Gorgias

Catch me tonight at the Q&A Club, downtown The Hague. A rare thing is going to happen.

He’s bouncing around the room, in his shorts, making aggressive movements towards me. A solid punch almost hits me dead in the face, but he stops before I can even lift my arms. He keeps on bouncing around. There’s no chance he’s going to stop doing this. The boxing gloves, old-fashioned ones, don’t help. They’re a slightly fluorescent red, and they keep moving around the room like hummingbirds on Ritalin.
— So, regarding Kant, he pants.
— Not Kant, please no Kant today.
— Don’t you just love that guy? Another punch that hits air. He’s so conflicted! Trying to make a universal rule out of something purely Christian.
— It’s not Christian, it’s already in a way universal… wait, you’re trying to engage me again by saying nonsense.
— No no no no no no no monsieur! He jumps and pulls his legs in, then lands heavily. I just want to talk about philosophy with my esteemed friend.
— That’s nice of you, but you know I hate talking about Kant.
— It’s not about Kant, it’s about – punch – universal ethics. In a way!
The room is very small. We always talk in here. Every week I come here, or when he wants me to, or when I want to. The reclining chair, the drinking cabinet, the book cases. I notice a bottle of scotch missing from the cabinet.
— Same difference, buddy. I’m not falling for it.
— Okay, okay, how about – kick and punch – a writer today, ummm, Pynchon?
— Pynchon, we’ve been over.
— Hardly.
— No really. Maybe we want to look at something a bit more attached to reality?
I realise how pointless that request is. My therapist is standing across the room from me, convinced he’s boxing with me. But who else am I going to find who likes talking about all this crap anyway, so I stay.
— Pynchon it is. Say, do you see…

Nobody told me it would hurt this much. The hole that feels as big as yourself, it is shaped from the extrusions and indentations of what was. The big chunks of your heart and soul and every inch of emotion are shaped by what you shared. Happiness lies in nourishing the parts you share, increasing your share by investing yourself. Your self decreases, in a way. When you cannot hold on to this connection, this shared benefit, two people suffer, and they suffer from the inside.

She is lying next to me. I am on my back, and she is on her side, turned away from me. This will be our last night together. The pain I feel is something I cannot accept right now. I need to fight. The indentation left by what we had should remind me of the good things, and that is worth a fight. I wish the fight were an easier one, though.

Nobody told me that I would make her my internal mirror. Any idea I have, any sentence I utter to myself, is bounced off of her. She is still in my head. Whether she is still in my heart is another matter. I feel where she is supposed to be, but I cannot find her there. She is in my soul, and she forever will be. She is definitely on my mind.

I sit on the edge of the bed. A panic overtakes me and I shudder. When I feel that something is shaking the foundations of my emotional safety, I get cold and start shivering. It does not stop so easily. Tears run across my face. I try to breathe normally, more slowly, but the panic and the shaking throw me off completely. My whimpers awake her.

Nobody told me that I would slowly substitute the love I felt for something stronger, for something deeper, for something different. I have, though. My love has become a part of me. It is more than just affection or closeness. I see through her eyes and trust her like my own limbs. Nobody told me that. And nobody told me how much it would hurt to lose that. I managed to live on my own just fine. I managed for years. Now I cannot imagine living without her.

She sits up, still drunk with sleep, and leans toward me. I am a wreck, I am a wrecking ball. Anything in my path is going to suffer from my sadness. My loss will be felt by many more people than I ever thought I could affect. I am incapable of sharing myself right now. I am incapable of sharing myself right now. I am trying so hard to share myself right now, but I cannot. I am a wrecking ball, I am a wreck.

Also known as “strong opinions that are weakly held”, the LHTD is about fervently crashing into the discussion – not necessarily (preferably not, in fact) into another opinion – specifically to reveal a wider spectrum of detail. Much like the Large Hadron Collider tries to find the essence of elements by smashing them together rather vehemently, this method does rapid elimination of extraneities. The LHC does not wait for it to happen out of itself, nor does it slowly pick apart the atom core. Discussions are served rather by a clarity of matter.

