segunda-feira, 11 de setembro de 2006

The Merry Fool. A short story

My most beloved month of May was coming to its end.
I needed some change in my life soon. I felt then as if I were starting to suffocate. My strength to face daily routines was fading away. I arrived at the bloggosphere as a traveller‑through, and I hadn't yet any intention whatsoever of becoming a blogger myself. What for? I didn't even know whether or not I wanted to. It all seemed so confusing to me. Ignorance always plays its tricks.
For a while I jumped from «next blog» to «next blog», hoping to come across one I would really like; something that might catch my attention, doubtlessly interesting. That wasn't likely to happen though, and I was bored to death most of the time.
Meanwhile Football World Championship 2006 had started. I was still adrift. Between matches I would take a look, nothing much, thinking how all that was really weird and useless. So many blogs, so little interest. Yeah, yeah! Till mid June, when I finally came across a gay blog, just by chance. Not one of those you immediately identify as gay, for the very first thing you see, even before you get to read the title, is men having sex. I have absolutely nothing against photo or video blogs, that's for sure, much on the contrary. It just isn't my cup of tea. I'm an eroticist, not a porno seeker. At least, I like to think so.
There were many texts of all kinds: long texts, short poems, fiction stories, daily life stories and notes, other pieces betraying the marriage of genres, a few anodyne pictures, and no blogroll. Lord, what on earth was that all about?
I decided to add that blog to my favourites after reading a few posts. Some were really acid, venomous, merciless, depicting reality through the sharp eye and the sardonic mouth of a guy who struck me first as someone who sought distance from the world. All he seemed to care about was watching it from afar, observing it under his scornful mind's microscope. I do mean this object, for the world seemed to be a tiny, insignificant thing to him. A few anecdotes about his work, some smaller devastating texts on religion and politics, a few comments on sex encounters, and almost no comments on his posts.
Some of them deserved a few words, I thought. It was unfair, as if I had to be charitable in any way I could. He must feel sad, I kept on thinking. He posts practically everyday, and no one cares. And I was feeling sorry for him. Some stories were rather amusing, dynamic, and vivid, with a strong evocative power and a developed sense of the picturesque. A few were doubtlessly pieces of literary artistry. He is talented indeed. An intelligent man, no doubt.
His blog settings, however, wouldn't allow any comments unless you were a blogger yourself. Did I slightly suspect that might be a way to block off the world? No. July's first fortnight was almost over. The call for getting in touch with him was much stronger than all the possible doubts I still had about creating a blog. That appeal had grown and grown. So be it, I said to myself. On July I finally created my blog, and I remember feeling as happy as a child when I went over to his, as if I had embarked some kind of journey across the world, and found out I could easily comment on his posts from that instant on.
That universe of his soon began to weave a web around me. As days went by I was feeling more and more attracted to it. Although I suspected that path was not at all the best one for me to follow, that mysterious personality – quite silent, reserved; keeping to himself everything he wouldn't be willing to show through his writing – soon became the abyss's edge where I would gladly and carelessly go for a walk. Some times you don't even recognize your own death wishes. Or, less dramatically, you just enjoy taking whatever risks you can. It's the appeal of the adventure, I think.
A never‑ending ping‑pong leading nowhere had started. My comments were usually long. He would drop a word. I sincerely believe now I was no doubt being rude. Could I ever guess it? Maybe I could. I wondered though what the use was of having a blog, posting daily, and wishing no comments.
Last step towards coming closer to him: email. The fool finally played his part with perfection, and soon was as merry as could be. Little did he know, the perfect, merry fool… Politeness is not always politeness; it's an evasive, elaborate way not to say no. Or else it's a way of having you around but not too close. Giving with one hand and then taking with the other. Assuming however a yes is a yes, I was only falling into the trap I had set myself, nobody else had. Maybe I got to sense for a short while that yes was not so convincing after all, but then again I just couldn't turn my back on my own wishes like that. So I moved on.
I sent the first email, and the second, and the third, never to receive a single answer, ever. There it was, quite clear for me to understand the message, if I ever stopped, even if only for the shortest instant ever, from acting as an imbecile and really started to put my brain to work. How could I be so mesmerized by such a deep emptiness? What did I really know about that guy after all? Was he even trustworthy? Whenever he spoke about himself, as seldom as could be, was he being honest? Could he be just another scoundrel after all? Why wasn't I thinking as I usually do? Being the rationalist I know I am, all these questions were all the more humiliating.
Though it might hurt – I just knew it would – I decided to put an end to so much nonsense, to such an absurdity. Whenever I got connected to the net, I'd immediately go check his blog first, hoping in vain something might have changed in that desolate scenery. What was I aiming at after all? What was I thinking?
Whether I was falling for him, I've been asking myself that question. I don't think so, no, but I know I was about to. Quite close. Just a step away. Falling in love is in fact so easy. Love is definitely a mental «thing» and, for some people like me, words can easily replace the looks that play a major part in a face‑to‑face encounter, which is not to be confused with love at first sight; the first is chemical, the latter meta‑chemical, or maybe alchemical.
What if he came by now and was reading this story? Oh Lord, that would be the day, I'm sure! He would read it, recognize both himself and his blog, definitely, and wouldn't comment on it. Not a single word. Well, after reading this, maybe he would. Contradicting spirits are not so unpredictable after all; they just act to contradict, that's all.
Some people are just like that: they don't care much about anything but their journey's cruising speed through life. Anything that either comes across them or they come across themselves will always be a hindrance on their way, nothing else. «L'enfer, ce sont les autres», Jean‑Paul Sartre wrote. Yes, hell is definitely the others. Especially if you need them, but you don't want them. «I'll always love him in my bed, I know I will», he wrote, «but never in my life. So I have to keep him busy with me. Physically.»
So let's just let them all fly away, as far away as possible. They're so much happier like that. And without us.
I believe I don't mind either. Not anymore, I think. So what, even if I did.


