he looks like my uncle. my friend said,
a shorter version of my uncle anders, for real.
and thats how this unforeseeable night started.
le pub. shabby storefront, a few benches occupied even in the bonechilling march wind. one of those places that has an independent gravitational force, and for some illogical reason, you just can’t ignore that mysterious pull.
but once inside the pull makes sense. the queue outside is justified. setting: imagine a barn turned bar, two stories. a rickety staircase made much wobblier by a few units of alcohol in the bloodstream. there’s a buzz in the air which seem to emanate from the walls themselves, echoing banter of guests past. on tables along the walls stands the signature wine bottle turned candelabra, graced by languid lines of wax only time can gift. on the table beside ours stands a remington typewriter with no ribbon. (my gen z brain immediately goes: a sign?)
the three of us (or let’s be honest: my two drunk friends) wanted a table inside. one went in to chatter up one of two identical waiters, a failed attempt. another went in, but alas — doomed mission. it was an hour before closing time and the company was down to its last legs. a soldier bravely decided to head into battle again. suspenseful pause. but success, we were in. that required three cheap beers in celebration.
two rounds of hotshots later (for the warmth, my friends insisted) the discovery of the uncle-doppelganger had been made.
if we stare at him long enough maybe he’ll come over, my friend said.
they stared at him for what felt like the two longest minutes of my life.
he came over.
he was not named anders, but something else immediately forgotten.
likenesses were discussed. the existence of doppelgangers debated.
after this subject had been emptied, he turned to me and asked what i studied.
philosophy, i said.
jackpot.
we talked of heidegger (mutually hated), and the philology of latin (mutually loved)
its a language based on endings. he said
when you start a sentence in latin, you have to know where you wanna end up. its ruthless in that way, he said. eyes searching mine.
i took a moment to answer him:
i get it, but so many things dont work that way. science and progress require experimentation too, like, how many sentences havent been found along the way? started with no end in sight. like karin boye said: tis the way that is worthwhile.
some more minutes of semi-philosophical discussion continued. during it, invitations for an afterparty had been extended by doppelganger-anders. i did not want to go, but my friends did, and as a citizen of democracy i had to comply.
a visit to the bathroom. head spinning with two thirds intoxication and one third adrenaline from intellectual discussion. a wobbly walk back to the table. the drinks were payed and their price lamented.
a short walk to somebody’s apartment. the chilly march wind forcing its way under flappy coats and slips of scarves. two horse-riding policemen went past. my friend stepped in horseshit and insisted on smoking a cig in consolation.
had almost-anders had this many friends in the bar? i found myself thinking.
eight floor. people squeezing inside a shabby elevator. a key had been left in the door (i wanted to put it in my pocket or give it to someone, but decided to place it gently on the hatrack. some unlucky creature would find it tomorrow, or the day after that, or whenever somebody became passive-aggressive enough to make their roommate feel guilty and finally clean).
another round of drinks and discussions resumed:
soul versus purpose? half-anders asked me. swedish have that dark agnosticism, he said. its one word for both meanings. skäl & själ. reason and soul.
he continued on his half-monologue, only my pair of ears and eyes listening hungrily. the others were on the topic of guitar strings (i believe we had fallen into the arms of a band. a bad testament to my drunkenness that it had taken me so long to notice this fact).
anders continued as if soliloquizing:
you’ve got to express an indirect morality with both things. the english have a clear difference between reason and soul, with us swedes there is no boundary. can i say i have a reason without saying i have a soul?
i didn’t know if he expected an answer or not. his eyes had started glazing over and the others were discussing rock music (it dawned on me that the arms in which we had fallen into belonged to a self-proclaimed heavy metal band. with an album in the works) not at all my comfort zone, so i tried to stay in the world i knew, and answered vacantly-expressed semi- anders:
morality seems to always get tangled up with motivation, i said. i can ask myself why i do certain things and why i make certain choices, but that question is hard to answer without morality. i have a soul and i have my reasons — is it so wrong not to try and differentiate them?
anders seemed lost in thought, orbiting somewhere in space, not yet near enough earth for an answer. and i desperately needed a breather on the balcony.
the cool spring air was welcome. a full moon was out, a church-spire in the distant hidden among the rooftops, translucent clouds going fast past that silvery eye, as thin as a bridal-veil. i feel myself utter a prayer to the goddess selene for safety, for courage. for a watchful eye. i dont know why exactly.
