"Isn't it pretty to think so?"

“Oh Jake," Brett said, "We could have had such a damned good time together."

Ahead was a mounted policeman in khaki directing traffic. He raised his baton. The car slowed suddenly, pressing Brett against me.

Yes," I said. "Isn't it pretty to think so?”

― Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises

"You look happy", a colleague said. "It's weird and I don't like it".

And indeed I was, and for a reason that would be unexpected for anyone who has known me for any length of time. "It is weird, and to be honest, I don't like it either", I replied.

I started seeing a girl about a month ago and somehow, the happiness associated with seeing her was affecting all aspects of my life. Owing to a history that doesn't deserve mention, I have a reputation for deliberately and determinedly avoiding human relationships. For that reason, everyone close to me took an immediate interest in what I was doing (and helped where they could because, by admission, I didn't know what I was doing).

She is, for lack of a more emphatic categorical expression, perfect. Which is to say she was perfect for me and fell within those nonsense, unattainable criteria which I've held onto to exclude a legion of potential suitors over the past few years:

1. She is kindhearted; unapologetically gentle, and of the sort which I doubt had the capacity to hurt anyone. Most importantly me.

2. She reads. In a time where the train carriages are a zombified mass of smart phones and Facebook, she reads. And it makes her smart and interesting and is, for me, the most attractive quality in the world.

3. She (at least seemed) to have a working understanding of middle-Eastern politics.

For the longest time, I've avoided going further than anything that appears to be an official date. Not feeling that I have anything in particular to offer, and entrenched in the view that I don't have the capacity to recover from being hurt again, I've pushed back against the world for a while. But the universe, as it always does, prevailed.

So I fumbled, shyly at first, to engage her. She has the kind of smile which would instantly turn the most abominable 12-to-14-hour-litigation-hellday into something substantially better than it otherwise could have been. It's a rare, special quality, and the thing that I knew would quickly have me under her spell.


It was unbearably difficult to commit myself to a few dates and it was only after hours of talking, numerous bottles of overpriced wine, and a kiss that clearly signalled her softness and intention, that I made the decision that I liked her. In fact, I liked her more than I could ever have expected to.

Being cautious (and a little smart), my penchant is for self-destruction and over-thinking. After deciding that she was the kind of girl that I could project a happy future with, I got well ahead of myself.

See, despite the fact that I wanted her, it turned out that she didn't want me. And where others might have been angry, or hurt, I'm just sad. It's fair to say that she didn't catch me at my best (which is less than impressive, anyway) and, when it comes to a girl that special, it's difficult to fault her decision making process.

Feelings are intangible and often genuinely unexplainable. I'm not in the business of trying to change people's views or feelings and, as much as it pained me, I told her that I understood. And thanked her for the chance she gave me. It's inarguable that she deserved far better than my meagre offerings and it is selfish to think otherwise.

There's no particular reason that I'm writing this, save for the fact that this process is reflective for me. Maybe she'll change her mind, and maybe she won't, but I'll certainly be ok either way. It's been a long time since I've put myself in a position where my happiness was contingent upon the actions of someone else, in that maddening and frustrating (and exposing) exercise of trust and vulnerability. I'm glad for the time I got to spend with her, however brief, because:

1. It taught me that I could open myself up to the possibility that there might be something else out there;

2. She was (and no doubt still is) undeniably special;

3. There is beauty in vulnerability, despite the risk; and

4. Despite disappointing them this time, there is a large group of people around me that have a genuine interest in wanting me to be happy (and I love them all more, for knowing).

Yesterday

It was your birthday yesterday. I'm sorry that I didn't make your party, but you were at the front of my mind. It's been six months since you died and I'm not really sure things are getting easier.

One minute you were here. The next, you were gone.

Ironically, we are both atheists, so I know that you'd be disappointed for me for talking to you like this. The truth is, since you've been gone, I've often hoped that we were both wrong and that you're there. Somewhere. Somehow.

