If I were an
ignorant bum I would stop thinking and do something.But then I am not an
ignorant bum. I'm a highly intelligent fool who is unable to
move in any direction precisely because his intelligence
keeps getting in the way, pointing out all sorts of
alternatives, and side issues, and blind alleys.Naturally I can see
Terry's point of view. If your next door neighbour happens
to be a pretty little girl with a short skirt and a sexy
body, and she is coming up to show it to you, and get you
into bed, you dont ask silly questions.Naturally I can see
Annabel's point of view. She wants someone peaceful to be
with. She wants someone who is always nice to her. She wants
what she doesn't have at home. She wants a romance. She
wants a little togetherness without the eternal struggle.Here we all are,
searching for something. We think we know what it is, but we
keep getting side-tracked, we keep getting in a muddle. We
keep finding that part of what we want is in one direction
while another part is in a different direction altogether,
and we try to get to both, and end up in an awful mess. Or
else we sit down and dont go anywhere.I suddenly think of
Terry and his thesis on philosophy. I didn't understand it,
with its discussions of events and possibilities, and the
philosophy of someone called Martin. Who the heck is Martin?
When I was at college studying philosophy we didn't study
Martin. Or if we did I wasn't paying attention.Why cant Terry get
his arse out of bed, and his cock out of Annabel, and get
downstairs and start doing something about Martin's bloody
silly events and possibilities?Bloody
possibilities! They are the curse of the world. The last
century has been stacked with possibilities. I am even
feeling nostalgia for the nineteenth century; a century
stacked to the brim with certainties. Everybody was striding
off doing great things with an unshakable certainty.Then came the
twentieth century. Along came that idiot Freud poking about
in the subconscious. What the heck was he up to sticking his
nose into dark recesses where it wasn't wanted? Leave well
alone, say I.Then came that
interfering busybody Rutherford. We had lived quite happily
with atoms since the time of the ancient Greeks. What was
wrong with a world made from combinations of atoms? What did
he have to go picking atoms to bits to find particles that
behaved in totally awkward ways?What about that
utter fool Heisenberg? Uncertainty Principle, my arse! And
what is it with these bloody scientists? What complete
clutterbucking nincompoop could invent quantum theory where
nothing works the way it ought to, and no-one knows what is
going on, and every time you look at anything, it has
changed, or is about to change if you lift the lid?And I'm supposed to
be a writer. I have to work with this mess. And what do I
find? Modern writers have gone the opposite way to
scientists. Heave out all that prehistoric shit. Throw out
the subjunctive mood. Who the heck uses the subjunctive
these days? That's positively medieval. Get real guys. Start
using real language, not that hazy stuff with its
possibilities and uncertainties, and its stuttering maybes.Just as the writers
are throwing out the subjunctive, the scientists are
wheeling it in, right under our noses, and telling us this
is the real world that underlies everything that is."Everything that is,
is the case" said Wittgenstein. Or something like that. Then
Shroedinger said "everything is, but we don't know what it
is until we look at it, and the moment we look at it, it
changes".And I'm supposed to
chart a way through life after that! I'm supposed to know
what to do next. I'm supposed to look the problem squarely
in the face, suss it out, and act accordingly. Bah!So why doesn't Terry
get his arse out of bed? Why doesn't he sit down at his
table and sort this out. He's supposed to be a philosopher.
Start philosophising boy. Start telling me and my wife; yes,
my wife, that cute little tart you happen to be screwing
right now; you tell us how we are supposed to be juggling
all these possibilities. How are we supposed to work with
this new world where nothing works the way we thought it
did? How are we supposed to get from here to there if every
time we look at a sign post it says something else? Why cant
the fucking signpost always say the same thing? Why cant the
fucking signpost say what it said when no-one was looking at
it? And what's the good of a signpost that says one thing
when you aren't looking at it, and maybe, just
subjunctively-speaking, say something else when you are
looking at it? And how can anyone ever give anyone
directions in such a quantum, subjunctive world?We need a new
philosophy to underpin our thought processes. We need some
solid ideas that will allow us to walk forward with
confidence. We don't have them. Instead, we live in a
quantum world, and the philosophers are way behind.I ought to write a
poem about it.Goddamn, what am I
talking about? I need a poem like I need a hole in the head.
