Tryalectic nots
Say something.
Theyd been sitting in silence for some time. Paul and Pauline, at the Companions, because it was close, and shed said she wanted to talk.
What do you want me to say ...?
Anything. Say what youre thinking, for once.
This wasnt the first time theyd moved those pawns, chosen those antipasti. This wasnt the first time theyd sat with pints, facing each other over a small table in a smokey pub. This wasnt the first time hed avoided her eyes, or that shed been exasperated at his lack of communicativeness.
Im not thinking anything in particular. Thinking about this pint, thinking whether Ill have another cigarette. Thinking about the people around.
Thats not thinking. Thats just ... observation. Not even that. Why dont you ever say anything? Why does it always have to be me, to force you out of your shell? We come out for a drink somewhere quiet so we can talk and you just sit there, looking miserable.
Im not miserable.
Could have fooled me.
Im just tired
Youre always tired. Why dont you see a doctor see if theres something wrong with your blood ...? Theres nothing wrong with my blood. Its just I have to get up at four thirty.
So why dont you sleep more in the afternoon, while Im still at work?
Work ...?
Dont start that again. You know what I mean. "Doing research", if you dont like "work". And it can be just as tiring, concentrating on a paper, or a seminar, as trotting around with pints of milk, I can assure you.
All right, all right. Work."
Another pause, as they reconsidered the bored, after the standard exchanges. She was sick and tired of this predictable opening, and so was he. A silly phrase suddenly popped into his head: "a pigment of my imagination", as he found himself concentrating on the contrast of colours between the murky brown of his beer, and the beginnings of a dirty tan, on the backs of his hands.
I dont know why I put up with you, Paul. Youre so You never contribute anything ... never make any effort to communicate. You just put a full stop on anything I say, desparately agreeing to anything, just to not have to think about it, like ... like youd rather be on your own anyway. Why dont we just give up? Youd be happier without me.
No I wouldnt. Come on, weve been through all that. Its just ... I cant help it, I get tired. I cant help it if I havent got anything profound to say.
You could at least say how youre feeling, once in a while. Like this, theres just no point .
He raised his pint to his lips, again, trying to think of something ... anything.
She lit another cigarette, passing one over to him, and lighting his. Her nerves were all on edge; she was smoking too much; she was fed up.
Do you want to tell me about how youre feeling, Pauline? Is that it? When you say you want me to talk, dont you really mean you want to talk? Whats the matter ...?
Dont be so patronising! You know perfectly well I dont need you to analyse me, or get me to talk about myself. If Ive got something on my mind, I dont need you to prise it out of me. Im perfectly capable of telling you, or anyone else, when Ive got things on my mind ... or just normal ... conversation ... But not you, oh no! Its a real drama with you! We have to beg you to let us in on your little world! And I get really tired of that, I can tell you.
O.K., so you get tired of it. Im not hiding anything, not playing hard to get, nothing like that. I could tell you about my day, if you like.
Dont be so stupid.
Another break, circling, looking for a hand-hold, knowing it was a temporary pause, circling, knowing they were two exhausted wrestlers, trying to get to grips.
I dont know. Matty and I seem to be able to talk to balance ...
Not true. Matty did most of the talking. But it wasnt ... like this. It wasnt unbalanced. Was it? It wasnt an ...
It isnt like an interrogation, with Matty.
Interrogation! Oh, thats new! Thats good, that is!
No, I didnt mean it like that, I just meant ... I never feel on the defensive with Matty.
But with me, you do. Fine. Very good. You feel Im attacking you ... you feel persecuted.
You were different, then. Used to at least talk, have a laugh over a pint ... I dont know. Maybe we just ran out of things to talk about. Nothing to say to each other, any more.
Paul was thinking of the old Carole King song:
"It used to be so easy living here with you
You were light and breezy, and I knew just what to do
But you look so unhappy, and I feel like a fool
Cus its too late, baby, oh, its too late
Though we really did try to make it.
Something inside has died and I cant hide
And I just cant fake it ... oh, baby ...!"
He could feel his eyes moistening. Damn it all! This beer, the smoke. And then there was Joni Mitchell, too, another of the women in his life:
"Do you see? ... Do you see ... do you see how you hurt me, baby ...?
So I hurt you, too ... Then we both get so ... blue "
Paul reached across the table, for Paulines hand, smiling moistly.
Come on, its not so bad as all that
Isnt it?
I do love you ... its just that I get ... choked up, sometimes.
Here we go again, she thought to herself. Same old But she squeezed his hand, all the same, and squeezed a smile back at him.
Come on, lets not get sentimental again! Ill get you another ... And she took his empty glass, leaving her half-full glass in its place.
"I do love you ..." he said, but what did it mean? He was trying to ... be nice ... win her over ... avoid having to face up to the problems. But what was the point, after all? There were plenty of others. Theyd shut themselves off shed shut herself off too much from her friends, from the others. It was too much like being married. She could feel herself like a nagging wife, sometimes, and the thought made her shiver. Anything but that. Please God. Anything but that.
She came back with his pint, and he thanked her as she sat down.
I was thinking ... he began, and she knew hed rehearsed the next line. I was thinking that the problem is that I dont practice what I preach. I talk about thesis, antithesis and synthesis, and about interaction, but then I keep things inside myself, when it comes down to anything personal, or immediate
If we cant talk to each other, help each other
Its ironic, really. "My position" ... and I think its more or less the same with Matty ... is wanting to agree, to find things in common ... were always wanting to nod in agreement, go "mm, mm" when the other is saying something, to encourage ... and then, maybe, say "yes, but." Wanting to reach towards the others position, hoping to move forward together. So were over-eager to keep saying, "I could be wrong ... lets follow your line ..
So you fall over each other trying to be polite, and you never get anywhere!
Mm.
But it just doesnt seem honest, or even very respectful of the other person, to me, if youre not prepared to take a stand and say what you really think.
Mm. So the irony is, with you, or anyone who takes that position, of stating the thesis, inducing the antithesis, and then fighting it out, somehow ... I should move from my position, of compromise and conciliation, to a position of confrontation ... of "stating my position" of "taking a stand". So I take up a position which isnt mine, compromising, or renouncing my desire to emphasise the points of agreement over the points of conflict, and assume a character, act a part, of "having a position", which isnt true, in order to interact in your terms, on your grounds, in your scene.
Silence.
"He asked me to be patient ... well I failed ...
GROW UP!!, I cried.
And as the smoke was clearing, he said, give me one good reason why."
Youre doing it again ... this time its bloody R.D. Laing "Knots", isnt it. Jack and Jill. And weve been up that hill before, too. You just tie yourself up with words, and what is the point?!