In your absence, I've tried hard to carry on the fight. The greatest thing you ever taught me was to be uncomfortable watching the struggle of others; to be compassionate, to be angry when necessary, and to not be guilty for failing to act. Putting aside the fact you were a Green (I'm sure just to piss me off), you'd be happy to know that the fight goes on, but that it's harder on my own.

The moment that I heard you were gone was the moment that everything changed. It's been a tough 6 months, mate. We've lost two more since you, and I've struggled to keep my head above water. People have always looked to me to be positive in the face of tragedy; to be strong and to be a leader. Keeping that act up has been the hardest. It feels like I've been crying for months, in the unbearably quiet times, and alone.

I've been sadder than I thought humanly possible. It was only once I was at the absolute bottom, devoid of any answer, that I learned the most important lesson. No single moment, in and of itself, is unendurable. What happened to you was unfair and what followed broke my heart into more pieces than I knew it was made of.

Most recently, I had a friend who died because he was sad. We worked so hard to try and make people happy; happiness is an inalienable truth. It bothers me to my core that someone could feel so sad that they are left no other option and sitting with his Mum today, I know that it is something that I could never do.

I suppose that all I can do it learn, and heal, and grow. Try to let what is unfair teach us.

People are valuable and it's true that some are more valuable than others. As those that are left here get older, it becomes more important to let people know that you care. When you find someone or something worthwhile, you can't let it go without a fight. Life is precious. And short.

There is nothing more important than being kind.

Like DFW said- "everything I ever let go has claw marks in it".

I'm not sure why I'm writing this. In some way, it make things seem a little easier. I feel incredibly bad that I didn't go to your party, but suffice to say that most people are dealing with you not being here better than I am. I'd be lying if I didn't say that there were times that I wished it was me (and I know how mad you would be for me saying that), but with your spirit in tow, the fight goes on.

You were one of the good guys, in a time that people are seldom thoughtful and seldom kind. I miss you every day.

The Girl With The Pynchon Tattoo

“Shall I project a world” 

                                          -Oedipa Maas, The Crying of Lot 49

At 7:18am my heart stopped beating. I remember the exact time, because in a vain attempt to disguise my captivated stare, I fumbled for my phone in my pocket. She was a vision of enigmatic beauty and in the space of six stops on my morning train commute, I fell deeply and deliriously in love. Not a word was spoken and our relationship ended at the Esplanade station, as quickly as it had started. And it was perfect.

 

Dealing with people on any level transcending altogether inane day-to-day bullshit has always been my greatest weakness. I guess at some point I got cynical, or tired, or both; whatever the reason, it’s rare that I see any value in making the effort to get to know new people. Having a few good friends is important, but having a few good friends that I don’t need to make an effort around is even better.

Perhaps this explains my ongoing, unrelenting relationship with womankind. For as long as I can remember, women have been the root of my happiness, the sole cause of my frustration, and the basis for my regret. For a smart man, I’ll never understand the power that they have over me; bewitching, beguiling and (various stages of) beautiful. If it is possible to justify a Superman analogy, Kryptonite is an apt descriptor.

More recently I’ve attempted to avoid the problems women cause for me, or at the very least, have kept them to a minimum. Save for maintaining an entirely self-destructive and barely-explainable non-relationship with a girl who I should have known better than to fall for, I’m doing ok. Days are punctuated by my proactive efforts to pretend that I’m not desperately in love with her, while her's are no doubt similarly burdened by pretending that she doesn’t know.

I don’t use the word love loosely. Its corrupting influence has rarely reared its ugly head; I can count on one hand the amount of times that I’ve felt the burn. Going off of my career record, the classical preconditions seem to require some form of damage and clearly-otherwise-avoidable negative repercussions.

That's why I was surprised (more than anything), when in the course of a daily taxing train ride, the rules were turned upside down.

Train systems are a microcosm of the society they service. I'm often distracted for my entire journey trying to reason whether I love or hate my crowded, synthetic, six-car world. For better or worse, people are fucking interesting, convoluted (and not so convoluted), hopelessly predictable creatures. With rare exception, they talk loudly on phones about their tedious lives and pass their time reading trash fiction and celebrity biography.

