Unless you’re sad or I’ve found an alien in the bathroom, we bore the arse off each other, you and I.
Us, we talk the loneliness out of life. We paper over the fear that nothing matters by making stuff matter because we need mattering to be the point.
Each given 10 minutes and a piece of blank conversation paper to draw a monster or write our names in the best handwriting.
We do it well. It’s a convincing thing we do.
You’ll laugh or repeat it.
You’ll rip it to shreds with reflection.
You’ll re-feel it until you’ve worn down the thrill.
I’ll believe I’ve grown because of it.
We’ll march off satisfied.
I’ve just gone about existing with some excellent words.
The reward centre of our brains gets a Twix.
We chose these bits, not those. We picked the cherries.
The only small thing is
– try not to take this the wrong way-
you’re not a dream performance artist.
You won’t mime my recurring childhood nightmare to an audience.
My husband hasn’t been found murdered in a vat of his own wine.
You don’t wear a gimp mask and touch me.
Unless, wait! Unless we pretend.
We’ll have missed an entire evening of boring the real arse off each other but we can catch it up, we totally can. I’ll call you in the morning to do it.
(Last night I burnt a tiny bit more electricity off my bill, I’ll tell you. Good, you’ll say. Must mean we’re still taking in air, still breathing.)
Tonite, though, TONIGHT.
I’ll go to Secret Cinema and people with blood on their coats will come to talk to me. I’ll witness office workers doing exercises and visit a room made out of newspaper.
And you will solve a murder in my dining room. You’ll talk to a wine critic with a grudge, wearing a wig.
And we’ll go to a fetish club, just underwear no wig. We’ll watch people swing from hooks in their flesh.
Because since- and here’s the thing- since I’ve had a computer in my study I am a photographer.
I’m a writer and a critic.
I’m an activist.
And now I’d like to be an actor. To play for real. To be a something.
To ask strangers what colour best represents them. To see them cringe about lunging at their tutor on Graduation Day.
I’ll be in an experience that’s had a team of people- a team- dedicated to vivifying a movie that’s had a team dedicated to making it vivid.
I’ll be in France for the night, a grieving giggling widow.
I’ll engage a cross-dressing accountant who likes to watch.
Earlier, earlier I was at a piano lesson and fine.
But I know there are people, there are people who glue on mustaches and who run around buildings.
There are people who don’t know about my Santander bank account.
There are people wearing masks in a room full of white plaster heads who couldn’t give a flying monkey about my Santander bank account.
(Although I know you do and I’ll call you in the morning and tell you about it, oh and plus the electricity.)
And do you know what we can even do one day? I’m excited already.
We can act like we’re boring the arse off each other but because it’s at a remove and we won’t be doing it straight, there’ll be an extra frisson.
Hyper, supra real. Winky funny. Ironicana.
Super amuse bouche.
Living life in fancy dress.
is what matters.
what’s the point.
why’s we breathe in.
That IS the reward centre