Not that this is the best system, however. First of all, if people don’t realise you’re being an atom smasher instead of, well, a jerk, they will lose interest. Second (and extended upon point one), black holes are feared by those who do not trust your method. Third, sometimes amazing things come from taking a little longer and slowly picking things apart.

For all other purposes, the LHTD is the Max Power Method of choice for distinguishing conversationalists the world around. (Max Power? “There are three ways of doing things: the right way, the wrong way, and the Max Power way (which is the wrong way, but faster).”)

If you store your vegetables and fruit in your refrigerator, pay special attention to what you do with the apples and the mushrooms. Mushrooms release spores that speed up deterioration of all the other thing you keep next to it. Advised would be to keep the mushrooms in a paper bag, below the other food. Apples also emit something that affects the ripening speed of other fruits called ethylene. The smartest recommendation here would be to keep apples separated, in a specific bowl, outside of the refrigerator, and to refresh your stock weekly.

How much longer, do you think, is the Norwegian coastal line than it would have been without the fjords?

Jessica Alba joked about this when she played a well-known invisible super hero (I reckon the super hero isn’t always invisible; otherwise, a lot of money can be saved right there). When she’s invisible, she’s not supposed to be able to see either (invisible and blind, yes): the rods, the light-sensitive nerve cells in our eyes, cannot take impulses if they cannot reflect, reflectivity being the way we distinguish things. If an object has zero reflectivity, it probably has zero absorption as well, because nature doesn’t usually deal with extremes. Putting aside that this movie is not a documentary but a work of fiction.

The “birthday problem” is a mathematical problem (also called the “birthday paradox”, but outside of the mathematical context it is not a proper paradox) that shows that, from twenty-three people and upwards, the likeliness of a pair of people sharing the same birthday becomes and then rises well above fifty percent. Meaning, in a random selection of twenty-three people, the odds are one in two there is a pair of people with the same birthday. For sixty people, the chance is ninety-nine percent.

A black hole is said to be something that absorbs everything. The only way we can “see” black holes is that they leave places in the sky where we can see nothing.

so i was talking to my buddy steve and he was telling me about tom and his girlfriend and how they make like hell of noise when doing the sex thing and steve was making the noise she makes, like, she’s real noisy, she shouts basically, not just moans, and tom is probably really embarrassed about it with like a red face and just sweating in his armpits out of insecurity about like the pleasure he gives his girlfriend and the like implications of such as with regards to such as the relationship and whether things will be all right with them because he wants to marry his girlfriend at some point so will shouting be a big issue? and well steve was laughing really hard for some reason i mean why it’s a bit of a jerk asshole thing to talk about your best friend’s secrets but that’s steve for you, i guess but anyway i have to go now bye—

My latest sandwich, jesus crap dammit, it is the best. Here. Take a fresh bun of bread, some nice shit you can find in a real bakery. Don’t be cheap, ’cause it will taste like shit. Slice it in two parts and put them on a plate, like real nice. Fuck yes, this is going to be great. Slice your tomato like it’s nobody’s business, and don’t keep those parts too big because they’ll fall off when you’re eating and there’s fucking tomato shit on your pants so be careful and cut ’em up well. Mix some arugula, no cheap stuff, with iceberg salad and add some salt and pepper while you cram it on top of the buns. Don’t overdo it, it’s gonna taste terrible, so don’t overdo it. Did you already slice up the mozzarella? This is the moment, dude, shiiiiit. Slice it in tiny bits and spread them over the arugula mixture crap and don’t make it too wet because your bread will be all soggy which completely sucks and is like the hallmark of bad sandwich land and you just want a real nice sandwich am I right? Just layer the tomato bits on top of that and add some red onion slices and tiny pieces of like a nice pickle to it and then probably get like a fork and knife, because this bitch will eat like shit with your hands, so cut it and eat it like a fucking human being and not a dog. You’re not a dog if you can prepare a damn sandwich, I always say, so eat it like not a dog.