In the midst of mourning another Thursday morning, it happened. The doors opened with their usual tacit self-proclamation, and an angel entered my invented world. Morning sunshine spilled through the doorway as she entered, seeming to suggest that it desired to accompany her wherever she went. Partly through the operation of the universe, and partly through the ineptitude of our public transport bureaucracy, she made her way up the aisle and stood barely thirty centimeters in front of me.

She must have caught me staring, absent self-control, because she smiled at me. If I had to guess, it was somewhere between that smile and the reach of her outstretched hand, that was the moment I fell fiercely and unashamedly in love.

Hand outstretched, she sought the refuge of the painted yellow handle, seeming to grow organically from the seat back in front of me. It was then that I saw it. On the inside of her wrist, hidden (but in plain view), was a small, simple tattoo; a black muted post-horn.

I don't think that snobbery has a place in the appreciation of literature (save for the obvious observation that the ethnic cleansing of all consumers of vampire literature might not be an altogether bad thing for the survival of the human race). I can say though, that anyone who has read and really understood Foster Wallace or Pynchon, would be amongst the winners if reading ever became a competitive sport.

The muted post-horn, thanks to Thomas Pynchon, has become a symbol of the quest for something more (or less, as the case may be). Scattered throughout his fantastical world in The Crying of Lot 49, Pynchon used this symbol to represent a real, or perhaps imagined, underground postal network. His protagonist embarked on an extreme, albeit unanswered, search for truth. To his devotees, the post-horn has become a symbol of the quest to find something more, at the risk of uncovering something substantially less. The cult of Pynchon is small, but loyal, and a chance encounter in the wild is a less-than-remote prospect.

Some men like women with tits, some go for Beyonce arses; apparently my kind of woman has tattoos that represent remote and impressive literature references. 

From the moment I saw that tattoo, I projected a world.

Her tattoo, an enduring memory of a literary pedigree. Perhaps a reminder to her adult-self not to take things too seriously, and to never give up the hunt for something more.

Her hair. Medium length, straight; the kind of brown that confuses and intrigues, sensibly professional at the same time as suggesting that she is not altogether unadventurous.

Her jacket was rolled at the sleeves and responsible for helping my discovery of our shared passion. It cried professional, with a hint of party. I settled on mid-level management, or impeccably well dressed second-hand bookshop employee.

Her eyes were dark and deep. The kind of deep in which I'm easily lost, and the kind of eyes that have corrupted me before. In a shared gaze which lasted longer than it should have, she used those eyes to place an indelible mark on my soul. 

I would not dared to have spoken to her, because in my projected world she was as perfect as she could have been. In that instant, and in that place, I was more in love with her than I could ever have imagined. For that time, neither she or I were broken, and it was the best feeling in the world. 

"But with a sigh he released her hand,

while she was so lost in the fantasy that

she hadn't felt it go away, as if he'd known

the best moment to let go"

 
She got off the train at the Perth Esplanade at 7:47am, taking her sunshine with her as she walked. As she disappeared up the escalator in the throng of the faceless crowd, I got the feeling that I would never see her again. Although it may be difficult to fathom, I was not disappointed. To borrow from Pynchon, it was undoubtedly the best moment to let her go.

The search for perfection is all-consuming. I was once lucky enough to know a woman who I considered perfect, and I managed to recreate the phenomenon in my projected world. The insane truth is that we are designed to waste most of our lives pursuing perfection in possession, in employment, in relationships, only to be disappointed when the unattainable reality sets in. Enduring perfection is confined to fleeting moments, with time and change serving as its mortal enemies.

I've since been asked why I didn't say something, or do something. My answer being a simple 'why'? In that moment, I was in love and everything was as it should have been. To say or do anything would be to risk breaking her spell, and I risk that I was wholly unwilling to take.

A knowing smile and a lingering stare comprised our entire interlude; nothing more, nothing less, and the search for the meaning of the muted post-horn would go on.