In the Meantime
Frost the window with your breath. That is our everyday, breath on glass, the becoming-opaque of what was once transparent.
First, only one cafe, rather scruffy, but then others appeared - a handful, each more pristine, then a dozen in one small town and cafe life was born in the North. Where did they come from, the cafe regulars? From where did they materialise? That's where I met you. That's where we began to speak one afternoon. We spoke; we sat at the same table and four o'clock became our kingdom, and we met there to see out the afternoon, to celebrate another crossing of the day.
You will never understand, you who have not known yourself stranded and becalmed, you who found employment and success, you whom the day helped to ignore its blankness. You will never understand, you whose sky is not scratched out, whose roads bear your cars and the pavements your three-wheeled prams, you for whom the street is a bridge between one place and another and not the desert you will never be able to pass!
What do you know of the afternoon? What do you know of the day which for you is just rest, a day off from work? And what of that friendship between those who inhabit the day? What of its unsteadiness, between those who share first of all that day? You will not know it, you couples who meet other couples for breakfast in the sun. Then I turn to the other 'you'; I reserve the word 'you' for my daytime friend, the companion the day gives me.
I cross the day; the afternoon is open, the sky is blind, what can I do? I knock on your door, day companion, and sometimes you answer. I knock on your door and sometimes you come to the door. Yes, I knock and I wait and sometimes you open your door and sometimes you step out with me and walk to the meadows. Sometimes we go out, out into the day, along the path and into the meadows, you and I, speaking of the life we do not lead, speaking of life before and after us, but not here, not today.
Your father died; he left you a house - this was your fortune. Your father died, you were left a house - this was your misfortune. Now you will never you need to work. Unemployment benefit, then sickness benefit will see you through the months and years. Why work? Your house was an enclave in the day; you were curled up with your cat and your tabs and your TV. For a time, you had tenants, but then, when they left, you enjoyed the peace of your house, enjoyed the pace of a day which asked nothing. You did not fear it; years passed, it is true, but you never lost faith in a life which had not yet begun. This was your interregnum, your long afternoon; soon you would live again, but now, today, in the meantime ...
Day Companion
You who work will know nothing of this. Only you, day-companion, friend of lost hours, will understand. But where are you now? How could we keep in contact? What of us was left to keep contact? For the day spins you to nothing - we were frayed by empty time until there was nothing of us left. How could we keep in contact? Sometimes I knocked on your door, sometimes you answered, sometimes we stepped out into the kingdom that was ours.
Everyday: kingdom that is ours because nothing is ours, because we have no purchase on the world. Everyday without foothold, unbreakable glass, we see what others look through; we hear what sounds in the air through which sound is supposed to travel. But what is mediated for you is immediate for us; what you cross we cannot cross, do you understand we lack the strength that is so masterfully yours?
Today, but what day is it?, there are two of us, and for a time we gather at four o'clock. Weak joy of companionship! Happiness of weakness shared! At five, the cafe becomes a restaurant, and it is time for us to leave. What right have we to sit among the workers? We leave and part in the night; you go this way and I that; you pass into the crowds and I too disappear. Who were you, friend? What happened in that hour we just passed together?
Fragile friendship. Who turned from the other? True, you rarely visited; you rang me often, it is true, but I would always make the journey to your door. Perhaps the strength which allowed my journeying was that which brought me again to work. I broke through the glass. And you, what happened to you? I stopped knocking at your door; how could I knock at night, when I'd known you only by day? I know you stayed in and smoked, that every evening passed for you that way. I knew, and though I saw the lights, I did not knock.