SOMETHING IS HAPPENING

One has to maintain contact with the world as it is—a horror show.

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“What the fuck’s that? Come here. You have a black eye,” I say.

“Football accident. Nothing sinister,” Carlo says.

“You’re looking dishevelled. Happy birthday, by the way.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re thirty-one. I guess I have to start thinking of you as an adult, although, of course, you became one years ago.”

“Coffee?”

“Yes. Not too strong,” I say. “With one’s kids, you constantly have to rethink and update your ideas about who they are—”

“I have to do the same with you.”

“—It would be easy to get stuck thinking of you as a sixteen-year-old.”

We are in the kitchen, looking out into the garden. Two identical white cats come over the fence and sit at the back door, waiting for Isabella to give them some milk.

Behind us, at the front of the house, my current carer, who is leaving today, has begun an argument with the next carer, who has just arrived. Unfortunately, all carers have a different way of doing things and a distinctive attitude to tidiness and procedure.

“Right, old man, what do you want to write today?” says Carlo.

“I’m shocked by how ugly I am now; I can’t bear to look at myself. My broken body. So, I’ve been thinking about beauty—beautiful people, attractive people—some of whom I’ve known and been mesmerized by. Why do lifts have mirrors?”

“I notice you’ve copied my pink-knit jumper.”

“You copied me!” I say.

“You said it looked feminine.”

“I’m super masculine; I can pull it off. So, beauty—what do you think?” I say.

“I’m not sure I can bring myself to write about anything other than Gaza.”

“My opinions are neither here nor there in the scale of things.”

“Everything else seems trivial,” Carlo says.“There will always be reasons to dwell on the horror and cruelty of existence.”

“I’ve seen things this past year that I will never forget. Dozens and dozens of videos of dead children every day.”

“How could you subject yourself to that?”

“How could you not? It’s happening.”

“It will make you sick,” I say.

“Buying a coffee from Gail’s with a livestream of a genocide in your pocket.”

“Can you blow my nose?”

“For fuck’s sake.”

“You’re my nose butler. Anyway, I don’t want to watch a genocide, but I can see how it could depress a young mind, spinning them into more darkness and despair than necessary.”

Isabella has rushed down from the study in her pyjamas. One of the carers is crying. The other is yelling. Carlo picks up a handful of grapes and shoves them in his mouth.

“There is no longer anything ‘social’ about social media,” he says. “Friends and family don’t post anymore. It’s all war and adverts for cheap clothes—like an Adam Curtis documentary.”

“You have to protect your mental well-being by avoiding situations that could create gloom.”

“What’s that line about poetry and Auschwitz?”

“There can be no poetry after Auschwitz. That was Adorno,” I say.

“Exactly. How can we sit here and write about beauty—or your arse being wiped—with another Auschwitz occurring right this second?”

“Art is an antidote to nihilism. It should remind us why we like to be alive.”

“That’s bullshit though, isn’t it? It’s an anaesthetic maybe—a way of making us feel better—but how does art help the Palestinians?”

“Humanity requires art to explain the world to itself. No civilization without art.”

“Civilization is ignoring the Palestinians,” Carlo says.

“One has to maintain contact with the world as it is—a horror show—while at the same time sustaining sufficient distance to avoid going mad,” I say.

“That sufficient distance isn’t optional. Who decides what is sufficient?”

Isabella comes into the kitchen where we are working, looking pale and harassed. The argument between carers seems to have quietened down. She kisses me on the forehead, and Carlo asks:

“How was your night?”

“Hell,” Isabella says.

“Was I shouting?” I ask.

“All night,” she says.

“Why were you shouting, Dad?”

“Screaming even—crying in my sleep,” I say.

“Why do you do that?”

“I don’t know. I believe it’s my unconscious. I’m trying to establish some connection with Isabella while I dream.”

Isabella says: “When I wake up, I can’t go back to sleep. So I sit with you until you stop screaming.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” she says.

“Are you scared of something?” Carlo asks.

“I don’t think so. But my night-time terrors are telling me otherwise.”

Isabella makes herself an espresso, rolls herself a cigarette, and takes a bowl of milk outside for the cats.

“Are you depressed?” I ask Carlo.

“No. Just lethargic—it feels like I’m running around all the time without achieving anything.”

“We’ve just written a book together—you’ve got your TV projects.”

“Still, everything feels slow—and what difference is any of it making?”

I say: “I’ve spent many months in my life enduring that feeling, and I can tell you it is a bitter attack on your intelligence, creativity, and resources—reducing you to a bed-ridden jelly. But I will also say that these moods pass.”

“Right—what do you want to write?”

“Well—you don’t want to write about beauty,” I say.

“Trump’s just been re-elected; there are wars raging; Labour are proving to be a dud.”

“I’m not as politically engaged as I once was.”

“But you must have an opinion.”

“Since my accident, my subject matter has been a narrow circle: myself, my family, my friends—and my condition.”

Carlo feeds me some coffee—a sip of water—and a spoonful of nuts. Isabella comes in from the garden, sits down at the end of the table, and replies to some emails on my behalf. The argument in the other room has started up again.

“Do you think you’ve accepted your condition?” Carlo asks.

“I believe several contradictory things at the same time—that one day I will return to my previous condition—and also that this is impossible.”

“So—the fantasy is important?”

“I still can’t use my arms or legs—but the fantasy of being able-bodied again is animating.”

There is a knock at the front door and a large bearded man with a huge stomach moves into my kitchen laughing—like a Welsh Father Christmas. This is Keith—who built the bathroom in my front kitchen. He is well-connected and likes to work for rockstars and actresses; getting him to come to your house at all is like having Elton John perform at your birthday party. He is always full of stories and gossip—and when you see him he brings a shot of energy and joy.

“Have you had any more thoughts about the lift?” Keith asks.

“I can’t have a lift installed in my house,” I say.

“How about a stairlift?”

“Perhaps—you could carry me?”

“I will—you’d give me another hernia—but I will.”

As Keith goes out into the garden—I turn to Carlo and say:

“There is no doubt that Keith is one among that rare breed of characters who always cheer you up.”

Carlo says: “His laugh is worth a week in a spa.”

“When I was in hospital there were certain people I liked to see—those with lively positive energy who see it as their duty to cheer people up—with their natural ebullience.”

“Some people just have that.”

Still arguing—the carers enter the kitchen—one weeps while the other rails. Carlo attempts to negotiate—as I lose my temper and start shouting in frustration:

“Shut up! Both of you shut up!”

“Dad—please.”

“This is my house—I won’t have this crap in my kitchen!” I say.

The crying carer picks up her suitcases and leaves; the other one gets to work with my meds. I glance at the clock, it’s almost 12:30, and Carlo is looking shifty...I suspect he’s readying himself to nip off early, as usual, probably for an infrared sauna. Today’s been chaotic—people coming in and out with demands and interruptions—but I prefer it like that; I hate those writing retreats where one sits isolated in a cabin all day without distraction. Disturbance stimulates me.

Carlo says: “We’ve done nothing today—not written a word.”

“With writing waste produces material. you can’t have one without the other. Even when nothing appears to be happening, something is happening.”