Of course I can’t let them win, I can’t, I just simply can’t, it would be too much. It would be too much for me. They don’t deserve it. They’re wrong. The battle is between me and myself, the others are extras in my story. They can’t win. I will not let them. I will not lose. What they know or feel is insubstantial. It’s worthless to anyone. It means nothing. Why they even try, I don’t know. I can’t allow them to be better, because it would mean I am not enough. I don’t know if I’ll ever be, but they will not be the ones to tell me. I don’t just hate them, I also fear myself and hate myself and mistrust myself. They are extras. They amplify my failure to be myself.

They are the big evil, and it doesn’t matter if that’s a self-fabricated fiction or an absolute truth. Pain is pain and fear is fear. I distrust their very presence, for it means exposure of what I am made of as well. I am like them, but I don’t want to be like them. They are what I despise, and I am made of the same things, the same basics, the same culture. They frighten me, because they show me what I could have been.

We decided to meet in a restaurant near my house which serves excellent waffles. After a few waffles, of which she ate a great deal, she started talking about her parents, and how nice they were. I told her, “Oh, how great that your parents are still alive.” She replied in shock. “Oh my god, I’m sorry, I didn’t know!” “What?” “… What do you mean, what?” “What didn’t you know?” “Your parents. I didn’t know – I didn’t know you don’t have your parents anymore.” “Uh. I do.” “What!” “They’re alive. Good fun. I call them sometimes.” She slapped me in the face. Not with a waffle, though. That would’ve been good.

At home he was the absolute master. He reigned supreme at home. His house. He had bought the house. He worked for the mortgage. He had built the shed. It was his house, his home, and he was the absolute master there. And he beat his wife and his two sons there.

His job was mediocre, not terrible but certainly, most certainly not great, or even good or nice. Not to blame his boss or his job, however. He was doing a terrible job. He told himself that he did a terrible job because his co-workers were morons, his boss didn’t know what he wanted and his managers hassled him about things he wasn’t supposed to be doing. In his head, this justified the irritation that built up every other week and made his head all red and his temper very very short and made him hit his wife and his two sons. In truth, he was doing a very bad job, because people told him to do things he didn’t do. His irritation and aggression and temper issues were common at work. At work, however, he didn’t dare to hit anyone. They were all guys, all strong guys, and he was, well, he wasn’t weak, but his wife and sons — two damned faggots, probably — were weaker, and he could take control at home.

Because at home he was the master. He reigned like a terrible master, but instead of waiting for a revolution, the citizens left. That’s when he started hitting his co-workers.

Sometimes others do my talking.

Trying to explain to your mother what you do is hard. So don’t. Or give it your best shot, but only your best. Every failed attempt will make you seem more of a dilettante living on her dime. Nothing you say will make sense unless she has done exactly what you are doing now. So you design furniture that is meant to be seen, not sat on or at? Right. You make music that tries to combine Pere Ubu with Bach, but in a noisy way without losing the poppy melodies? Right. Sure. You calculate financial risks regarding a flu pandemic for big companies that are worried? Uh-huh. Yeah.

The rule for explaining yourself to anyone is the same as the rule for explaining yourself to your mother. You make music. You think about financial risks. You build nice furniture. That’s what matters. As for your mother, the situation is immensely simpler. All she really needs to know is whether you’re enjoying what you’re doing. And this is what matters most: are you?

And between his feet stood a potted plant. And on his head sat a hat. And in his hands he held two bags. And on his lip was a cigarette. And behind his glasses were hard staring eyes. And in his mind were thoughts of evil and fun and laughter and hurt. And his ears heard the sounds of a street, a playground, a supermarket. And in his shoes were worn-out laces. And in his coat pockets were a wallet, a cellphone, a pen, a few pine cones. And in his hair was wax. And on his nose was grease. And in his pose was insecurity.