James Kelman - A Disaffection

It was just things had changed things had changed, it was years ago, the days of the teachers’ trainers, when people were students together and life was sweet ya fucking idiot. There is no point dwelling on the past. It is a thing he was wont to do. But this is because he was a single chap and single chaps are single persons ergo they dwell on the past and there is nothing wrong in dwelling on the past. How can you dwell on the future? There is nothing to dwell on! It doesni fucking exist. It is a fucking blank. Everything has yet to take place. This is what the future is, the place where things have yet to occur. So how can you dwell on that. You’re cheating. Okay but just think of it as an empty room. No. Well then think of ‘place’ as nothing. The future is the nothing. There is nothing to think about, so dont think about it. Do something else, something else altogether.

The time has gone.

The time has passed, is past.

There have been chances that Patrick has had. He has had his share of chances. He has simply failed, to take advantage of them. You take advantage of chances. Patrick didnt. He failed to.

Is there anything more to be said? And if so, why?

There is nought more one can say. Silensus. It would be nice not to think. Not to think and not to spoke. But he would have to spoke, because he was going out. That was the thing about going out, you had to spoke, you had to meet people and converse with them. He was putting on his good clothes. His going-out when going-out is not going-to-school clothes, that is what he was putting on.

What was he supposed to do. He was supposed to enter a shell and remain there moping, having an internal debate on the nature of the universe and specific feminine persona to wit the verb ‘alison’. I shall alison this evening. I shall, with a bit of luck, be alisoning this evening.

Bastards.

He left the motor where it was and walked right beyond it. He turned and glanced at it. He continued walking. He was very hungry and the chip shop was shut. This was undoubtedly the fault of patronne the elder Rossi, his insistence that the entire family should observe the traditional Sunday of the Scottish Christians thus the solitaries of the district had to forego the daily fries. Then the odd thing:

he saw what looked like Gavin and Nicola and their kids. They were heading his way. Where were they going? was it really them? It was really them and here they were coming toward him and in that next instant would recognise him and he moved extremely fast, right into the mouth of the nearest close and down to the stairfoot, he stood in at a bit of the wall that sloped, where he would not be easily seen from outside. He kept in until they had passed, waiting a few moments before returning to the front, and he looked out after them, seeing their backs, the man and the woman and the wee boy and the wee girl. He was not sure whether he was playing a trick on them or no. He wasnt. He was letting them continue in ignorance. He was going to allow a terrible charade to take place. He was going to allow his brother and sister-in-law to walk on past, to continue on past, unchecked. They would be on their way up to his place, a quick hello before paying the weekly visit to Nicola’s parents — maybe even to the maw and da, they could even be visiting them and maybe wanting to invite Patrick along; they wouldnt know he had been yesterday evening. He watched them turn the corner into his street. It was a very sad sight. His older brother whom he loved dearly. His sister-in-law whom he loved dearly. Then wee Elizabeth and wee John, both of whom he loved more than life itself. Because if it ever came to the choice between living and dying then christ almighty he would lay down his life, and glad to do it. They were great wee weans. Great wee weans. Even if they were horrible wee weans and selfish and spoiled brats, he would still have done it. And they werent, they were great.

And he was letting all of that go.

But it was his brother’s fault it was not his it was not his it was his brother’s, his brother’s fault; it was not Patrick’s fault. It wasnt. It wasnt his fault, it was his brother’s.

But what about the pipes? Were they things? Were the pipes things? A man was crossing onto the pavement from the other side of the road and he gazed to the front of where he was walking as though deep in thought. Going up to him and saying: Are pipes really things? A serious question. Heh you, Mister, are pipes really things? Or are they not? Are they just a figment is that what they are a fucking stupit dream, a stupit dream. The man looked deep in thought. Could he be genuinely thinking of something? Often you get folk — especially pedestrians — who kid on they are thinking but they arent, they are just having a sort of internal gaze into space. And such space! Patrick could imagine gazing into that guy’s space. Anaximenes — what’s he got to do with this if anything? Does he have anything to do with that? with gazing into the space of other people. What would you see? All sorts of things. If you looked into the space of other people.

The man turned the corner into Pat’s street which was funny. You could picture him being Special Branch and trailing Gavin and Nicola because they were visiting Pat who was being kept under scrutiny at all times, a threat to the current rightwing government of the greatbritishers, a poisoner of the minds of the flagellants. Imagine having a bugle and blasting a gigantic tootoooootoooooot! For fuck sack. Christ! Well well well, god and Pythagoras, Señor Goya, the lot of yous.

Was poor auld 2 4: 2 2metamorphosising into something else altogether! He seemed to be. It was highly likely. This sort of escapade happened all the time. Take Gregor Samsa as a for instance. He was a poor unfortunate bastard though having said that of course it would take a Giant to squash him. A Giant. A veritable Mam-mothian. And there were none of these lurking in this man’s Glasgow, all of whose entities were so palpably impalpable.

Maybe he should get the motor. The motor could take him places. The motor could take him to the east neuk of England. There existed rowing boats tethered to small jetties. He could pilfer one and set sail for Scandinavia.

Set Sail For Scandinavia. Fuck sake.

And what about Mrs Houston. What about Mrs Houston? She was a thing of the past. No she wasni. Yes she was. She had proved it this afternoon. It was simply no longer here. And she was no longer it, whatever it was. It was not her.

It was himself from now on, that he was to think about and care about.

What.

Pat halted. This time of the evening on Sunday was aye peaceful. He was looking at himself in the window of a shop and seeing the face and the body and the rest of it. He was looking at a bloke who had difficulty in seeing himself. And he was wanting to see himself. He was looking at a bloke who was wanting to see himself and who was wanting to not be what he was because he could not be trusted to be doing it except by corruption of the hearts and the minds of the young. Fucking outlandishly sentimental, slavishly so, as if he’s fucking another Socrates, that’s what makes it so bad, so desperately bad and so desperately sad and perhaps evil, because of the ulteriority of the motivation, that he wishes to be King of the World.

Spring spring spring. Spring spring spring.

Spring is a time for change. Patrick has already changed. This was the year he had opted out, that he had, theretofore, said, No; I am not doing these things any longer, with specific reference to xmatic pantomimes. I am a happy man. Also sex. Patrick grinned. He chuckled and he shook his head, seeing his features creasing in this joviality, his eyes and his mouth smiling, and jesus christ it was good to see, himself smiling because for fuck sake it was simply not the done Doyle thing in life to smile, to laugh aloud my god for fuck sake on a public byway? almost a contradiction albeit that it is occurring in front of one’s own reflection in the window of a shop thus in public and not in public, at one and the same time. Which is surely the manner life is to be led, that a fellow or fellowess, that s/he should be in harmony, one’s figures in smooth control.