Man Of Few Words

Chapter 44

I couldn't sleep last night. I felt like writing, but I didn't want to go through the fuss of squeezing myself into this cluttered, wooden study and booting up this dusty old PC. Then I had a brainwave. I skulked down to the living room, stretched myself out on the settee, and recorded myself talking on my phone.

What follows is a transcript...

I'm not sleepy. The time is 3:20. I don't want to write because I don't want to look at a screen. So I'm gonna talk. Transcribe this later. Think I prefer writing. There's a digital clock right in front of me. Gonna move so that I can't see it, I hope.

Right... kinda chilly in here. But that's good. It's supposed to help you sleep. I'm in the living room. It's dark except for a little light on the TV, and at least two lights on... I dunno... boxes for internet. Router and modem, I guess they are. Got the windows slightly open so I can... I can't really feel a draft, but I can feel the cold from that direction.

I can hear... I guess it's a jet plane I can hear, but it must be quite a long way away. Has been quite a lot of thunder here the last few days, but that's not thunder. Can't really hear it now. Hm, maybe.

Just when you think you might be getting a routine... Just when you think it might be doing you some good, it just goes, "Nope, actually not... not tonight." And that night is fucked up, and the routine is fucked up. I don't know how big a step back it is every time it happens... but... significantly big, I guess.

This is a great way to write a book. The rest of it's just gonna be like this. Just transcripts of a dying man mumbling to himself at night, revealing nothing, telling no kind of story. Just giving you an authentic window into his life and his soul and his personality and his mind. A view of really very little.

Too comfortable for too long. And so, nothing really to say. That's the one real pain in his life. But... well... there's other real pain, but that's... I guess that's the big one. Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe comfort is more important. Maybe the whole thing is just a pretence. Maybe he... I mean... he's dying of cancer, and he's not gonna see forty. But... he still feels a strange kind of envy towards people with things to say; people with stories to tell. Real people.

Perhaps it's because they can... they're more in touch with themselves. He's so out of touch with himself that he's not able to talk about himself in the first person. He can't even do it without laughing to himself. He has to... it's not that he has to; he is detached, so it feels natural to him to talk about himself in the third person.

And he laughs.

And then he thinks, "Is that revealing something?"

He notices his phone...

My phone just went dim. I don't know whether it's still recording me. I think it is. There's a blue light flashing on it. That's a good sign. Ah yeah, it's still going. Ah, that's bright.

Trying not to look at the screen. That won't help with sleep.

So this talking to the phone thing is working out a bit like when he's writing. He's laughing because... this talking about himself in the third person makes him seem like a fictional character.

But yeah, what I was saying was... can't remember. Err... scratches self. Um...

Yeah, when I looked at the screen, I saw I've done just over ten minutes. The same set of thoughts came to my mind as when I'm writing. My eye is always straying to the word count: "That enough yet? Have I done enough of something worthwhile today? Can I go back to the couch now? Can I have a wank now? Can I take a shit now? Can I eat something now? Can I make a half-hearted attempt at something else that's worthwhile now?" Half clean up. Throw something away. Just think about it. Not do it, whatever it is.

Now I'm actually wondering how many words ten minutes is. In two kinda ways like, "Oh, how much of a pain in the arse is this going to be to transcribe?" But the other way is just calculating the value for time and effort of it. It can't be better value for time and effort than... definitely not better value for time than actually writing. But at this stage it's not much effort.

Maybe, in terms of just getting stuff out... getting content... this might be better value.

My tummy making a noise. Maybe I should eat something. I know you're not supposed to eat too much before trying to sleep. Or too little. I don't know whether that tummy noise was busy tummy or empty tummy. Might have myself a Roly Roll and some jam. I haven't branded a jam, probably. I don't care to remember and I'm clearly not using my imagination now. When I say now, do I mean "at this moment", or do I mean "any more"? Perhaps my imagination died first.

Come on... not even sure if we're halfway through this thing.

Do I need an imagination to write a book like this? After all, I'm not a fictional character. I guess so. At least inspiration, which is a similar thing. I think I also use my imagination to craft it, even if it's crafted from real things, not imaginary things.

Getting quite tempted to do the rest of the book like this. There may even come a point... well, I guess it's actually inevitable now I think of it... that I do it like this, somebody else transcribes it for me. Last page, or maybe the last chapter, the last sentence... the last gasp of breath. Someone's gotta transcribe that after I'm dead.

I'm gonna say someone's gonna edit it, at a publisher. Because I might as well assume that's gonna happen. Erm... 'cause if it doesn't happen, very few people are gonna be reading this anyway. So let's assume. But the question is, who's gonna do the... who's gonna transcribe the last parts?

Maybe I could get Dad to do it on his typewriter.

To be honest, I don't want it to be a family member. I don't wanna say that I want it to be Tuulikki, because that was a long time ago. I'm sure she's moved on now. Probably married. Probably has kids. Probably has a guy who values her in ways that align with how she values herself.

I need a new Tuulikki, but I'm not... I'm certainly not in a position to get one now. But then I was never in a position to get one. I was... was... I mean I... I got a Tuulikki of course. I got to lick Tuulikki. Ha ha ha. That was a fake laugh.

I never had someone who would be the one to transcribe... my last words.

I never let Tuulikki be that. I was never... I have never been a person that would let anyone do that... that I can remember.

Hm. Am I... am I...that person now?

The idea of going on a date. The idea of dating... now... has come to my mind. If nothing else... make the fucking book more interesting. Give me something to do. Seems like kind of a dick move though, even if I'm up front about how sick I am. That's gonna narrow it down. perhaps to zero. But let's say it doesn't. What kind of woman would do that? Only one way to find out!

What kind of woman would do that? Do I wanna spend time with that woman?

Maybe there i... maybe... it's obvious! Other terminally ill people. Yeah... TerminalSingles.com.

Hm! Isn't this... isn't this something that happens in Fight Club? He gets addicted to going to support groups and one of them is terminally ill people. And what's-her-name is doing the same thing. And they end up fucking! I don't really wanna fuck anyone... but...

Needs to be someone who's not quite as terminally ill as me. Or maybe... maybe it would be fair... I was gonna say it would be fair to... really be someone who's, well, about as terminally ill as me, and then we can... I mean, whoever goes first... the other one writes about them. But then, if we're both really ill at the same time, we won't be able to.

Someone who's just been diagnosed... maybe someone who may even not be terminal. That'd be pretty fucked up. Interesting.

I think it's time to go back to bed. Tomorrow, I'll transcribe it.

Maybe even a date.

Well, it's not totally dreadful. I mean, I don't know, whatever... I've got a book to fill up before I die. Before I die quite soon. So I might as well keep it in. I won't exactly be spinning in my grave if someone takes it out at a later date though. Please, imaginary editor, be my guest.