I'm boring, erratic, annoying, loud, obnoxious, abrasive, considerate, generous, frantic, lethargic, calm, aroused, mournful, soulful, full, obscene, civil, polite, fatuous, contrite, facetious, intelligent, stupid, worthless, ebullient, a character, a monster, a creep, compassionate, caring, considerate, loquacious, introverted, extroverted, retrospective, introspective, I lack perspective; I'm interesting, I'm dull, I'm anything, and nothing. I'm not all of those things. Does it matter? I'm several of those things, guys; surely you can ignore the lie and let me have my fun? Let's hope so, or the rest of this entry will be a misanthrope's guide on how to lose a tiny audience. Working on the basis of fifty-percent audience retention (and thus: one) I will spin my tale, I will create my world, try to bring you into it, try to get you to empathise, to care, just a little, to try to see my side; I hope you'll understand, but if you don't... it doesn't matter, you can slide back into obscurity, and you can remember how easy it is, how facile it is, how to slip gently back down into the mundane, and regularity - as long as you're happy, then I am happy (except I couldn't care less if you're happy or not, nor myself, in fact). I recommend you read this at a specific time; place it in a specific context - surely that can only increase its use, its effect, help you defect. I suggest you try it at dusk, or later (but not in daylight); let's be crepuscular together, I also hope the gods deign to grant us a mortal wish, a wish for rain, a wish for wind, and for pathetic fallacy of all type. I wish Nature to swirl up a cataclysmic milieu; a tormenting, natural accoutrement to a self-aggrandising twist on the everyday. I hope and I pray for these pieces to fall into place, like an inter-stellar jigsaw, and yet I recognise the futility of praying, the worthlessness of hoping, instead, I embrace the expected and the real. If you will, forgive the indiscretions of youth, the foibles of my generation, the arrogance and impertinence of the narcissist and the ignorant - it's wilful, and intended, captivation for a generation of crunching. I am aware of the fact that if you’re reading this, you'll be watching TV, or staring listlessly at the title, trying in vain to decide whether or not to read this - or maybe you'll be blathering away on an IM programme, repeatedly saying "so" until you fall under the weight of banality. Let's hope it's finality. I joke with you there. Don't die.
Today I had different conversations with anywhere up to a hundred people - disparate people, interesting people, interested people, disenfranchised people, heart-broken people, jovial people, people with kids, people alone, transient people (in both senses), shy people, nervous people, boisterous people, aggressive people, obsequious people, garrulous people, generic people, people. Damn people are a study. They're fascinating. To be constantly surrounded by people, immersed in their lives, in their hollow existence, it's truly wondrous. You can sit idly by, and make snap judgements of the how and the why, you can fictionalise an entire journey through the years, compartmentalise the unknowns, internalise caricatures; imagine monsters, and splay their traits across the annals of invented time. It's haunting marionette, is observing; and the astute reader will realise that I adore it. If it had slipped by you, I work in a shop. A bookshop, to be exact. I mingle with all sorts of people, and I try my hardest to engage with their wants and needs; not for the business, not for the receipt of money, nor the trading of goods, but for my own selfish reasons - I engage with people so I can think. Without people, we'd be left thoughtless (or so I believe); without opportunity for the exchange of words, we'd be left pitless and vacant. Of course, there is always the over-riding feeling of 'Doing a good deed'; I like to be there, I like to be surrounded by all of these people, I find them interesting, and the shy, childish voice in the recesses of my mind, desperately seeks their approval - I cry out for reassurance of normality and acceptance into the androgyny of suburbia. A fawning smile, or is it? A sycophantic nod, or is it more? What marks the real for the metareal? The immaterial from the material? It doesn't matter. Don't draw the line: if it's pretence, enjoy it, it's extraneous, it's for erudite and learned philosophers to ponder, it doesn't matter to us - just enjoy the moment of connection, the snap of excitement, and the spark of cultural empathy. So yes, I am immensely interested in people, I always want to know more about them, and though I hide behind a veneer of disingenuousness, I have a genuine want to explore their personalities, them. It sounds pretentious, so bear with it, but do we not all have this craving? Can anyone really admit to a hatred of communication? Are they content to be entirely alone, bereft of conversation and company? Social wants are universal, however controlled by callous fingers they are.
