Buffoons

These are the last days, says W. It’s all finished. Everything’s so shit, says W., but we’re happy – why is that? Because we’re puerile, I tell him. Because we’re inane.

A few days in my company, says W., and he feels iller than he’s ever felt. All that drinking, he says. And that eating. How do you do it?

When R., who is generosity itself, let us into his flat, we rushed into his bedroom and lay on his bed. Put on his clothes, I said, or W. did. W. pulls R.’s jeans over his trousers. I pull on R.’s jumper over my jacket. R. tells us off. I take pictures of W. We’re laughing. Why do we do things like this?, says W. What’s wrong with us?

On the train heading North, we read the papers. Our stomachs hurt.

We know what genius is, says W. aphoristically, but we know we’re not geniuses. It’s a gift, he says. We can recognise genius in others, because we don’t have it ourselves. We talk about X. He’s our leader, says W. But we musn’t tell him. We’ve always agreed we need a leader. Someone to inspire us, we agreed five years ago in a square in Wroclaw. Our mistake was to tell our leaders that they were our leaders. That scared them off. 

Why don’t you get rid of that jacket?, says W. You’ve been wearing it for years. It makes you look fat. Look – it’s completely shapeless.

W. is wearing a flowery shirt. Look at us in our flowery shirts, says W. Fat and blousy, and in flowery shirts, and everyone else slim and wearing black. What’s wrong with us? We’re buffoons.

I don’t believe you really like jazz, says W. It’s another of your affectations. Go on then, tell me about jazz, says W. Explain modal jazz to me. He sits back, ready to be amused. I try. W. laughs. That’s not it, he says. It’s an affectation, isn’t it, all this jazz? It’s all affectation with you, isn’t it?

Only one person comes to our paper. We take him to the pub. We make a solemn pact: only when we attract no audience at all will we be able to stop going to conferences.