Adam Thirlwell - Lurid & Cute

— You give the money back, the man said. — In twenty-four hours. And then we can all leave each other alone.

& darkness descends

It was maybe five minutes later when Hiro finally descended, for which I don’t think I can blame him since sleeping pills were playing a useful part in his existence at this time. I suppose what he found was like one of those scenes where the eunuchs are engaged in destroying the sultan’s possessions before his fall, right down to gouging out the hearts of the luscious screaming concubines — scenes where the whole previous construction is just meticulously dismantled.

— Hey man, I said.

— Fuck, he said.

— Yeah, I said.

I was just stymied and quiet and this seemed to make Hiro pause. It was like he was seeing this scene as dimly as when you first try getting into Bangla, or like the way at four in the morning you are looking for cold takeaway, maybe fish-fragrant aubergine or bear’s paw bean curd, and the kitchen’s just vaguely outlined by the sad light from the fridge.

— What the fuck? said Candy.

— I really, I said, — have no idea.

The basic realismo principle, after all, is people’s readiness to be duped. If you say a thing with enough conviction, they will never ever doubt you. Or no, I think that’s too much. What I mean is that in such a state of trauma and of shock, no one is so interested in precise explanations. They just want to feel safe as soon as possible. So that if I could maintain that I did not understand, yes, maintain that this was some horrific act of random violence or mistaken identity, it would be possible for Candy to believe me, or at least believe me for a while. I wasn’t sure. Just call the police, OK , she said, then got up and walked upstairs and covered herself in our duvet. And as she did so I think I did just possibly know that finally the cloud in which I floated was about to descend to earth. But I did not think about that, not at that precise moment. I sat there staring at the wrecked room, and in the middle of that room our savaged and beautiful dog. I think what makes something a pet is that we live longer than it does, which I suppose means that maybe to the trees we are also just pets, too. But never had I thought I would witness his death as violent. He had very sad eyes, and was very thin, and did this skittering thing when he ran like he was made of mercury. And I was thinking how always he could make things supersad. He would stare at me with his triangular ears straight up and his eyes unblinking as if thinking worried thoughts and when that happened I got worried like a reflection. Then I just started to laugh hysterically. It was zany like that, like some comic film for children that is showing in the citron afternoon when the only people who are watching feel just desolate and crazy and alone.

then much later they wake up

When we woke it was already dark. The day had been erased, and it would have been no surprise to perhaps just hear vast guns booming exorbitantly on the South Side. To clear the house up and decently dispose of the body of our dog would have definitely been the obvious next element in the sequence, but I did not know if I was equal to such a clean-up operation, and Candy seemed no more able to cope with it than I was. Not that we wanted to go to the balloon festival in the park, or sunken trampoline display, but I don’t think it was strange if we just wanted other distractions. That night there was meant to be some happening that our friend Tiffany had organised, a discussion of inequality in some outdoor impromptu cafe. We knew that Romy would be there with Epstein, not to mention groups of other and interesting people, and as always we had a wide selection of narcotics, and also we had promised we would be there — and so this seemed a better option for the moment than considering what to do with a destroyed room. Our souls were exhausted. I carried the body of our dog outside and shrouded him in a towel, so that later we could bury him and try to make things right, and then with Hiro we made our way over to the gathering. I would not say that the conversation between us on the metro was easy or delicious but also I think that’s normal after such violence. One of the major problems with the telenovelas is how tough people are, how easily they cope with rape, embezzlement, gunfights, and so on. Whereas any one of these would be enough in real life to make a person a total breakdown and always weeping. And I did feel like weeping, very much. But also I wanted to be faithful to some idea of style. If people were ranged against me, I intended to face them with calm.

& decide to enter the public world

When we arrived there were fairy lights strung in the trees and someone had made latkes. But also there were many pamphlets, and leaflets. This particular demonstration was designed to encourage a new way of relating to each other, a digital project to promote exchanges of little acts of kindness. There were movements like this everywhere — libraries in tents and other inventions. And I did approve of this desire for a larger community. All of us were trying to divest ourselves of our power. If we had discovered that we were occupying powers, we were very regretful, and I think that’s noble. We wanted to create different loyalties, and it meant that often I would argue with my mother and my father. They tended to see the right community as our general ethnic group, and I disagreed.

ME

They are not my people!

MY FATHER

They are your people. Your people are your ancestors –

ME

I’m not so sure.

MY MOTHER

Not so sure? You think in the last century they were not so sure? You think in a pogrom you would be so –

ME

That is not a right comparison!

MY MOTHER

So who are your people? Tell me.

ME

Whoever I choose to be among –

MY MOTHER

Nonsense.

ME

I think it’s true.

MY MOTHER

You have no idea what’s true or what isn’t.

My mother, folks! I wanted to gesture to the TV studio audience. Always I have thought that I never knew my mother well enough, even though I love her so very much. Always there is this imbalance, and difficulty of communication. Perhaps I should have met her as an adult, except that then we would have had the friendship of two adults, which is not at all the same. For what did we have in common with the immigrants and kibbutzim, the learned scholars and the crazed politicos? I could not see it at all, among the barbecues and swimming pools. But while therefore in theory I did sympathise, definitely, with Tiffany and her dreams for a better society, whenever I was there among the revolutionaries I always found it difficult to feel as one with a crowd. It’s much more difficult than it seems. If I saw just one activist with a pet squirrel or new ideas as to how to signal agreement or disagreement, such things bothered me. It didn’t seem to me to look like true revolution. Not that I want barricades and blood, but ideally we would at least form some giant transport system for the sick, and escalators in favelas, but we tended to talk instead. If we were like a monk who righteously sweeps the path in front of him, it was only if that monk mostly does the sweeping in his mind, which is probably not so good. But then, this was how we lived: the world was multicoloured. There were palm trees in among the monkey-puzzle trees, and monsoons in the summer. Parakeets descended in the parks. In the gentle rain, kids were out drinking on the sidewalks. Probably in the tea rooms the more furious boys were eating tea cakes and planning a future coup d’état. Others just played ping pong. At least, I suppose, it was an idealistic time. The global project was for demonstrations and occupations and I knew that in some of these my friends were filming and writing slogans, including Candy and Romy and Tiffany, but also other friends like Bjorn and Shauna and Trey, and I tried to follow their progress intently, even while I was preoccupied. They had their stories too, my friends out there in the world. The story of Bjorn is that he went to take part in the occupation of a bank. He arrived one night and realised that although his hunger was intense he was too scared to go back outside in the illuminated dark to find a chilli dog or shrimp taco or cheese slice. So very hungry he went to bed. That was his story of life among the occupiers, or so he told me later. In general, people’s stories were getting smaller and smaller and were ever so toy-like, which was not, perhaps, the exactly perfect size. Tonight however I had no opinions of any kind, all I wanted was to be with people who were safe and did not want to harm me. Although also I knew that this current mood was not a good mood in which to see Romy. For a while now we had not seen each other on our own, just increasingly sent each other messages or emails that were very difficult to gauge, sometimes full of love and devotion, sometimes curt and only information. And now there she was, talking politics and when she does that often we do irritate each other, we can’t help it.