Working in a shop is perfect. The opportunity for a melding of cultures, of status, of class, is proliferated through concept; it's spell-binding, and it's uncreatable (this should be a word) - it's not recreatable either, but nor can you produce a situation such as that from the ether. The different people, and the differing minds, come one after another, a mélange of interest - and there's more, there's always more. Capitulate to the deity of the social; not only is the meeting unprecedented and uncontrolled, but it's alien and fleeting to a point of seconds. You have under a minute to convey an interest to the newcomer; to show that you have an inherent interest in the unknown life in front of you - why? To profit? Unlikely. The odds of difference are slim. No. For yourself: You want this experience, because it's interesting. Fuck it's interesting. To simplicity: You want to make that meaningful connection because people are fun, and you want fun. You have choices, avenues of exploration, and they must be traversed with precision accuracy, lest you falter and transgress the boundaries demarcated by convention; which direction do you take? A witty riposte? A simpering agreement with the patron's choice? A slavish remark of colour? Or a mundane observation? It's an unconscious high-wire, in a gust, and a breathe will push you into the vacuum of faux-pas, leaving you embarrassed, and debased; a loss of face - an act of contrition to follow. It's innate, a congenital balancing act that marks us for who we are - you've heard it: "Have you seen him? Utterly tactless." You must cross the rise, to reach the fleeting safety of silence.
You choose your direction.
How to follow. What if you appear fatuous? Oh lord let me be liked. Let my comment be well received. It will be. Impulses are rushing through your body; your eyes are skirting all that they can see of the person; the deepest corners of your mind are coughing up any information they feel is pertinent for the situation; you make snap judgements and they're right - you glean all that needs be gleant (you decline it) in under a second, and you act accordingly. Let's face it, that's fascinating too. But let's save that for another day. As your brain collates these split-second observations, it connects with your mouth, and you know precisely what must be said in order to appear engaging, and to engage the recipient. You might notice clothing, or the choice of purchase, the cassoulet of the twenty-something woman in front of you, whatever it is - it's marked as the most pernicious, and it's bound to seamlessly integrate you into their 'good books'. Hell; you're the bookmark, you're that good. It's that effortless for you. Well, for all of us. You can alter direction at the firing of a neuron, a cognitive beep-test of unimaginable speed - flit from subject to subject with conceit unrivalled by anything or anyone. Congratulations; you've said something of merit, and you've done well. Now our ball (which was before unmentioned) is flung into the court of the stranger.
Where do you turn?
Left or right. It's irrelevant. It's them. It's down to them. Time slows and you can see the internal battle, that you felt so recently, behind their eyes: They're darting all over you, ferreting out any minutia detail that might aid them in retort; if they're unlucky, you'll appear blank, unreadable; invention is key for the returnee. If the fates are with them, they'll happen upon something of note, or a conjoining idea to that of which you spoke, and connection is firmly established (for there must be a statement from both parties). You might be in safer ground now, you may have made it half-way across the turbulent river, and found yourself clinging to a rock embedded in the silt. Take a breather. But don't lose your concentration. Please don't lose your concentration. The game is far from complete. The dance has only just begun, and your partner is outmanoeuvring you at every turn; you're a fumbling, bumbling, toe-treading ignoramus, façade, façade! Shelter beneath inanities. Safe. Congratulate yourself, and congratulate (subliminal, please) your sparring-partner; you've created an avenue of conversation, and now it's up to you where you pilot it; you, the initiator, you are the creator of this situation, and you must take the helm, steer the flight through the fog, and into the clear, blue air of fond farewells.
You are marked.
You are marked. You're marked by a futile want to escape. Now that you're in, all you want is out. It's the irony of man (perhaps); wanting what you cannot have, and weaving away once it's in your grasp; admit defeat, recalcitrance if futile, and laughable - you're a pawn in a greater game. You might drive this meeting of minds, but there are higher powers guiding yours. A chess board within a chess board, within a chess board; jockeying for position as the highest vassal. Now, now, let's not be fractious. Let's be realistic. You're in, you must capitulate, you must re-engage; focus, damnit, focus your eyes, they're sliding, your vainglorious brain views the peon as unworthy (although in reality, there's probably much more of interest stored inside of them), ignore it; let course and predictability steer you. Slow your breathing, don't get ahead of yourself, we're passing midway, we're entangled, but we are not going to appear weak - don't sweat, stop it, mop your brow, do it now, be quick, do it quietly, come on, don't let them see. Don't weaken under the impervious stare of pseudocuriosity. Stake your place back into this situation; wrest control from the aether and stamp your foot on the impetuous impatience of your mind. There we go. We're back in. It's OK. No time has passed. This never happened. You disengaged momentarily, faded into a mental purgatory; welcome back. They've replied.
