Xylophones. The morose clattering of ugly marimbas. A perfect fourth, a perfect fifth.
She was at the movies, alone. As was the habit on a Friday night. The scene dipped and dived and in one fluid motion, the audience was fixated. She was fixated. It was almost time for the Academy Awards and the frontrunner was Birdman or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance). What a delightful movie. It came time a crazy man outside a liquor store would recite lines from Macbeth. “It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury Signifying nothing.” She chuckled to herself. How well that soliloquy describes this movie. Yet it will win the most lauded prize in cinema.
Then, marimbas. She shuttered, defenseless. Her reaction, visceral. Did they come from the film or from a Tommy Texter? These were the iPhone chords that woke her up in those days. The perfect fourth would sound. She would wake up, and for a split-second of consciousness, she would forget it ever happened. The next perfect fifth evokes a dream. No, a nightmare. Then it would come back to her; the nightmare is real. She is soaked in sadness like a cheap perfume. Not enough soap in the world to cleanse her. Those perfect fourths and fifths would forever torment her.
It was three and a half years ago. She was an intern at a prestigious-ish bank in New York, New York. None of her adjudicators could shatter that outward façade she painted. To them, she was a carefree 20-something-year-old. Nothing hinted at the lugubrious vile that fomented within her. Yet she became well acquainted with the tiny imperfections of her washroom stall. It was there she would take refuge, secluded from the fake smiles of sycophants.
It would be from that throne of wisdom that she would reflect on the preceding seven months. It begins in Autumn. That is when people fall in love. At least they settle then. Nothing like the impending winter gloom to make one anxious for artificial warmth. And thus the cycle of treachery begins. These cycles persist, like modular arithmetic. If you made it past Spring, it’d probably last another year. Another year of grumbling. By Spring there is hope. Meadows to run through. Orchards to pick from. But hope is a double edged sword. It creates as much pain as pleasure. There is a natural symmetry to the world.
The next section will discuss Spring. Most people are happy when Spring eclipses out Winter. It is a gradual process. A Neolithic revolutionary might have to think about when Spring actually starts. In the U.S. of A. it is obvious. On the second Sunday in March, there is no 2:00am. It jumps right to 3:00am. How arbitrary is that? There could have been easily no 4:00am. What a constructed society we live in. For the following week, the mornings are cold and dark, but the sun lingers in the sky all the way to supper. It is in this protracted dusk that the streets teem with happy people. It seems so unfair that some academic or politician should have the right to control a whole time zone’s disposition.
Four years ago, in the Spring, she saw what would become her favourite musical. It is called Spring Awakening. It was a story of the awakening of intellectuals, or more precisely, the awakening of adolescents. It is an “uncomfortable” musical (don’t invite your parents). It ends on a perfect fourth and perfect fifth too, she thinks to herself, letting out a self-satisfying, self-deprecating laugh. Sometimes, she would look out the window, seeing the happy ones bask in the late-day sun. This is Spring. How they don’t understand what Spring is really about. How could the world be so dumb? They clearly haven’t seen the musical. In the winter you could revel in your own solitude. You could be lonely, sad, even miserable and perfectly content with it. Everyone around you is glum too. But then the world wakes up; you are left behind. I am left behind.
It was Spring four years ago when she took a hard look into her relationship. She decided she was not in love but love is not a victory march. It reminded her of a song she liked. It went “Un peu un peu des deux / Ni bien ni mal, pas grand chose, non pas grand chose / Juste mon homme.” No, it was a song her boyfriend liked because of the music video. He’s was such a girl sometimes, she thought (the proof is trivial and is left for the reader). But he was hers and she liked that.
It didn’t stop her from thinking about some other options. There was that guy from high school that she could never get close to. Or the really artsy-fartsy one she met at a finance conference, of all places. But she actually thought about it logically. Why risk something that is sure and good for something that is potentially but not necessarily a little bit better. One thing she loved about her relationship was his loyalty. That she thought she was sure of. He was devoted. She liked his slight lack of confidence, which she took as proof of his modesty. He was going places and she thought he was a good fit for her own planned trajectory.
They were going to get married. They weren’t going to have any kids. That was obvious. He suggested, on one occasion, that once they had enough money, maybe they will talk about kids. She asked how much, and he said “a kid per couple of million”. He justified it as income redistribution. The best way to distribute income is for wealthier people have more kids, he thought. She didn’t put much thought to it, and decided that they could have this conversation later. She, too, could not stand the idea of putting her life after some kid.
It came as a complete surprise, in June, when once she moved to New York, and he still back home, he said that he would end it. It wasn’t exactly clear why. And it isn’t exactly clear now. Once in a while, he would message her. Once in a while, she would wish him happy birthday. That was the extent of their relationship.
And that is why on that day, in the movie theatre, the film set in New York interrupted by marimbas reminded her of her distraught past. In the immediate aftermath of the separation, she regretted her own indifference. Maybe if she had valued him more, he would have loved her more. She would laugh at the prospect of Karma punishing her for her indifference. She was laughing because, of course, she didn’t believe in Karma. It was at that point in her life that she was the most spiritual. In one conclusive step she understood the world’s fixation with God. In a fury of unresolved feelings, she wished that she could believe in something greater than herself. She defensively laughed at her own thoughts, because she thought her thoughts made her weak. Deep down, she confided in them to give herself something to hold onto.
