A Nonsense Story

And a signpost for future memory

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash, rendered black & white by me

One day, I will remember this phase of my life as a series of concatenated events that will appear easier and smoother and less traumatic than they felt when lived in the moment. In fact, they will appear almost risible; things that I should have approached with the lightness of someone who knows they will play out fine. Armed with the privilege of knowing their outcome, when I replay these events on an imaginary screen, I will clearly see that each of them had an underlying logic, that each of them -- including the most dreadful -- was necessary, and that they were all conspiring to ensure that life transitioned from one cycle to the next.

This happens to me all the time: I visualize myself in the past, going about things, worrying, and struggling just as I did, like the protagonist of a dramatic film. And I say to myself that I should have been less preoccupied because, in the end, everything fell into place. How could uncertainty have been so painful? How could I have been so anxious? I remember myself and my actions with tenderness and compassion and relief. And humor. 

Some circumstances, however, remain obscure in my future recollections. Although lived with intensity and awareness, they mysteriously vanish from the book of memories as if written in invisible ink, leaving blank pages behind. I would remember going from A to D, with A and D clear and vivid, but nothing about B and C would stay with me, despite their being so consequential and instrumental. Will this happen again when I think back on the phase I’m currently going through? Which part I’m now fully immersed in will be the one written in invisible ink? 

I’m distractedly processing all this while in the passenger seat of Roberta’s red car, on our way to someone’s country house -- a friend of hers whose name she’s mentioned multiple times but that I haven’t memorized. I’m terrible with names and cars. If it weren’t for the ‘Warning: Poet Driving’ bumper sticker, I would never recognize her car. The air conditioning doesn’t work, and I’m forced to keep the window down. She talks, in vain. I nod sometimes, pretending to hear. But the noise from the open window cancels out everything. Except my thoughts. Will I remember our stay at this unnameable friend’s country house, where I have to put my social mask on and fake friendliness and joie de vivre amid one of the worst periods of my life? 

We get to a red light, in the middle of nowhere, and stop. Suddenly, Roberta’s words acquire clarity but sound out of context. I relegate the thoughts to my mind’s backyard and try to focus. She leans back in her seat and says something about her husband not understanding poetry and the strain and suffering that this causes their relationship. I light a cigarette, look out the window at the deserted countryside, and think of something empathetic to say, but nothing comes. The light turns green, then red again. Under the beating sun, with crickets discreetly providing their typical soundtrack, we don’t want to look at each other’s faces. The spell is broken by the sound of a tractor approaching. Life feels like a slowly sinking boat with too many leaks; impossible to patch them all. I hope I will remember the solemnity of this moment, one day. And maybe laugh at it.

Perhaps I will remember that I find it hard to get to sleep at night. That I have nightmares, but also regular dreams. After resuming our drive, I tell Roberta that one night I dreamed of an angel who said that she’s the only woman I could love fully and unconditionally. He was seated at a table way in the back of the café across the street from my place, where I never venture, as I usually sit outdoors. I tell her that this unsettled me so much that I started to call the waiter, shouting, as if I felt harassed by words that I didn’t want to hear; by a truth that had to remain silent. The angel kept staring at me with a smile on his face, lips closed, and serenity in his eyes. Other nights I don’t dream of anyone but wake up weeping for no recallable reason. I will also remember that, before going to bed, these days I make sure the door and the windows of my room are securely shut.

One night, at her friend’s country house, one of those nights I find it hard to sleep, my throat feels so dry that I reluctantly decide to unlock the door and go downstairs to drink some water. While on the landing, I hear distant, muffled voices of people whispering and occasionally laughing. A faint light is on in the living room, illuminating two beige couches facing each other and a large dark wood coffee table in between. Sitting on them are Roberta, the angel I dreamed of, the tractor driver, her husband, the waiter I frantically called at the café, and myself. They are all peacefully conversing, and their heads all turn to face me. This will all appear normal and logical; it will all make sense when you remember about it, one day, says the tractor driver. Everyone else nods in approval, including myself. I hope this part will not be written in invisible ink.

I go back to my room and shut the door behind me. All this doesn’t make any sense, but it will one day, I catch myself continuously repeating like a mantra. On the small wooden desk next to the window, I see two sheets of white, blank paper. Maybe I should start writing a nonsense story, I think as I check the clock and see it’s almost midnight. 

A nonsense story that, one day, will help me remember my 100th piece on Substack. 

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