Shit.
Well what do I do now? I asked the question. I didn't. Yes you did. Oh fuck. I did. What did they say? Confabulate. Doesn't matter. Error is erroneous, unintended mishearing. Palm off with something flat. Crisis avoided. You're in this seat. It's OK. We're nearing the end. It's back to them. You've engaged an interest, and found a route to their psyche, you've inserted your prong, and you're about to play your card, the card which explodes the prong, the card which heralds in a new dawn for your spar. They'll foam with enjoyment, clap with a zeal unprecedented; you'll be emperor of grace.
Shit.
I still haven't replied. What the hell am I doing here? I don't want this. I can't interact like this. It's asking too much. Too soon. I'm too young. I don't know how to react. What's my face doing? How is my derision seeping through? Control the mask. Fucking control it. Relief. Blank. There we go. Automaton of interaction. We're OK. It's auto-pilot from here on out, trust me. This is the real. You did hear them, it just took you a while to process it; work it, twist it to your advantage, use the one-syllable rejoinder, the one that guarantees polite laughter in return for its usage. Say "what", and as they start to repeat, interject saying that you did in fact hear them, and you don't know why you did that. Silly. Don't know where my head is. I'd lose... etc. etc. ad nauseum.We're here. We've reached the nadir of persistent toil. Drinks all round. Cognitive whirring for the wheels of intellect. You've spoken twice, and they once. The exchange nears its end, and you can return to your silence; your hermitage, your external hole, hidden. Thank you, someone. It's them. It's all them. Ah. They're smiling, you must have done well. Give yourself a pat on the back. Oh. Wait. The eyes. They're a dead give-away, they're empty. Why aren't they reflecting the smile? Is the smile not real? But mine is real. How could they be so rude, I was congenial to a fault; I made them laugh, and I spoke with the strength and surety of a learned man - I guided them through the labyrinthine passages of conversation, and I brought them to this haven of finality. There should be trumpets, where are the trumpets? Why aren't people congratulating me? Where's my standing ovation? Why the look of impatience now? Oh, holding you up am I. The inconvenience of my company has become too tiring for you. I can see it. Don't try to hide it. At least be honest with me. I'm being honest with you. Aren't I? Oh.
Here we go. We've reached the final. You've made it. I am so proud of you. The money changes hands, pleasantries completed, air-hands shaken, smiles reciprocated; paper slides across the desk, receipt of purchase. Where's the receipt of conversation? Where's my skart? Damnit, I'm not connected to the social mainframe; arg, where's my port? Which switch do I have to press? Why don't I have any switches? What? You're saying there's no proof? There's no proof of my conquest here. Nothing at all. Fuck. Pray for a lasting impression, pray that the gravitas of banality sunk into their shoulders, pushing them to earth, as though weighed down with the knowledge you've imparted. Final words exchanged. Yes. Goodbye. Well played. Well danced. You were a foe of equal skill.
Breathe.
Don your gloves, straighten your hat, brush your clothes, and decrease your shirt, tie your shoes, and mop your sweaty palms.
The queue moves up one.
If you read this, there is one thing I ask of you: Please realise that this entire introduction is a parody of a very famous book (the introduction to said book), and that I will never change my writing style to this. I was merely flicking through the pages of my mind, trying to figure out how I should start this; my magnum opus (always best to start with humility and modesty); it had to be good, it had to be powerful, sure as hell it had to be interesting and engaging - but it also had to be annoying, I wanted you to hate me, so that you'd keep on reading; then I was free to slide back into a normal vernacular, a normal style, if you will, and speak of which I wish to speak of, and leave you none the wiser, but having read the entire piece. Then at the end... I can spring this on you. Did it work? Let's hope so.
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