(Any resemblance between real life characters and those featuring this story is mere and pure coincidence.)

Feel free to comment, okay? After all, this is only a story… (Would you show me all my serious faults and mistakes?... Would you be that kind?...)

18 comentários:

Hanuman1960 disse...

As I was reading it, I thought it was true!

I so wanted to know if you ever heard from him!!

Joel disse...

I think what's dangerous is what we bring to this cyber mental love.

Yes the other can lie, but I think it's hw we make everything nice and good that is false.

The Brian disse...

Very Interesting Ric, touching upon the universal and the specific. To me the best blogs are like conversations, where you can jump in if you like or just read if you prefer. My pet peeve is not to be acknowledged in some way. I find it somewhat rude and maddening.

RIC disse...

Hello, Hanuman!
A story - if you as a writer want people to believe it - should have that goal: to be as true as possible.
To satisfy your curiosity, I can tell you in confidence the narrator never heard from him again...
Thanks for your visit! :-)

RIC disse...

I believe, Joel, you just can't help bringing what you are to this space the very same way as you can't help looking at someone you happen to see and to like. Or being looked at and liked...
As for «making everything nice and good», I honestly don't understand it. I, Ric, may not tell about my troubles and problems here, at least not all. But that doesn't mean I'm hiding the truth about myself: every sentence I write speaks mainly of me. Maybe this has to do with my «professional deformation» of being used to read between the lines...
You tell me, Joel! :-)

Musicologo disse...

I first starting to write a blog after I had fallen in love for a blog I read's not so akward. After a while I get used to my own blog and now I write everyday without caring. Just for my friends. I have my list of blogs I visit everyday, and now and then I add new ones, and other ones simply vanish because people don't write nor comment anymore... and the world keeps going round and round...

RIC disse...

Thank you, Brian, for your nice, kind comment!
About your «pet peeve» I fear I don't share your opinion: rude?! How? In what way? Beats me! And maddening?! A blog is not a book that «ought to» observe the unity principle, I think. It may be a diary. Or not. One way or the other, it always speaks of you first. In your case, I like what it tells me.
Greetings! :-)

RIC disse...

