If it is your life (12 page)

But for myself it was the greater challenge. The others might see it as theirs, as strangers to this practice. Not me. Never! They would begin, they would buckle down, draw strength from a trial shared. I admired and envied them for it.

My admiration was not misplaced though it surprised them. Of course they looked to me. I was the exemplar, the wonderful exemplar. For some I was glorious. Yes. And why? Because each manoeuvre lay within my grasp. So they presumed, failing to realize such mastery presents not liberation but a vast obligation; a world of obligation, overriding everything. Not only was my own life in thrall to the quest but the lives of those dearest to me.

Some chose not to see this, not to acknowledge the obligation. I cannot name them. Individuals are not functions. I accept this. At the same time they have roles, and enact them. At the same time they look to their own humanity; it is from here we begin

I regret if they are hurt by such honesty.

It is true also that I smiled. I would not deny
the
smile. This too surprised them.

Irony is to be shared. To whom did I share the smile? To whom would the smile be shared. None. I was alone. They said I was alone and were correct, an irony in itself, but unimportant if not insignificant.

I stopped smiling. I was on the Glasgow bus home and a woman was sitting next to me. I offered her the window seat but she preferred the aisle. Women have their own ways of doing stuff. It was that made me smile. I had a friend called Celia and she would have been exactly the same. She wanted to be an actress, or actor as she said. She memorized lines from classic plays; angry ones with big statements. She spoke them aloud or acted the parts. Even walking down the street. It was quite embarrassing. A pal of mine from boyhood did the same. Even with him I found it embarrassing. With Celia I pretended not to bother. But she saw that it did. If she had known the true extent she would have scorned me. No wonder. It was a hopeless brand of self-consciousness, worse than the ordinary. And arrogant too. It did not seem to be but it was. What right did I have to be self-conscious of something she was doing? That was so arrogant.

I had not thought of it in that way and it was true. Males are arrogant. I did not see myself as arrogant at all, not in the slightest, so it was like a compliment.

Even thinking about her, it was nice, she was just so jees, sexy, really, even on the bus and thinking about her, enjoying it in my own head. It was nice. But sad
too, but life can be sad. Usually on long bus trips I just read or stared out the window.

Celia was so acute in her observations, very much so. People had to respect that. Especially in a woman. Women are different. There is no question about that. I had a sister, a mother and grandmother and that meant nothing. I did not know women, I did not know them at all. Celia studied people and I could see how this must be essential for anyone who wanted to become an actor. I thought she would be great at it. I respected her more than anyone, more than myself. Much more. I learned from her, even being in her presence. Not only did I appreciate her own lack of self-consciousness I began noticing it in others. Those that had it seemed satisfied with themselves. Not in a bad way. I did not see them as ‘smug’. They were content with themselves, or
within
themselves. Maybe it was an illusion. I saw them out and about and their lips were moving. They were not phoning, not texting. Some had earphones and actively engaged with the music, whether singing along or performing actions with their limbs. Others sang on their own account. They were not listening to anything except out their own head. Or in their own head, inside it. From inside it. Inside within it. You listened to things inside your own head, from inside.

Or did you? Did people listen inside or from inside?

Ears are outside but your hearing is inside. If we look at our heads in a practical manner we gain insights. It seems obvious and it is obvious. But so obvious people never do it.

If you were singing you were not listening. Maybe singing into yourself. Not out loud. A lot of people did that. They walked along the road singing away to themselves. Eric Semple was the worst, an old pal of mine. He sang out loud. It was like he was on stage. You would not have minded if it was walking along the street but he did it at other times too, like on the bus. People could hear him. Talk about embarrassing. That really was. I thought so anyway. He did not. Him and Celia were the same there. It was only me. I was the one that worried.

Why? Why worry about other people. It was not a pleasant trait and I wished I did not have it. People should be allowed to get on with their own lives without others butting in. Ones like me.

I thought too much about other people. I could not stop myself and did not feel good doing it. I saw Eric at the Christmas break and it was a fight. I got annoyed with him because he got annoyed with me. He said I was giving him a telling-off. It was not a telling-off. It was just that stupid singing. Maybe he did not know he was doing it. But other people were there and could hear. Why did he not sing into himself? I could not understand that. But deep down I knew why, he was getting at me. It was because I had left home to go to university. It was a mixture of jealousy and I do not know what, except things had changed. But it was not me changing them. There was no point blaming me.

He was annoyed and I did not know why. I thought he was going to walk away. We were in one of the few
under-21 bars in town. He liked his beer so for him to walk away was a big thing. Although he looked older than me and probably would have got served in other places. He was fuming. It made me smile seeing him. That only made it worse, swearing at me. What the fuck are you laughing at?

I was not laughing I was only smiling. I was glad to be having a pint with him. You are just annoying me, he said.

I dont mean to.

That made it worse. Eric drank his beer down. He was a bigger drinker than me when it came to pints. I preferred bottles. Pints were too much, if you took too many; and Eric did, although he could handle it. I used to be able to. I was out the habit. People did not drink so much down south. One beer lasted for ages. Some drank wine, glasses of wine. If you were in company together you might order a bottle and you all shared it. It was just different. If me and Eric went out while I was home it would be to a pub and it would be beer. It would be nice seeing him this time but not if it was another fight. I made him angry. But he made me angry. He blamed me for stuff that was not my fault – talking posh. How come you’re talking posh? I was not talking posh. I was saying things properly, or trying to. There is a difference. If I did not say things properly people did not know what I was talking about. It was bad enough as it was. I was not being a snob, I was just sick of people not understanding me, or pretending they did not. Sometimes I thought they pretended.
Celia understood when I explained it. She even noticed it. But Eric got more annoyed and then went off into his ‘so’ routine. Every time I explained something it was ‘So?’