people had moved to the kitchen now. hand-rolled things were handed out like christmas presents. my anxious-ridden friend asked me to make sure my other friend was ok, and that she did not take anything. i headed out, she was ok, and i decided to take off my knight-in- shining-armour and exchange it for the coveted judd-nelson-rebel coat.
we stood smoking. my friend had found a band-member to keep warm with. i stood lost in thought.
the guys i could carry a conversation with i could find no attraction in. the guys i could not for the love of god find anything in common with i felt myself leaning closer to (oxymoron? hypocritical of me?). could i sleep with someone who didn’t know who emily dickinson was? weird question, but let me explain:
his name was dick.
he smelled of truffles. not in a good way. but im sure he had eaten a very nice bowl of pasta.
he was that kinda guy who learned can you feel the love tonight on guitar for the sole purpose of impressing members of the opposite sex. a guy who plays guitar is a guy who gets laid. an ancient proverb.
you sit here all emo at the end of the couch, he said.
is that what you think im like?
you dont say much.
i dont have much to say.
our conversation continued with this formula:
have you heard X? SO good.
no, sorry. what about Y?
Y? no, no.. but Z? youve gotta heard Z ..
(continue cycle by repeating alphabet)
after some failed attempts of finding common ground, dick asked me who my favourite lyricist was. i said emily dickinson, half-seriously. laughing a little at my not-so-funny joke. he asked me if she was the niece of bruce dickinson (a google search in the bathroom later revealed he was the guitarist of iron maiden). tldr: i guess we have our own worlds of references. mine just happen to be literary and slightly pretentious. his metal. the evenings realization: heavy metal people are people too.
but it felt nice to be wanted. gazed at.
a hand on a thigh, placed knowingly.
an excuse to sit close, to whisper.
calf grazing against calf not-so-accidentally.
being too aware of the smell of your own breath.
a conference in the bathroom — every woman knows this.
are you sure? do you have a condom?
i sat down to pee. no toilet-paper. typical. (red flag)
had to wash my hands in the sink.
i could not meet my own eyes in the mirror.
(who can look at themselves in the bathroom mirror and not feel a jolt of ice cold shame?)
i never know how to continue talking with somebody looking earnestly at me.
my words weren’t made for that kind of intensity, they flicker and die out under too much pressure. perhaps i like writing because that is done from a safe distant, as a contemplative nightcap. far away from the in-the-thick-of-it action. something done in the privacy of your mind and your unseparated self.
later, on the couch, i asked what their band name was.
schizosteria, dick told me.
ask [anders] what it means.
(i never got a chance to ask anders — the whites of his eyes had become an alarming shade of red at this point).
my friend started singing a song that was not playing in the speakers. very loudly and shrilly.
time to leave.
but the last song was to be played
dick and i had been trying to find a mutual artist that we both liked all evening,
the bell rung when jimi was mentioned.
you get the privilege of choosing the last song, he said.
and you have to pick one, he added. aware of my indecisive nature. i noticed i did not enjoy being so easily perceived.
i typed it out on the spotify searchbar.
jimi’s one rainy wish started reverberating from the speakers.
Golden rose, the color of the dream I had
Not too long ago
A misty blue and the lilac too
A never to grow old
putting on my coat. feeling his eyes on my back.
making sure to make a show out of it.
played out to perfection, i said.
he laughed. anders couldn’t hear what i had said, and asked: whats she said that was so funny again?
hasty goodbye. shepherding my friends out. stepping onto the elevator.
jimi kept crooning through the doorway.
the last thing dick said to me was:
i have to be honest. i dont listen to jimi that much.
It’s only a dream
I’d love to tell somebody about this dream
can i tell somebody about this dream?
the way drunken nights feel feverish. like swimming through smoke in slow-motion. trying to orient what is up and what is down.
the pling of the elevator universally speaking exit.
all the way down to the cab i kept thinking: emily dickinson.
My Life had stood — a Loaded Gun -
and he could not have pulled the trigger.
could i? (do i –
do i dare disturb the universe?)
too many regrets haunt us.
To Hands I cannot see–
Judge tenderly– of Me
tomorrow there will only be peaches, middle-parts, and mermaids singing
but without an ounce of fucking longing.