So, Tiago, I guess we all undergo the same - or similar - processes... So much for the originality... (lol!)
Now I'm doing exactly what you described: I'm writing both for myself and for the «Happy Few Club», as I call the group of blogger friends... And I feel very happy about it.
Thank you for your visit and for your insight! :-)

Joel disse...

I never said you were Ric. What I'm saying is we make more of what we read, what we're told. I know, I've been there. I'm not talking about you, I'm just talking about my experience.


Shadow disse...

Li e reli o teu post.
Gostava de ser simpática e ter palavras para comentá-lo. Não as tenho. Perdi-me...perdi-me no 'caminho'...(Vá, chama-me antipática!).

Confiando na tua sagacidade e lembrando Nuno Júdice, escrevo apenas:
Então, recomeço tudo, entre passado e futuro, no campo do presente."

Permite-me um abraço.


RIC disse...

No sorries, Joel! Now I've understood what you mean, and I agree with you. Absolutely!
(You've got email!) :-)

RIC disse...

Com essa quase me matavas...
(O post é um bocado cinzento, é verdade. Eu não quis escrever sobre o 11/9, porque poderiam sair-me coisas pouco reflectidas e não gosto de chocar nem de tratar mal ninguém. Como este «mais ou menos conto» estava pronto, avancei. Talvez o rescreva em Português...)
Nuno Júdice?! Bela escolha! Conheço-o pessoalmente há muitos anos: foi meu professor!
(Por esta não esperavas tu, Carla, vá lá, confessa!) (lol!)
A poesia dele é «da pesada» e dá-me muito gozo porque exige muita concentração.
Quanto a teres-te perdido no caminho, estás a ser simpática, porque só há um: o da muita burrice do narrador...
Um abraço para ti também... Carla!

Paulo Sempre disse...

Nessun maggior dolore Che ricordasi del tempo felice nella miseria....(não há maior dor do que recordar na miséria o tempo feliz) (Dante, Divina Comédia, inferno, V.121 a 123).

O mundo é realmente perigoso.....e agora, após o 11/09/2001..., ainda mais perigoso será...fica a dor maior dos familiares das 3000 vitimas e uma dor universal que recordamos todos os dias e sempre. temos que ir paulatim ded bona (devagar mas com segurança)

RIC disse...

É sempre um prazer ver-te regressar, Paulo, e hoje especialmente, porque numa das melhores companhias: Dante Alighieri.
Só se chora o que já não se tem, e é da ordem natural das coisas humanas que assim seja: um pai ou uma mãe, um filho, uma vida que já foi melhor, uma existência com saúde, uma amizade, um amor... Contra as contingências nada podemos.
Quanto ao 11 de Setembro, interessa-me e importa-me honrar a memória das vítimas. Neste momento, apenas isto. O mais que dissesse seria de cariz político, e isso não cabe num momento de recolhimento. Talvez volte ao assunto noutro contexto.
«Paulatim sed firmiter» é a que eu conhecia. Obrigado por mais uma. E traz mais Italiano – este blog é intencionalmente babilónico, como já reparaste, o que tem tudo a ver comigo – sem te preocupares com traduções: «sono a casa anch'io»...
Um abração! :-)

Hera disse...

Verdade ou n~]ao, o fato é que a história está excelente. Impossível para de ler! Aliás, nem vou ler o outro post porque são duas da manhã e perciso dormir! Muito bom MESMO! Parabéns cara! E beijos

RIC disse...

Obrigadíssimo, Hera!
Acho bem que vás dormir. Volta quando puderes, lê à vontade e escreve o que te apetecer!
«Mi casa es tu casa, lo sabes ya!»
Um beijo!

The Brian disse...

Ric, I think I enjoy blogs that are more interactive. To turn the comments off sort of mutes the power of a blog. It's my thing I know. : )

RIC disse...

I agree with you entirely, Brian. I've been in the boggosphere for two months now, and I believe I've come across 2 or 3 cases like the story's one. I like very much to post, but I like better to comment and to be commented, no doubt about it.
Thanks for reading the story! :-)