Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.
There was a witch in the wardrobe and when we tried to see her, there was a sign saying ‘Hello bitches’. After that we walked into the street, a cobblestone track about 4 feet wide. There were 3 old men sitting on the sidewalk at a cast iron and glass table smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee. They were talking about the races, who was going to win, when they were going tomorrow, what the bookies odds were, chess board on the table. Were they ever likely to go places? Definitely no, but it didn’t matter anyway.
If I stepped into this picture, I saw myself walking by the men wearing a pair of red slide shoes, and a dress. Light cotton with flowers on it. Pretty, which is unusual for me because I’m not a pretty dress wearer. I would have a handbag across one shoulder. In my handbag would be a notebook, a pair of sunglasses, a wallet and a phone. And I would walk for hours. And I would want to know what all the people were doing behind all those doors. What did they so for a living? How old were they? Did they still have sex? Did they drive cars or did they walk everywhere? Are they religious. Do they go to church on Sundays?
If I dropped out tomorrow and got off the proverbial train in this town, and got an apartment in this street, and sat at the glass table with those old men and talked about the races, would anyone actually give a shit? What would I do all day? Would there be an opportunity to sign, to fall in love? Would anyone understand me anyway? I only speak English. How awfully limiting.
Imagine being able to communicate in another language. There would be entire philosophies that are unknown to me, that would unfold, purely because there is no concept for this in English. One of my dreams is to be able to read Balzac in french, but that’s a ridiculous concept. You only have what you have.
Anyway, in the street where I would move to, would I cook every day or would I go to the lady at the end of the street. She makes such delicious treats, baklava and the like, so I would have to watch it or my arse would end up being the side of a house. But I wouldn’t have to cook right??
What is the attraction then to being an anonymous person, in a place unknown to anyone you profess to love? What is the lure of no one knowing you, understanding where you are coming from, knowing your history, your family, your friends? I feel that this is almost a getting away from oneself. Mostly stories of this type are of a finding oneself, of understanding yourself through the anonymity of others. But is it possible to understand oneself without looking through the eyes of those that have known you forever?
Really it presents a particularly myopic perspective if you ask me my opinion. Yes, it’s wonderful to be able to navel gaze and delve into the recesses of one’s psyche to understand what makes us tick. But to only view yourself through a single lens is in itself limiting, and probably polarising and stretching to say that one has ‘found themselves’! I think this is the definition of self-absorption (not selfishness per se, which is a different thing all together). It just reeks of insularity and wishy washy introspection.
Anyway, this is the rant of my day. I still want to go to that street, and play chess with the gentlemen and eat the lady’s food – but not because I want to ‘discover’ myself. It’s because I am curious and I want to know what that guy eats for breakfast, what his politics are and why. What does he think of dogs? Is he a vegetarian, does he have a vegetable garden? It’s the people that I am interested in.
Which brings me to the next point. I can meet people anywhere. Why on earth do I need to be on that street? I could be in Bacchus March and undertake the same exercise. Can I fuck!?! What an awful fucking thought. Thus, the place is also important – let that be a lesson to you, young grasshopper.