Her mind was clouded by all the questions she could not answer. Whose fault was it? Could I have done something differently? Should I post a Youtube video about my problems? She thought about the song Adele sang and hated that her life could be summarized by such pedestrian lyrics. When will I find someone like him again? No time soon, she realized. Her heart sank. Her support group disparaged him as though he were a terrible human being. But he would always have a special place in her heart, no matter how much he hurt her. For sadness is just the symmetry of happiness. And pain, that of pleasure.
The first call she made was to her friend. Psy had been dating his girlfriend, who sang a very nice Adele, for about the same amount of time. The four of them had always been too busy to arrange a double date. And they would never again have the opportunity. Well now in the awakening of Spring, Psy had broken up with his girlfriend as well, three years afterward. And she was Psy’s first call. Psy said that he didn’t cry. Then, she realized she was one of the lucky ones. To have felt something.
So she would live on, loving him forever. More than she ever had. After a year or two, she began finding other men. And to her friends’ collective disbelief, she could not find them appealing. The mouths of her friends watered at the sight of these men. But for her, they were knock-offs. These men became richer, funnier and more elegant. None of this could undermine her loyalty to her first.
At the graduation ceremony, she clumsily climbed up the stairs to receive her prize. The room was fixated on her. The thundering applause percolated and echoed in the hallowed hall. She turned around and faced the music. This was the happiest moment in her life. To be honoured in front of her peers, to have their undivided respect and appreciation. But no, it was not the happiest moment in her life. She scanned the audience for the one approval she longed for. He was not there.
Moving forward three months, it is now summer and the boy messages her, asking to meet up. She plays hard-to-get briefly before plunging into her own desires. She starts by replying only after a few hours. But her kiddish vicissitudes urge her to pursue a more fluid conversation. She longed for the old days when they would banter about the oddities of life, the stupidity of others, the ridiculousness of each other’s problems.
Of course, she agrees to meet up, and they do. Seeing him for the first time in four years, she tries to temper her enthusiasm. Well, she had seen him once or twice – a chance run-in, a spotting from afar. But they were awkward elevator moments filled with meaningless platitudes and pointless small talk. You must understand that for two self-proclaimed intellectuals, it is painful to limit yourself to vernacular. Both he and she show restraint, pretend to be ‘cool’, like each does not miss the other. But indeed they do, even if not for romantic reasons. This dinner is different. It is predicated on mutual understanding of each other’s continued mutual involvement.
At first sight, she notices he looks a lot plainer than she had remembered. He looks a lot plainer than she had fantasized. She realizes the men she had been with since were more handsome. Nevertheless, he is beautiful, at least to her. As they stroll side-by-side to the restaurant, they talk about their new lives. He is immensely successful. He is more mature, more responsible. He is more confident. A lot has changed.
But nothing has changed. His flaws, oh, his flaws. All those things she remembered hating about him manifest themselves in that dinner. These are the things that made her question their relationship before. Of course, she forgot these vices ever existed as she idolized him in his absence. Why did I ever like him?
It was only after the dinner she realizes how much she misses him. She misses him for his flaws as much as for his strengths. She realizes that his flaws, she could overlook. And no one else in the world would. And his strengths, she loves more than anyone else. The conversation. It seems so innocuous at first. It is effortless. It is interesting. It is murky. It is simple. She could not talk like that to anyone. His slightly accented voice, his brief pauses to think, his clarity of expression. Such clarity. Sometimes he would ramble on about how much he hated vegans. She loved his strong and often unsubstantiated opinions. Sometimes he would say something ridiculous, but it no longer sounds ridiculous because he said it.
Last time she had tried to lure him into kissing her. He did not. Maybe she tried to prove that she was still desirable. This time, she is more mature. After the dinner ends, they hug and go their separate ways. They go radio silent for a while. Subsequent meetings are characterized by the slight awkwardness of each party (they were each awkward in their individual way), and an unwillingness to sooth each other’s unsettledness. So two perfectly mature adults, acted according to a Nash equilibrium, trapped in the easier corner of the prisoner’s dilemma. Any solitary act would free both. Yet they remained unrealized.
One day, she stumbled across a poem. It was written by Grace Chua when Grace was 19. Four years younger, and Grace seemed to know a lot more about love than she. By the way, she almost persuades herself to go to church as she feels empty since the separation. But she stops herself; it pains her to think of getting lectured by men who have never felt or given love. Instead, she turns to poetry. This is how the story goes. A male goldfish loves a female goldfish and the female goldfish flirts back. But the female goldfish does not actually love the male goldfish back. (the reason, she said she wanted) (and he could not give) a life beyond the (bowl). She remembers reading the poem when she was in high school. She had to write a paper on it. She failed miserably. She just didn’t get it. She gets it now.
Perhaps we’ll discuss (not explain) optimism. A person is born into the world drenched in optimism. He goes through life thinking he can do anything, until he can’t. Optimism is lost, not gained. It’s the symmetrical complement to entropy. Optimism is lost many times, each with diminishing effect. Ice cream has been eaten, beers downed, parents and society blamed, revelations made and life rethought. It’s the root cause of mid-life crises, of low self-esteem, of chronic misery and of god-seeking. She was optimistic about love. No, she was optimistic about life. She was optimistic about humankind. She became a realist.
Such a realization is painful but everyone feels it. But you end up much stronger in the end. This whole tragedy changed her like nothing else. It was through the loss of life that she gained it. It was through the relinquishing of happiness that she found it. Finally, she saw life as what it was. As a series of perpetual defeats, each less severe than the last. And that realization made her happy.