So? So? So?

So I felt like punching him on the mouth, that was so. Surely he had passed the ‘so’ stage. He had being doing it since he was five years of age. We all did but some grew out it. He did not, at least not with me. You could say ‘so’ to everything. That was what he did. It was stupid: stupid
and
meaningless. Not completely. But how come he did not understand the point I was making whereas somebody who was English understood completely. And not Celia, I was not referring to her. He thought I was but I was not. I did not want to talk about her, and not about sex. He did not want me talking about her either. Although he acted like he did anyway, that was what I thought. So what, I was not going to, who cares.

Anyway, it was Rob Anderson I was talking about, the best lecturer at university. Because of his attitude to the students. He called it the ‘so question’. Rob had two children of his own and this is what they did, ‘So?’ He thought it insightful; without the ‘so question’ there would have been no Socrates. It kept you on your toes, speaking intellectually. Much of Rob’s own philosophy came from observing children. So he said anyway although children did not read Plato, which is what Celia said. Typical Celia. But she was right in a way. Celia did not do philosophy but she came out and said
things that were strong, even when it was to do with Rob Anderson, it did not worry her.

The woman beside me was reading a thick paperback book, her wee light beaming down. It was a costume-drama, I saw the cover. Damsels in distress and knights in shining armour! The wee light made it more atmospheric, just that peace and quiet.

People read what they wanted. I read private-eye stories, different ones, not just Chandler, people said Chandler but I liked other ones. Rob read detective stories too. I was surprised at that but he was not and I should not have been. The philosopher Wittgenstein was a favourite of his and if I did a third-year course then I would meet with him. He was difficult. People said that. He sounded interesting because of that. But he read detective stories, Wittgenstein. A lot of philosophers did.

People were ordinary, philosophers or not. You did not read heavy stuff all the time. Not even if you were heavy. Philosophers were ‘heavy’ but that did not mean they only read ‘heavy’ books. It was the same if you were studying, you had to switch off occasionally.

Even looking out the window and the peace and quiet, that was the M6 the farther north you went. And with night-time. I loved it. People were tired and away in their own thoughts, just thinking about whatever it was – going home, that was me.

You were just very aware it was England. That was what I thought. It was so different. I liked it. I did not say that to my parents or anybody but it was true. Who
wanted to be in Glasgow all the time! And for the rest of your life! No thanks. The world was big, just so so big. Celia’s brother lived in New York, or New York City, that was what she called it.

She was so absolutely different to anything. There were no other girls like her. The idea of meeting one like her in Glasgow. Unless maybe you were up the West End round the Byres Road area or else Sauchie-hall Street; some place with students, otherwise where? Nowhere.

My head went everywhere, and seeing the moon too, just everything. The thing about her, how sexy she was. You were not supposed to talk about that. Ha ha. Well it did not apply to her! Because she would have been the first, and I was the one if anybody did, knowing about it, because I did. It made you smile. Because people would never think, seeing me, they would never ever think, and yet, that was them, it was up to them.

The woman beside me too, imagine her; she would never ever think. Nobody would. I had not been naked before. I had had sex a lot of times, quite a few; of course I had but not like with Celia, just naked the two of us and her not caring, just with her breasts, just flopping, not caring. People would not know that, seeing me, never, and her pubic hair, just to see. They never ever would think it. And at university too, never. I would never tell them a thing anyway, never ever.

Sex is sex. But not for women. There were no pals anyway that I would have told. But I would tell Eric. I would. I think I would. I wanted to. Sometimes when
you wanted to say something you did not get the chance. People spoke about their own stuff.

She did not want me to say anything. She did not say it but I knew. But I was not going to tell anybody.

But it made me smile. Because of the dark outside and the wee light beaming down my face was clear in its reflection and I had a smile, and it was a strange smile. Not like my smile. It was a different type of smile. I did not like it, although in some ways I did. It was Mister Hyde smiling back at Doctor Jekyll. There is an evil glint in his eye but a horrible irony as well and it is lurking there and like another story I read in Edgar Allan Poe which was just brilliant; warped sides of the one individual. Some writers were brilliant. They were like philosophers and just stayed in your mind.

Every event has a cause. For every one thing a thing happens in succession. Except the world, if you regard the world as an event but maybe not. The world is not really an event, just a thing in itself. Unless if it is God, if you believe in God then you might argue the point, God caused the world. Or if God is the cause. So the world is His effect. Take away God and that is the world, what happens to it? Gone.

These are things you would say. I loved the subject, if you would call it a subject. The great thing about philosophy is that it is actual life, it is hardly a subject at all. Some treated it as a subject and that was their downfall; they might score good marks in class but true understanding would not come from that form of study. Okay they might get good results but beyond that no.

Eric would have been good at philosophy. Harder for Celia. She went her own way and at a certain point there has to be
the
way, if only as a beginning. Once you begin go where you want but let us begin from that same point, if you can find it. That is the trouble, but if you do find it then it becomes the whole world. Or the whole world becomes, it is just there and all alive. It is marvellous. That was Descartes, what a hero! He was the one we were given and you just felt lucky, imagine it was Hobbes or Locke, you would just shudder.

I could not imagine Celia and Eric ever meeting. They were both aliens. She would not fit into his world and neither would he in hers. Yet they were both mine. His world was my world before leaving Glasgow. A woman like Celia could not exist in Glasgow. Perhaps she could but I could not imagine it. Or a guy like Eric Semple at university down south. I could never imagine that either. People would not understand him. It was a separate brand of humour. You saw things differently; your whole way of thinking. Almost like it was disconnected. Eric could have gone to a Scottish university, although maybe not Edinburgh, and never St Andrews. Never an English one.