Let Us Compare Mythologies

“It was called ‘The Traitor’ because it was about some feeling that we have of betraying some mission that we were mandated to fulfill. Being unable to fulfill it and then, coming to understand that the real mandate was not to fulfill it. That the deeper courage was to stand guiltless in the predicament in which you now found yourself.” – Leonard Cohen 

I am beginning to fear that I orchestrate my mistakes in search of the desperate emptiness that follows the crescendo. Almost, as if I am seeking out extreme tangents that will allow me the respite of a recovery period. Something that I can finally relish without guilt. I fear that I’m one of those people who attract drama just so I can thrive in the silent, hateful aftermath and succumb to the hard shell of solitary confinement engrossed in soft cushions of Cohen, Borges, Dylan and Kafka. I suppose one could make the hard choice and live the shell, but that seems far too courageous a move to weave into my life’s morbid aesthetic. 

That is why, I have always grasped desperately at the humour in all things. As if the making of ugly things into sadistically sarcastic ones somehow saves them from still being cruel. It doesn’t really, Funny doesn’t trump Fate…it only clouds it over for a while. It is somewhat different this time around though, some wordless, weightless, want-less expectation has been lifted from my shoulders and my conscience. And no, it isn’t as basic as “marriage” or “coupling” or “companionship”, but more the faint glimmer of the dream of all those composite 'some day in the future' things that I no longer feel. On some level it has become easier to talk to people now, because I have lost my self-propelling greed to be liked, to be considered better than I could be. Some might say my pride has finally flitted through the cracks of my fidelity. I don’t really think that’s it. It’s more as if I no longer care about conclusions as much as I used to. Sadly, I still care about process. This means that my particular brand of Stockholm Syndrome has me equivocating my words enough not to offend anyone but not enough to lose all sense of opinion.  Like one of those exotic pet parrots who pretty much always says what you want them to but once in a blue moon manages an original thought only to blurt it out in front of your guests so it can shame you. It’s oddly liberating to finally be on the giving end of that spectrum. For those who know me, it’s a milestone I could never have anticipated and yet I still cannot escape the sense that I am a fraud. I suppose we are all frauds, each pontificating at their own podium to an imagined audience who couldn’t be bothered to give a shit. My fungibility rests in the fact that I cannot help but self-aggrandize and self-deprecate in equal measure. No podium could ever hold against the pressure of dogma awkwardly coupling with doubt.

As Kant put it, I am presently in a state of ‘arbitrary self-defilement’, I know my excesses aren’t really my natural setting and they most certainly don’t fit but I am determined to wallow in them anyway because on some level I’d rather be saturated than sorry. This is why I am determined to write this time around-without being conscious of the garbage that I shall regurgitate in the process. I am determined to bleed toxins of the mind and finally let my garbles fall wherever and however they may. Art without frame and words without will…but words nonetheless. I miss my typewriter.

I know that some of it has to do with being in this city again. This place makes me angry and seeing as I have never really learned how to be angry, I am seeking solace in the familiarity of being flippant about the important things. I am dedicating time and energy to listening to music, systematically: album by album and playlist by playlist. Currently, I am submerging myself in ‘Death of a Ladies Man’, reading The Aleph again and contemplating the merits of French toast. I spend ten minutes a day, examining the layers of cellulite on my thighs and belly with a glare so curious it could peel paint off walls but appears helpless in the face of fat. I then proceed to plan whether I shall cook my pasta in white sauce or red. 

Once upon a time, when I lived in a moribund bric-a-brac prison not far from here, I used to compile letters. I was ten when I started and I vaguely recall my first letter to the judge who decided my custody case and sent me to stay with my mother (on my request). I remember I posted the letter and since I didn’t know his address I invented a name (I’m quite certain it was a Mohammad Something or Other), conflated a house and street number and put it in the mail box without a stamp.

                                                                                            

May 19, 1994

Dear Mr. Judge,

Thank you for helping me the first time and sending me with Mama.

I’m back in Islamabad now.

I made a mistake.

I need your help again.

                           -Maria Amir

The point was to write it and send it. Not for it to be received or returned. It was a therapeutic enterprise and I suppose on some pathetic, panoramic level the internet and blogging now serves the same purpose. That is why, there seems to be no better time than the present to take up the practice all over again. 

Dear To Whom It May Compel,

It seems particularly easy to talk to you. Mostly because I can neither observe nor imagine your face. This is a good thing, since it prevents me from activating and deactivating my impressions and analogies to suit your particular pallet. You may find my wordiness to be an indicator of an amalgam of social superiority complexes.

 I can assure you it isn’t.

I like big words and if anything my taste for them is born out of an inherent inferiority complex. That said, you may now argue that both of these complexes are the same and if you do, you are much smarter than either of my complexes allow me to be. I shall enjoy this, now that I have already projected on to you a mind of my own making. Rest assured - you are under no compulsion to accept this attribution.

You are one of those odd foibles of nature that cannot rest until and unless they have proven a point over mine. My need to sound whimsical is exceeded only by your need to appear illustrious, guarded and contained. I hope here, that you shall excuse both my familiarity and my flippancy. I trust that I am making up for it by awarding you a pedestal without your even having had to have worked for it. This is indicative of a deficiency in my own character and I would terribly appreciate if you did not read too much into it.

I shall tell you about my present, which is a congealing mass of arbitrary observations: the fact that security guards in Islamabad appear more liable of scoring women on a decimal point-scale than men who actually have a chance of dating them; The fact that decimal-point scoring of women’s attributes somehow never translates to men – and why is that I ask? Why do women not score men on attractiveness with the same sense of purpose and brutally-banal honesty that they allow to be directed at themselves? Why is it so hard to stop wanting…everything and so infernally easy to need… nothing? Have you ever found yourself being comforted by the random racket of construction work in your building and if so why? Do you live in a country where men piss on the edge of a street and if so, can you help yourself looking at them while trying to simultaneously condition your mind to ignore them? Do you wish you could see the world without having to be a part of it? Do you believe backpacks are monikers for a personality type? What is your favourite cliché? Do you aspire to Be your favourite cliché?

Do you ever find yourself stopping in the midst of several eternities buried beneath the dancing masquerade of a lonely minute and really believe in God, just for a split-second?

Yours Sincerely

Who Cares