James Kelman - A Disaffection

He aye seemed to be thinking in terms of irony nowadays. Was this ironic or was that ironic or was he fucking ironic, in relation to himself, or what.

In fact, if he did transform the house into something really warm and snug he could don the summer casuals and start playing the pipes properly. He was about getting beyond the self-conscious stage and there was no question that a genuine well-being resulted from it. No question, that it calmed him down; a bit like how masturbation could be, at its best, as a retrospective appreciation. Yes. Just sitting there and playing the pipes, with the room at its most comfortable i.e. nice and warm; it would be good, and conducive to it. What he had fancied doing, back when he found them — and now he could bring it right out into the front of the brain — what he had fancied doing, or even just as a sort of mild consideration, just as a consideration, a way of maybe looking

what he had half, deeply down had, occurring to him, was the notion of doing something on the pipes that warranted performance. There you have it. He had fancied the idea of reaching such a pitch/level that he could put on a sort of performance, just of him and the pipes. A type of arty crafty avant-garde affair but so what, fuck off with your fucking inverted snobbery. What he could do was hire a large room somewhere and send out invitations to folk. It wouldni be too difficult. It sounded mad and vainglorious; as if he thought he had something unique to offer. But he didnt at all — although there again, it might be said quite easily that just being an individual human being was a uniqueness, that individual human beings were as unique as each other; a race of specifics in non-specific terms — in which case

And also another thing

what the fuck was it? the other thing, it was to do with a relation, the expression of a relationship; it was to do with this and it was very important, crucially so, and for that reason best left alone, not spoken about too much.

And now, there, that was it, and getting away, getting right away from that terrible stance, that irony; it was good, it was good. Because that was always the fault, that was always the way of it with him, everyfuckingwhere, with the family and all the rest of it this continually seeing the mirror image, casting doubt upon your motives. It was hopeless. Perhaps; perhaps, it was an idea just to go over a great many things and see what and why, what had happened and why it had happened, and what was to be done. Even on a big issue such as post-university existence I mean for fuck sake surely the parents could not be happy with that? Never mind Gavin! A huffy bastard at the best of times. But had he been expecting something? What would a brother expect? Something especially outstanding? Or just another cop-out, somebody else selling themself to the system. All these sentimental questions. The all-important fucking fundamental ones.

There is no time for sitting about. On the other hand of course it is essential to realise you have all the time it takes. So, then,

And as well something not good even about that, that fucking So, then, like that, really not good, not good at all, best just.

He had to curtail it. He really did have to curtail it. He had to stop himself at all costs. It was that important. Because it was no good thing, it was no good thing. A very very bad habit, a very very bad habit and it was fucking what was it like it was like fucking whatever it was it had to stop it had to stop. He had to stop himself from doing it, it was something that was not good, just not good, and he was up from the chair and into the lobby, where the telephone in repose, nestling away, the telephone, its own tiny existence, awaiting its next though not unenforced, its not unwelcome

He dialled the number of Alison. It was of course unlikely

And the receiver had been lifted. It was Alison, saying: Hullo?

Eh, is that Alison?

Who’s speaking?

Eh Pat. Pat Doyle. I was just eh wondering, the thing about last night eh the arts centre, about me going away and that; I was wanting to apologise.

Yeh.

…

Pat?

Aye eh just really, that I’m sorry.

Good.

Aye. And what I was thinking, I was wondering, is it alright to speak?

Of course, yes.

What I was wondering then eh about whether I could meet ye, about something. To talk to ye about something.

…

Just to talk to you about something.

To meet me ye mean?

Just to talk to you, about something in particular, and eh

When were ye thinking of? Things are quite hectic at the minute.

Fine eh it doesni actually matter.

When were you thinking of though?

Eh well

It’s only because I have things on.

Fine.

…

Eh.

So it would have to be tomorrow.

Would tomorrow be okay? I mean what it was I was just actually wanting to talk to you, about something.

What time?

Well just to suit you eh maybe what about twelve? Is that too early? A Sunday. If it’s no convenient I mean, is it too early?

I’ll get used to the idea.

Pat laughed then. It was just good and a relief. Everything. And her voice sounding really okay as well, and it was making him have to force his head to go sideways and his eyes closed for fuck sake but he opened them again and he was nodding, he held the receiver nearer to his mouth. So eh just about meeting, I was thinking maybe, the People’s Palace?

The People’s Palace?

I think it’s open on a Sunday. Maybe I mean if we met at the Barrows we could just walk along and see; if it was shut we could just have a coffee or something, in a cafe. What do you think yourself?

I think we should go for a coffee at the start, when we meet.

Of course, aye.

What about say The Commodore?

The Commodore?

We both know it.

Yeh, fine.

Is that alright?

Aye. Fine. What time again?

Twelve o’clock? That’s what you said.

Fine. Is it okay I mean?

I’ll get used to it.

Pat grinned.

And his receiver was down. He had managed to get in a cheerio, but only just, before the receiver was down. It was stupid, to put it down so abruptly like that except his heart, not being able to cope with it, daft; too much. What was going on for fuck sake he was not

He strode ben the parlour. And to the windows, hands clasped behind his back, surveying the pedestrians below of whose existence Descartes had once required to doubt; quite rightly, the walking coathangers and so on. Descartes used to settle down for the night with his little garret extremely snug, getting everything aright prior to the evening’s doubt — and what about the dancing shadows on the wall, cast by the glow from the fire, the guy who’s been lying on his back all his days and thinks a person is a shadow on the ceiling; these are a different type of questioning. Shadows on the wall are different. They are distinct, from actual people.

Alison was fine. Much more in control of the world.

Patrick inhaled a lungful of fresh air but did it too quickly and had failed to empty his lungs first so he did a wee exhalation and then a wee inhalation and began again. The idea of not even being able to breathe properly was just a fucking joke really and he smiled, and then chuckled, before exhaling as much breath as he could from his body; and he paused before inhaling, and he inhaled very slowly and calmly, taking in great wads of new air, sending this fresh oxygen flying through his brain. Then he turned away from the windows and strode back to the kitchen, and back out into the lobby, to the bathroom, because he was now having to empty the bladder at once, if not sooner had he been an elderly chap with prostate problems, not something to joke about touch wood touch wood.

And a football match a football match! Holm Park and see the good old fucking Yoker! Who were their opponents for christ sake! Did it matter! Not a whit, not a bloody damn whit! Okay. Fine, that’ll do, and let it go, let it go, easy, easy, easy oasy, a nice easy oasiness, scarcely moving at all, like a hibernation, one bit of oxygen lasting ye god knows how long, and just being able to move with as few movements, acting with as few exertions, just biding, biding