It can happen when you least expect it. You’re washing the dishes, or staring idly through your neighbour’s window, or curled up in a ball, thumb in mouth, in your car’s footwell… Your mind is open and empty, no threat on the horizon, and then the ground at your feet starts to rumble. A crack appears, the sky darkens, and then a crumbling spewing fetid chasm opens up before you; the screams and moans of lost souls escape from its depths. What you have here is reality, and haven’t I warned you about messing with that? I’m sure it’s fine in normal times to work towards what enlightened celebrities refer to as “mindfulness,” or being “present,” but in late 2020 that’s just asking for trouble. I’m convinced that these times demand the opposite: a sort of wilful mindlessness. Remain unaware: reality may be closer than it appears.
My piano is strategically placed within easy rolling distance of the bed. When I’ve had enough staring at the ceiling, contemplating my nameless dread, I drag myself over to the old Yamaha and plunk out a couple of tunes. This seems to awaken the more imaginative regions of my brain pan, which sing along, drowning out the awareness that the world is careening rudderless; that here in America we have a man-baby refusing to leave the big office, and a squirming scrum of despicable cowards at his feet. That the city around me is changed forever, unrecognisable as the one I dreamed of for so long. And that nobody’s in charge. It’s all a charade. Nobody knows what’s happening…. Quick! Play! Ahhhh….
Every morning brings a fresh dose of uncertainty and outrage. I combat the morning fear with an emboldening breakfast of my own devising: spicy chorizo, scrambled eggs, crumbly queso fresco, chilli-loaded pico de gallo, all hefted onto a giant tortilla. Don’t fuck with me after that. It’s the only solution I’ve found: vigorous exercise, explosively spicy food, books and music erupting with guts and beauty. Intense experiences, the tangible defeats the abstract. There’s no one looking after you, but Duke Ellington understands. Ineffectual scurrying politicians desperately pretending they have a purpose may not really exist, but a bowl full of face-numbing Sichuan food is undeniable.
The real monsters come out during daylight hours. Dressed in human skin they smile for the camera, while their teams of bloodless scoundrels sign contracts and paw each other. Sensitive types are advised to hibernate during these times, safely cocooned from the news cycle until the sun goes down. After dark, things look better. I can feel in my blood that the flunkies and deceit merchants are winding down their efforts for the day, and bureaucrats are afraid of the dark. In the black outside my window the crickets and the wind, snuffling raccoons, yowling foxes are running things, and it’s safe to breathe and drink and sing again.
Martinis will eventually turn me ugly, but now they’re a rebuke. I pace back and forth in front of the record player: maybe Mingus if I need company in my feverish agitation; some nights it’s Lester Young, siphoning all of humanity’s melancholy through his horn. Tonight I’ve retreated to the kitchen with a rack of lamb. The blood-stained ribs assure me that this was once a living breathing bleating animal, and eating it will connect me to ancestors who were too busy hunting and fighting to have time for puny existential dread. Ray Charles sings the blues from inside the speaker on my kitchen table, and Portuguese red wine sings through my veins. Garlic, rosemary, salt, and a hefty cast iron skillet are all that’s needed to bring this together. I’m aware that I’m not solving anything– the powers and their perverse value systems are way beyond the reach of some obscure sax guy– this is an act of self-preservation, but one anyone can use. I tear the last fatty morsels off salty bones, and drain my glass. Courage is restored and I take a midnight stroll around the neighbourhood, stopping to chat with cats and possums– maybe a wise gnarled tree– they’re good listeners; and back home, merciful sleep hits fast. Tomorrow will be better.
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2 thoughts on “Reality: A Survival Guide”
Ah, your mummy’s rich and your pa is good looking and ymca ….feelin’ groovy if a little queasy. hope all your tomorrows come over the rainbow and that the livin’ is easy dad
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Wilful mindlessness….indeed the way to go Nick! Carry on.
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