James Kelman - A Disaffection

Such as?

Away you go.

Well how come the pipes are finished? They arent finished. Why was it a weanish notion? It wasnt a weanish notion. It was not a weanish notion. There was something about them, at the very outset. It can be recaptured. There was also something else about that night, a kind of oddness about things. Was it an eerieness of atmosphere! Fuck off.

But there was definitely an oddness, a strange kind of dullness — like the senses had been dulled and things were being viewed via that of a perception unable to give colour to things. It had been cold right enough. And draughty, at the back of the arts centre. And yes, Patrick had certainly been shivering — no joke when you’re having a pish. And it iced up that night as well because some poor bastards were having trouble with their starter-motors on Wednesday morning. Patrick hadni; that side of affairs is quite good as far as the mechanics of his own motor is concerned. It got him right through the entire winter. Which is more than can be said for so many of these bastards with their big highpowered efforts. Pat’s motor is okay — if it wasni for the fucking bodywork it’s the bodywork that lets it down.

The coffee was cold. He had a whole mugful of it sitting on the edge of the fireplace and it was cold, the entire contents, the exact 100 % of all that there was and could conceivably be, there in his mug, cold, with its regalia of the english monarchy, imperialism’s holy of holies, leaving aside the fucking vatican of course, not forgetting the kremlin, plus of course the fucking white house, then again you’ve got the fucking zionists. Patrick sipped the coffee. It was a good idea to sip the coffee. Healthy. The life force. Plus as well it’s aye interesting to watch how the line of skin affects the inside of the mug, as it shifts and makes its way down. No doubt it was such an enterprise that inspired Copernicus, stuck away in his tower and getting upset at folk. His relations had something to do with it. Did he have fucking cousins that didni get on with him or something. At one point he was living near to the Hook of Holland. Is that right or a load of fucking rubbish. The Zuider Zee. That must be a nice place to visit. How far is it from Jena. Plus you could visit that museum-cum-monastery on the northern section of the Germanias wherein you may find there ancient literary treasures of the old Irish-Scot scholars, that would be fucking good fun. I know: let us get up and go ben the parlour once again and we can look at the fuckers and see what there is to see, if there is anything at all, anything remotely of interest.

Pipes Two. Painted in Bright Enamels. Of the colours Three. Silver Red Black.

And the thinner yin:

okay, fine. Pat stretched out his arm, aware of the weight at his wrist, the weight of his hand or just the strain there because he had been sitting with the arm in question at his side for so long and he lifted the thin one up, as an aid to its description just. But it was not easy to describe at all. Once you had said pipe you had named the world. Consider the panpipes: they have been performed on by mankind since way back at the ancient of days. Aeons. At least six thousand years. And men have been playing the pipes. And here you have Patrick Doyle MA (Hons). What about a pair of fucking bagpipes! No, sarcasm doesni work. He laid his hand on the pipe. Maybe it was just another aid to the relief of sexual tension. Anything was possible in this life. And playing music has always been medicinal, psychotherapeutic. Maybe this was the key to the entire meaning of art. Of course. Obviously. Soothing the troubled soul.

But all of that which is necessary. All that is required. That is integral and essential and not able to be hidden, that must be to the fore, that has to come right out and enter the

Enter yourself ya bastard. Play the fucker. Before it is too late. Fine. What is done is just that Patrick raises the pipe to his lips and closes his eyelids; he blows a very long and very deep sound; just one, lips compressed, eyelids shut tightly, and tears springing there at the corners, like a form of ecstasy, something that has sprung from way out of and has relaxed these shoulders and eased that terrible terrible fucking tension, just got out from under that pilloriedness, self-pilloriedness, self-flagellation, that Goya one, something there maybe to do with the flagellants but now away there away there, just there, there, there, getting further and further away, not a great distance but a distance, definitely a distance, just enough now so that he can open the eyelids, the eyes maybe and just blink a bit, and a smile of sorts, looking at the pipe and smiling to it, an old friend and a treasure. It was time to walk to the windows and peer out at the side of the curtain; and he breathed out, a sigh; it was followed by a shiver, a shuddering movement of the shoulders, a wee convulsion. Dear dear. Dear dear. The rain falling steadily. The halo round the streetlamp.

It would be good to report that that night’s sleep turned out to be one of these smashing, all-embracing types of sleep where the body and mind both feel relaxed afterwards but it had not been like that, although neither was it the precise opposite, where you feel like a gang of baddies has been booting you about for the whole seven hours.

A breakfast might have been useful. He did have a packet of Weetabix in the cupboard, but not enough milk. There was no point in stocking a lot of milk. He only really drank the stuff at breakfast time — discounting coffee of course, he still preferred milk in coffee. Although in tea it didnt bother him either way. Milk-buying was a habit he never seemed able to develop. Perhaps if the maw did give him her old fridge. But that was an awful waste of resources. Then as well if she did give him the thing he would probably stuff the freezer bit full of raw meat and poultry.

Having a snack bar in the vicinity would be good. Glasgow is very short of snack bars. Why did the Rossis not seize the opportunity and open at the crack of dawn so that the solitaries of the district could arrive for coffee and hot rolls & croissants and salami on rye and maybe a couple of fucking bagels, like they get in all these great wee cafes in New York. Elderly couples meeting for a chat across pots of steaming coffee and hot pancakes with maple syrup! Fucking Mark Twain and Peter Pan territory, Never Never Land, sentimental maudlinity. Uch no, auld Twain was better than that.

Even if resignation was not the answer it could be a good idea to jump on the panel for a fortnight, just to get things into perspective; it would give him time to set forwards a plan of some description, a way ahead — even if he could just map out the next three months, once the summer arrived it would be all over. And yet resignation for christ sake what a temptation.

And it always would be a temptation. How could it be anything but? To resign from anything is good, is exhilarating. Just like, for instance, if he was to resign from Monday morning’s interview with fucking Old Milne. It was a while since he had been carpeted. Ach well, no point worrying about such things. Old Milne was a bit of a headbanger but apart from that. Even resigning from a family can be good and exhilarating. One of the better decisions Patrick has ever made centred upon the leaving of the family domicile at the start of his second university year. No matter that he was to stay in a house less than a couple of miles from where his parents lived it wasnt his fault if the university was as close as that. It had been a wise move and necessary to a fuller realization of his male potential i.e. that he could become involved with women properly, or at least come home steamboats.

One straightforward decision concerned Mirs Houston: it was henceforth silly getting hot under the collar about her. She was the wife of another and that was that. A more practical plan might involve these singles’ clubs where single people meet. But whatever and no matter, the whole carry on, it was something to treat in a less serious fashion. There was a lot of truth in the old cliché about sex being a comedy; it was best Pat found something to smile about, the way married couples were wont to, seeing the entire palaver as a joke; something to share a laugh over, something to be enjoyed in its differing aspects, and not something to crack up about. So much of life concerned sex and its attendant miseries and mysteries, its laughter and its heartbreak. Why get involved? Obviously he would get involved and indeed wanted to get involved, but