by Fraser Hibbitt for the Carl Kruse Blog
I was sitting at a café when I got to talking with a woman who happened to sit across from me. I had been sitting away from the table, feet out onto the street. She, the same. At first, we sat in silence. The other people drinking coffee and eating. I heard one say: “oh, sorry, I was just checking my e-mail” and the other replied: “well never mind your bloody e-mail”.
In all the talk, there was one thing I still clearly see: “I was born for the truth”, and I got to understand she meant something specific by this. I was slapped with something forgotten. “truth?, who knows about truth?” Her birthright seemed to spite her. What is this truth that makes you worried and encumbered? One that causes a need for… commiseration? I read an anecdote once about one of those classical Greek philosophers who wandered into the academy to find the furrowed brows bickering over an argument, one of their logical frustrations. The philosopher wondered aloud how participating in the truth could make one so miserable and angry. Why are they not, instead, joyous of playing in the profound?
I thought that it made sense that psychologists get paid to listen to people. This person had been listening to people, really listening, and instead of any reward had been led to some kind of truth which seems to be a poor substitute for contentment. What is the truth that makes you burdened? Even on revelation? “What is male sexuality really like?” she asked – what do I know? you want and want and desire and want to feel desired. A psychologist is the only kind of person who, upon hearing that a man wants to sleep with two different women, would say: “now why does he want to do that?”. That line is from a funny book called Zeno’s Conscience. But behold the dangers of Psychology: Why’s and Why’s. And truths unknown to any but the self, truths that are… distasteful?
Or is distaste a necessary rung of the ladder that takes you up? but it seems that this distaste coupled with this truth belies the next rung of the ladder altogether. They say it’s good to listen to other people. People don’t like people who don’t listen, but people also don’t seem to like people who listen too much. Or, they feel they are trying to swallow them up by eating out their innards, and the deep listener doesn’t understand why this is not desireable. Which is different from someone who can’t listen, who only annoys by their airy quality. You could swipe at them, disfigure their whole face and it would re-appear like the Cheshire cat. You can easily be both. There is a reward in listening to people if you know what you are listening to and listening for.
I left her by her bike and walked off into the old city. There were curved wooden benches ringing trees that came up from the cobblestone. Old couples here and there, not saying much between mouths of sandwich. And into the market where stall backs onto stall. Not the ephemeral stalls but built in and the whole grid of stalls roofed. The formed corridors are filled with leaning figures, and sizzling meats puff out travel and blend with scents from neighbouring stalls. Eye up everything and buy nothing. I wasn’t hungry. There had been food where I stayed. Someone sang out in the street and he had a deep bellowing voice and sounded like the folksinger Dave Van Ronk. When I walked by he was giving a two pound coin to a homeless man who was trying to convince him of something I couldn’t hear. He gave him the money from his guitar case that someone had tossed in walking by or after a song. The singer didn’t care much for persuasion and went on with another song.
I walked into a bookshop, and every writer I picked up was now dead. I left, and saw the crenelations of a medieval castle which sits in the city. I didn’t know what to do so I sat down near the place I had met the woman and instead of a coffee bought a beer and watched people go by. Students mostly. A large man, shaved grey hair, came out in sunglasses with a pint, sitting opposite me but on another table. He started to smoke and sat there near motionlessly for longer than I stayed. He half sat facing the table and half faced toward me. An elderly lady passed by with a dog and asked him: “is this the way to the river?”, he looked up a slowly and said “er, I don’t know”, and then corrected himself “ah yeah, yeah”, pointing down the road. The lady walked in the direction with the limp cord of the small dog. I knew where the river was and he was right, it was down there.
I could see where I had sat an hour ago, drinking coffee. A steady stream of people all going by and the silent large man chain smoked. I couldn’t tell if he ever looked at me for the sunglasses. Obviously, there is nothing more frustrating to a knower to hear a suggestion that the things they know just don’t cut the cloth. Isn’t it only a spurious knower who is angered by this? There is a kind of truth that you can do without and be fine. It’s even a strange sign of respect (for who?), although if you think you hold onto it, it is a sure way to be wrong. I just sat there drinking my beer every now and then glancing at him and felt content because I had nothing on my mind and nothing to worry about. I had time before my train.
———-
The Carl Kruse Blog homepage is at https://www.carlkruse.com
Contact: carl AT carlkruse DOT com
The blog’s last article was Of Time and Dreams.
Also find Carl Kruse on Fstoppers and on Carl Kruse Goodreads.