The Lecture Last Night
By Ali Alizadeh
after Howard Dossor
i
Life is a travesty. I've endured
even worse. Used to be
a time when cognisance
had the better of me. When I believed
in the aura of authenticity
(if I hadn't had too much to drink.) Now
I'm a cog. Meetings and salary
, a healthy diet, recycling bins. Subjectivity
, frankly academic. I even laugh
at my boss's jokes. Used to be
the kid who renounced conformity
, no hope for love or popularity. Now
I'm a participant. Debates and discussions
, clean socks and gas heating. Essence
was certainly secondary to substance
abuse. Don't get me wrong; I despised
being. Truly. It wasn't purpose
I lacked. (I have it now & don't like it.) What
I missed was the vision (or wisdom?)
to perceive the voids of hedonism
; now that the spade is called a spade
all too often ... I'm speechless. Contrivance
of the Symbolic surrounds me. Can't I curse
God again even if he doesn't exist
without a bad science? Can't one shoot
an oblivious Arab on the beach, for old
time's sake? I even compliment my aunt
on her cooking. I perve, obediently, on women
in online advertisements. The normative
has consumed me. I've become a human.
ii
On the way to the lecture
I noticed the footpath widened
to accommodate two-way traffic
of effervescent teenage shoppers
in what was only six years ago
a spooky, rundown suburb. How
self-deception dissolves all
in its path of necessity. On the way
to the lecture on 'Existential Love'
one week night, waiting for the tram
I overheard a soft-spoken man
give directions for an authentic Thai
restaurant on his Blackberry; later
on the tram a mentally ill tramp
grumbled to himself about the bitch
who took his sandwich-maker. Is the jury
still out on religion or do we see it
as the license for a will to power? I see
people being what they want to be. Free
-dom, style, choice abound. On the way
to the monthly lecture of Melbourne's
Existentialist Society, I'm the autonomous
agent who chooses the singular, special
deal - half-priced donut with a coffee -
at the 7-11 opposite where I get off
the tram. An absurd dinner, indeed. I spill
jam on my jacket (I always do)
on the way to the church building
where the secretary of the Atheist Society
chairs tonight's lecture. Irony
isn't a mark of a true being. (or
is it?) Illusions, illusions. The lecture begins.
iii
But how do I account for this
love? So much oppression
I've seen and felt, can't undo the notion
of my/your integrity. If I can't sense you
at the level of vitality, won't we touch
as mere, sacred bodies? So much simulation
I've lived with, can't refute the passion
for the Real, shattering originality. Where
do I trace the tangible locus
of this love? So much consternation
I've been offered, can't oust sensation
of attachment, however transient. And why
do I need this love? So much sedation
by the opiates of religion, facts, information
can't turn me off Truth entirely. Love
has brought me into Being. Sexual, ineffable.
iv
After the lecture, I'm hungry
and have an overpriced felafel. Angry drunks
outside Smith Street Woolworths, gone
, supplanted by suave African tourists. Windows
of shops proclaim the glory of saving
money on wine glasses, hand-knitted scarves. I tend
to agree with Adorno apropos the jargon
of authenticity. Capitalism has made a killing
from our existential obsessions. I'm
an unnamed soldier. I march (with dread)
towards Monday morning, office computer
and ripples of status anxiety in the eyes
of battle-hardened colleagues. The tram
slithers past my old Northcote joint, a warren
actually. There I survived on alcohol
, dope, fantasy until love's insubstantiality
lured me to her proximity. Am I sufficiently
committed to my innateness? When
I get off the tram, darkness of the street
doesn't obscure the path to the small flat
where loved ones sleep. It was interesting
, the lecture last night, I'll tell her in the morning
before roaring, chasing Marco as a Velociraptor
and at work I'll maintain a sort of smile. I'll sense
the point of existence, the price of Being.