April 27, in the park
As if losing my job wasn't bad enough, she's trying to make me lose my mind as well. She is driving me crazy, complaining every time I have a little drink or when I sit around at home, like it’s my fault I lost my job. Whatever I do she comments on and complains about. I can’t stand it anymore. What kind of landlady rents out a room and then complains when I spend time at home? Hell is empty and Sonia is here!
But it doesn’t stop there. The entire city has started behaving strangely, like the she-devil has it in her spell. I know I’m not imagining this. I have proof.
For instance, when I go outside without my journal, to the bar or to the river, nothing happens. People are as distant and indifferent as usual. For the life of me I couldn’t start a conversation with a stranger even if I wanted to. But whenever I go anywhere with my journal, people act erratically. Something happens. When I’m writing, they won’t leave me alone. I promise someone will come up soon and interrupt me as I’m writing this. I’m sure of it.
Today I’m in the park. Had a fight with Sonia about the state of the place. Needed a break, wanted to organise my thoughts. I just took a seat on the bench and started reading through the journal entries from last week, and I can already feel how something changed around me. It’s a conspiracy. When I come here to enjoy a drink without my journal, it’s completely different. I even wrote about it last week at home. This one is from April 22nd: “Headache today. Yesterday I had a fight with Sonia and went to the park to drink. Nice day, terrible park. Must be the worst park in the country. Gardeners unfriendly. People in a hurry. Couples fighting. Incessantly noisy and unhospitable.”
And I remember the feeling. I would sit here and look at women passing, and they would frown and rush past me. The barking dogs would make the babies cry. Couples were fighting, and with the shouting and the noise it was really quite unpleasant. It used to be terrible, but at least I would be left be alone with my thoughts and my whisky.
But now people won’t stop smiling. And as I’m writing this, It’s not that noisy anymore. I can hear the birds chirping and the fountain pouring. Would have been great for writing if only I would be left alone. But children have found new ways to annoy me and are being obnoxiously curious. A child just came and tugged at my arm, mumbling something in its idiot language. I ignored it but it persisted. I looked around for the responsible adult, and on the other side of the fountain stood the mother, smiling at me. Smiling! When her child clearly was disrupting me. That is, until I made a face and the child ran off.
Especially old people keep coming up to me. Talking about the weather, then asking what I’m writing. Always the weather, and then questions about my journal, without the least respect for privacy. Even women come up to me. Women! Come up to me! It happened twice last week. That has never happened before, and of course I was writing both times. It was extremely cruel and humiliating. They came up to ask what I was writing and when I told them I was writing a journal entry about this or that, about Sonia or otherwise, they got awkward. Then I gave them a compliment about something, their hair or their eyes, and they ran away, as if chased by wild beasts.
As soon as I take my notebook out, it all starts. People smile, come up to talk to me. They think “there’s that poor man, writing about his little problems” and then they come to ask about it, just so they can rejoice at their own problems being so insignificant in comparison.
Case in point. That’s fitting. They finally left. A couple of tourists just came up to me, supposedly to ask for directions, although there are maps posted at every entrance to the park. I informed them of the fact, and even gave them some general directions, but they wouldn’t leave me alone. I just ignored their questions until they went away.
Where was I. Right, as I was saying. This is all very confusing, and I’m not sure what to do. My journal is not even half full yet but my nerves are already worn too thin. By god, here comes another one…
Well... I’m quite lost for words now. I went home again, eventually. It all became too much. A stranger came up to me in the park. I’m not sure where to begin…
It was an older man in a cap and with his hands in his coat pockets. The kind who usually starts talking about the weather. But this one didn’t.
“Hello” he said. I did not reply. “May I ask what you’re writing?” he asked in a kind but firm tone. “If you must know, I’m writing my journal, all right. About my landlady’s reign of terror and how people won’t seem to leave me alone” He was quiet for a while, then he smiled. “That explains it.” “That explains what?” “What I saw, when you were speaking to that couple just now.” “What do you mean?” I hissed. So he had been watching me all along! “About them coming up to you, and you dismissing them, annoyed and perplexed.” “So you were watching me? Hmm! And what would that explain exactly?” “They think you are writing a story” “What? Nonsense.” “Yes, I see that now. But they don’t know that. You are sitting here writing, so perhaps you are a writer. There is certainly room for doubt, and people tend to fill that room with their own projections. They think you’re an artist. Or, they presume it, rather.”
“That’s preposterous. But even if it were to be the case, what has it got to do with anything at all? Them terrorizing me, the women, the tourists, or yourself for that matter?”
“Isn’t it plain to see? No? Very well, I’ll tell you. It happened to me too.” He took his hands out of his pockets and fixed his eyes on a point in the sky. “You see, I used to paint landscapes en plein air. I would find a nice scene down by the river, plant my easel and begin mixing paints. I would take a few brush strokes, and there you were. If there were people around, they would gravitate towards me without fail. Many would be content to pass behind or around me in silence, but some would invariably strike up conversations. It would begin about the weather and end with a series of questions about the motif, the light, the perspective, and so on, until answering their questions left me exhausted. And the deeper I was emerged in my painting, the quicker distractions like these would appear. This is why I mostly paint in my studio now.”
“But what on earth does any of this have to do with me?”
“Don’t you see it’s the same thing? The painting and the writing. If anybody were doing some sculpting right here in the park, or sat around composing music on a bench somewhere, the same thing would certainly arrive. It’s the process of creation, turning nothing into something... It might be god or something else but there’s an invisible force, guiding the artist’s hand. It fascinates people, draws them in.”
“But this is sheer nonsense, ramblings about my very personal problems.” I held my journal open for him to see.
“Yes but people don’t know that until you disillusion them. Call it faith, or hope. A silly human thing. Better than visiting a museum, rather than seeing a dead, inanimate object, you see the artist engaged in creation. Wrestling with potential, harnessing it, subjugating it to his will. The finished work of art is just the residual, the testament to the process. It can last for ages, but the process of creation is fleeting, rare. And the unfinished state means it could end up being just about anything. The same premise that makes people presume you’re a writer just because you’re writing also makes them presume that what you’re writing then must be what they individually crave for. What they have so far only felt, but not been able to define. That’s what lends it its romance, to everyone in their own way. People are inspired. Inspired to think of their desires, to attempt articulating what they hope and assume you must be writing. They catch a glimpse of something transcendent, almost within reach.”
“But they’re wrong. They’re mistaken.”
“Yes, I see that now. I approached thinking that a muse was whispering in your ear, in the hope of myself overhearing a word or two. But I realise that it was a misunderstanding. I apologise for disturbing you. Good day”
And with that he left. Just walked away. Here’s an entry for the captain’s log: people are going mad. I will have to stop this journaling business of course, so that they leave me alone. No good has come of it anyway.
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