What I need is not a poem, but a kick up the arse.Instead I go
upstairs and look out of the bathroom window. I can see the
trees darkly at the back of the house. I can see a bedroom
light filtering down through the trees. I stare at that
lighted window, which gives me no illumination at all.I walk downstairs.
Why, I don't know. But what is the point of staying
upstairs?I don't know.I am upstairs
staring out of a window at a light beyond the trees. I am
downstairs staring at a blank sheet of paper. I am staring
at a whole series of events, and none of them seem to
signify anything at all except themselves. Surely there is
something more? Surely there is a pattern? Surely there are
bits that go together, or influence other bits? But how? And
how can we plan our lives? Can we set up some kind of
chessboard and work out the moves? Fat chance when you are
playing against dozens, and hundreds, and millions of other
players, and you don't know what their next move is going to
be.I am upstairs
staring out of a window at a light beyond the trees. I am
downstairs staring at a blank sheet of paper. I am staring
at a whole series of events. There is an event called the
darkness, and there is a lot of it about. That should help
in a quantum world. If I cant see things because it is dark
does that mean I cant affect them so they wont keep
changing? On the other hand, do I want to be in a world
where I don't affect things?For pity's sake, why
is this all so bloody difficult? How did anyone ever get in
such a mess? How can anyone live in a quantum world and stay
sane?Let's approach this
calmly.I am upstairs
staring out of a window at a light beyond the trees. I am
downstairs staring at a blank sheet of paper. I am staring
at a whole series of events. I dont know who the heck Martin
is, or what he said, and I hope I never will. But I know
Terry hasn't got the answer.Ha! But Terry's got
the girl, hasn't he?Hold on. Let's
approach this calmly.I am upstairs
staring out of a window at a light beyond the trees. I am
downstairs staring at a blank sheet of paper. I am staring
at a whole series of events. There are events called lights
which signify so many things depending on which way you look
at them.There is a lighted
window beyond the trees. Does that mean the bedroom contains
two people mucking about without their clothes on? Or does
it mean the bedroom is empty because, if there were two
people having fun they would probably have that particular
kind of fun with the light out? Or would they?Does it mean they
are downstairs doing the crossword? Or does it mean.....?I am staring at a
whole series of events. There is an event called a fair
haired girl who is out of control.Wait a minute. That
is probably (there's that word again) not true. Annabel
probably (sigh) thinks she is completely in control, and
that (probably) makes her feel happy.There is probably an
event called the possibility of getting it all together.
Good grief! How about that for a quantum sentence? How about
that for a double subjunctive?There is probably an
event for every option there ever was. How do I capture the
event I need, and discard all the others? I suppose I might
as well ask how I can play chess with another player who is
somewhere else and I cant see his moves.I am staring at a
whole series of events. There is an event called love, which
is like some chemical agent whose force is moved by unknown
things banging about somewhere in the sub-atomic universe.There is a light
shining across my desk, throwing shadows.There is an event
which I recognise as my shadow. It is leaping out beside me,
moving against the wall, watching me. Do I change when my
shadow watches me? Hey, wait a minute. Am I real because my
shadow can see me?I am downstairs
staring at a blank sheet of paper while my shadow is staring
at me. It wont leave me alone. I rush into the kitchen. My
shadow follows me, leaping huge against the wall. It is
staring at me with dark malevolence. I turn to face it but
it wont back down. I walk towards it menacingly, but my
shadow grows even bigger till it towers above me. I run into
the drawing room and crouch on the floor behind the
chaise-longue.I want to call
Annabel back home so I can cuddle down beside her where I
cant see my shadow.No, my shadow is not
some philosophical god looking at me to prove I am real.
Neither is it some bunch of sub-atomic things that will
change if I dare to look at them straight in the face.Can one look at
sub-atomic things in the face?Oh, fuck off
Johnsie, you really have lost the plot! * * * * *
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