It's not the Dark Night of the Soul, not a panic attack, nor is it La Nausée. Existential discomfort more like. It happens now and then just after I've got into bed, the moment before my head reaches the pillow.
It's not a series of thoughts, more a rapid shift into a visceral sense of the precariousness, the futility, the risk, and the dread of living. I immediately get out of bed, get dressed, and leave the house by the back door. Practice has demonstrated that a brisk walk can dissipate these states.
It's 4:15 in the morning. I walk along a wide boulevard that leads out of the city, lined with trees and closed shops. I'm heading for an all-night supermarket about a mile up the road. I don't want to buy anything, but the destination provides some notion of purpose in a meaningless universe. If my mental state hasn't improved by the time I get to the supermarket I can continue along the road and out into the countryside.
It's freezing cold and spitting icy rain, I zip up, pull tight and stud the hood of my anorak. Hardly any traffic and no one about. A solitary jam sandwich splashes slowly past me down the middle of the road. Of course, I'm aware of the possibility of being stopped by the scuffers at this hour. I carry no weapons, and I have an explanation ready: toothache, I'm on my way to the supermarket for ibruprofen.
The jam sandwich comes towards me from the other direction. I'm not surprised when it makes a sudden turn and mounts the pavement in front of me. A plain clothed scuffer flings open the door and jumps out. He's holding a big rubber torch, agitated. He strides towards me, the torch ready to batter me over the head. He's a small feller.
Which way yer come from?
Av got toothache.
Put yer hood down.
Just as I'm exposing my head a lemon-curd sandwich pulls up behind me. A uniformed scuffer, an inspector, no less, puts his head out of the door, calls out, Not that one, then screeches off. The little feller lowers his torch and makes off. As he's getting into his car, he turns to me and says,
Do us a favour pal, don't wear your hood up along here.
You fucking what, I answer incredulously, it's freezing cold and pissing it down.
He drives off.
Because this country bristles with spy cameras, and the population is aware of being the most watched people on the planet, cameras following every move we make, the most popular form of dress is the hooded garment. This seems reasonable. There are times when it's convenient not to reveal your identity. The hood is a simple and effective answer to this need. But some people, and these are mostly young people, young men, wear their hoods up all the time. Unwilling to be watched. This inspires suspicion and fear. Hoodies.
So as not to inspire alarm, and as a favour to the police force, I continue up the road bareheaded, the cold rain beating at my face and the chill wind causing acute pain in my ears.
Of course you can answer your own door, sir, that's how we know we live in a democracy. Joe Orton, Loot.
As for the horrors, they faded on the way back from the supermarket.
It's not a series of thoughts, more a rapid shift into a visceral sense of the precariousness, the futility, the risk, and the dread of living. I immediately get out of bed, get dressed, and leave the house by the back door. Practice has demonstrated that a brisk walk can dissipate these states.
It's 4:15 in the morning. I walk along a wide boulevard that leads out of the city, lined with trees and closed shops. I'm heading for an all-night supermarket about a mile up the road. I don't want to buy anything, but the destination provides some notion of purpose in a meaningless universe. If my mental state hasn't improved by the time I get to the supermarket I can continue along the road and out into the countryside.
It's freezing cold and spitting icy rain, I zip up, pull tight and stud the hood of my anorak. Hardly any traffic and no one about. A solitary jam sandwich splashes slowly past me down the middle of the road. Of course, I'm aware of the possibility of being stopped by the scuffers at this hour. I carry no weapons, and I have an explanation ready: toothache, I'm on my way to the supermarket for ibruprofen.
The jam sandwich comes towards me from the other direction. I'm not surprised when it makes a sudden turn and mounts the pavement in front of me. A plain clothed scuffer flings open the door and jumps out. He's holding a big rubber torch, agitated. He strides towards me, the torch ready to batter me over the head. He's a small feller.
Which way yer come from?
Av got toothache.
Put yer hood down.
Just as I'm exposing my head a lemon-curd sandwich pulls up behind me. A uniformed scuffer, an inspector, no less, puts his head out of the door, calls out, Not that one, then screeches off. The little feller lowers his torch and makes off. As he's getting into his car, he turns to me and says,
Do us a favour pal, don't wear your hood up along here.
You fucking what, I answer incredulously, it's freezing cold and pissing it down.
He drives off.
Because this country bristles with spy cameras, and the population is aware of being the most watched people on the planet, cameras following every move we make, the most popular form of dress is the hooded garment. This seems reasonable. There are times when it's convenient not to reveal your identity. The hood is a simple and effective answer to this need. But some people, and these are mostly young people, young men, wear their hoods up all the time. Unwilling to be watched. This inspires suspicion and fear. Hoodies.
So as not to inspire alarm, and as a favour to the police force, I continue up the road bareheaded, the cold rain beating at my face and the chill wind causing acute pain in my ears.
Of course you can answer your own door, sir, that's how we know we live in a democracy. Joe Orton, Loot.
As for the horrors, they faded on the way back from the supermarket.
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