My therapist asks, in her thick, Polish accent: ‘So, vell, after all the literature I emailed you, chow do you define a chealthy relationship?’
'We have so many relationships in life, don’t we? The ones with our friends are different from those with our family, and then the romantic ones, well that’s in a category of their own, isn’t that so? Can we talk about, for example, my relationship with writing?’
‘Ehm, no. I fink you know the type of relationship we are discussing.’
And well, I was forced to answer this. I started by giving an answer she was happy with, lots to do with independence, self-actualization on both parts, a positively interacting symbiosis that neglects the cardinal sin: the act of reliance, reliance for happiness, reliance for security, reliance for sense of self. I said all this gib-gab, somewhat platitudinous, stereotypical, individualistic dribble that’s so typical of contemporary therapeutic chatter. And after saying it, made clear that none of this is something, ideally, I actually believe in… that I still believe in the desire to truly connect, to sincerely find the world in one other person, and for them to do it in return. I brought up a Dostoevsky quote I like, recited by Arkady’s father Versilov in The Adolescent, which likens the deforestation of Russia to a stark lack of interpersonal love in the world. Versilov calmly speaks of the sheer loneliness and isolating nature of existence, before coming up with an old-school yet simple solution, which is for everyone to focus primarily on one thing above all else: the act of making another person happy and satisfied over time. It’s akin, Versilov says, to someone doing their part in resoiling and reforesting a vegetationally barren country, the most vital contribution one can offer to society. This one other person, they’re your responsibility and you’re theirs. It’s as simple as that. So do your part. Like voting. And so I mentioned all this, the discipline it would entail yet the happiness it could eventually bring.
‘Yes.’ She responded. ‘I suppose zis true. Realistic, though?’
‘Hm… with the right person, in the right time, and place, and effort?’
‘Good to be idealist. It keep someone going. Vill not contradict. No. This good, make sense. And down the line, can you do this?’
We live a whole bloody lifetime through the course of our twenties, don’t we? There’s being born, something called identity. This seems to begin, nascent, nowhere near fruition, a little before or after the twenty-year mark. Then, shortly after, maybe around twenty-two, there’s the constant questioning of this very budding development called adult persona. And by corollary, there comes the mid-twenties rebellion, different from the teen-rebellion and mid life crisis. In our twenties, we rebel against the many authorities within ourselves. We look deeply into our guts, our hearts and souls, gaze at what’s growing, what’s flourishing, and say: Fuck you… I can do whatever I’d like with you, I’m young and beautiful, incandescently energetic, I have the power here, and I’ll crush whatever’s happening. And of course, this is a mere illusion. What’s growing in our depths cannot be stopped nor bargained with, we will become who we become whether we like it or not, and the only part able to be controlled is the management of the brute within. Yes, in the mid-twenties, and maybe even later, there’s another epiphany—I am who I am, and shit.
Of course, this is a vague and broad overview. Countless many little things happen throughout our third decade, usually concerning love, sex, friendships, work, family, alcohol, drugs, improprieties, prejudiced intellect, and the dealing with and acceptance of the endless bureaucracy (taxes, form-filling, amazon returns) taking up so much of everybody’s lives. In our 20s, all these encounters, variables, and themes swing us back and forth through periods of endless oscillation. It all becomes so big, so important, even cosmic, hyper-existential... and now, as I’m reaching the end of this very defining, turbulent decade, a little under one year to go, something called ‘comfortability with self’ appears on the horizon, which is scary, scary because this might be boring, uninspiring, anemically humdrum. But then again, I’m so exhausted from all the ups and downs of the last decade that I wouldn’t mind if the next years involve basking in a comfortability that lies in my mind alone. If that’s an option, I’ll take it.
There would have been another way to write this vague, meandering entry today… some Robert Louis Stevenson bullshit, ‘at birth the flower sprouted through the earth…’ blah blah blah. Writing through my twenties, (with much time spent not writing but wanting to), another confidence in my work begins to emerge: I’m this, not that. Not to say I’ll write and become impenetrable, I’ll always keep the reader in mind to some degree, but it feels good to know I’m not and never want to be Robert fucking Louis Stevenson. There's a way I like to write, a style that gives way to substance which defines how I go about things. I have gotten more from my twenties than that, though.
Death. That's mainly what I’ve gotten. My father’s very sick and has been for a while, those who know me well know all about this depressing facet of my life, and it’s become an unfortunate aspect of how others perceive me, ‘oh yes, Gordon, his father’s very ill, it’s been fucking with him horrifically. I wonder when he'll come to terms with it, how long it'll take for him to, if ever, come through this new hell he's got to contend with.’ And this is part of what’s made me think about death, and grief, on an almost hourly basis, but it's not the only thing. There are also all the constant itty-bitty deaths that occur in this first decade of adulthood: the romances and the obsessions, the phases and the fads, the doomed-relationships and the abandoned projects. Many things that at one point looked bright have but faded and gone. Coming to terms with these little deaths, these regular fade to blacks... this is something I've chosen to label and term the word structure. Structure is death, the things that end, the past that defines.
I’m going to do something obscene now that I’ve never done before, but screw you for judging, I’m going to do it anyway (I am almost thirty, after all). This obscene something is called quoting myself, from when I was twenty-six, a period I now view as a time when I was beginning to wrap my head around death, Dr. Doom, the end of all ends.
‘In Leviathan, Hobbes says that protection is the justification for leaving the perpetual state of war and nature. No matter the progression in politics, art and science, it is painfully clear that our protection is yet to be found. Structure and authority are therefore necessary illusions. Death is the main authority that governs the structure of life; an end is necessary.’
I didn’t really know what I was talking about when I wrote that down. It just felt apt, especially given the context of the short sci-fi I was writing about a new generic pill that would allow people to live without expiration. But now I reread it and think, well, that’s about it. There's something there I must have understood without fully grasping what it was… a realization of sorts: There's no protection from nature, no matter how hard we've tried to come up with one. There is, too, no real permanent protection from the animosity of fellow humans who refuse to evolve or grow (war, politics). There’s no way out, no savior nor shield. At the end of the day, the inevitability of perishing is beautiful. It is the structure, the beginning and end of the paragraph, chapter, novel. Almost thirty… ten months to go… and I know every day is so unique, so smile-worthy, not worth losing out on. I'm going to die one day. So will you. Every second that passes is a second closer to it. That’s the best thing I could have learned from this decade. I think I’ve done it right.
Having a dog, Alfie, whom I adopted at twenty-one, whose life span only ranges from eleven to thirteen years, has certainly helped. I've seen this boy grow, and change, and stay the same, eat, and shit, and rely, sometimes hysterically, endlessly, on others for love, and for happiness. He relies, and relies, and relies, which is, in turn, the act of having faith. And of course, in the end, he gets. With his brutally sad eyes and droopily fluffed ears, he gets, and gets, and gets. There’s always, at least one person, at any given time, thinking about him and his well-being. And in that space, Alfie exists. He’s done a number on me, I'll tell you that.