The Mundanity of Midday on a Tuesday
(belle)
Isabelle was in a dingy café in the East End, but her mind was somewhere else entirely. She had never been able to dwell on the orders for long, which was probably why she was still working there for a pittance instead of in one of the City’s more upmarket and illustrious places. But Isabelle had never been one who needed her surroundings to inspire her. She gleaned her joy from the stories in her mind, where she would write songs about the mundanity of her current situation. Except Isabelle didn’t know how to write songs. So she made up a story instead, where she was a musician and a lyricist, and when she showed the world her music they were impressed and aghast, looking upon her with newfound respect. They were good songs, filled with promise and possibility outwith the trappings of what and where she was. She wished they could exist.
Isabelle is going to leave here someday to become someone else and something better. She hasn’t figured out the details of this plan yet, but then, she supposes, it doesn’t really matter right now. But then as she as she thinks this, she remembers a story she once heard about a boy who couldn’t see the detail. “God is in the detail,” it said, “and Sebastian could not see the detail”. He tried busking to earn money for glasses, but his music was maudlin and the Thursdays he stood at Hillhead Station were filled with grateful anticipation of the weekend ahead. The people passed by unaware of his existence, she remembered, and he never did afford glasses. Unable to see the detail, he had never known the love of God. Isabelle had never been able to dismiss such stories the way other people could. She was melancholy, and realised she would have to consider the details.
But for now, the forefront of her mind was simply occupied with the promise of being something. Being something was what carried her through the emptiness of being a nothing waitress in some seldom frequented café. The prospect of something else was what provided her with the right tone to enquire the orders of her lewd and lascivious customers. On those days when the air was filled with promise, and she herself filled with the self-important knowledge that she was indeed special, she could swan around like a 50s starlet, rising above the mundanity of midday on a Tuesday. Sometimes she pretended to be the star of some indie rock video, revelling in her dingy surroundings and practising her tortured expressions. At such times she considered herself quite magnificent, but the owner favoured top 40 stations whose incessant chatter was never conducive to inspiration. When the air was filled with such inanities, there was little to do but retreat to her mind, where she happened to be some redhot writer kid, slaving here only to afford the rent in the small room where she smoked endless cigarettes and punched out wild pages of crazed inspiration on some battered typewriter. Isabelle often thinks that if she bought a typewriter it would have to either be old, or else she would have to bash it around a bit till it resonated with the age and experience that feeds words to the writer’s fingers. Of course, Isabelle could never afford a typewriter on her salary, not even a broken one. Her words and inspirations are lost as soon as they leave her mind into the cool autumn air, the world lacking the energy and inclination to preserve them.
Isabelle is going to go to college some day, get the Highers she missed at school. She didn’t listen first time around, her mind too full of childish ideals. Her mind is still full of childish ideals, but now she also wants to make something of herself, and what better way to do so? But not yet. She couldn’t afford it, and besides, what would she study? But she knows she will someday. She knows because she belongs among the hipster students who come in the café late at night and, among the greasy floors, Formica topped tables and endless cups of coffee, talk Sartre and Proust and Kerouac. Isabelle does not know exactly what these words mean, but she can tell from the way they feel on her tongue that they are words of learning and opportunity. She always offers the hipsters free refills and shy smiles, but they are too wrapped up discussing their own crazed affairs to notice the downtrodden waitress. Isabelle does not mind. In fact, she considers, she would not really know what to say if they spoke to her anyway. They are the children of culture and academics, the bastard offspring of genius. She is the child of a bus driver and a housewife. Ideologically, she is as close to them as you could get. But she is also an inarticulate waitress, and persuading them of this would be too hard. Besides, what would she do if they did reject her? The very thought ripped to shreds her gossamer dreams, and she forcefully returned her imagination to its rightful considerations.
She knows she is not the same as the other people who complain about their jobs and talk of quitting for better things. Their better things are dreams of a better job or a better wage, whereas her better dreams consist of better things in all their entirety. She resents the fact she had to work weekends and the way this throws her working week into disarray. She longs to be able to look forward to the weekend. Sometimes, she also longs to say she is a slave to the working week. If she had to be the child of botched capitalism, it would be nice at least to be able to complain.
In reality, she is not a slave to the working week, nor indeed the working weekend. Her job holds no ties for her beyond its mere existence and the strange power that habit exerts. Isabelle is a slave to the workings of her mind, she thinks. It keeps her awake at night with its incessant chatter of the things she is going to do. As well as a hipster, her mind tells her, she will be a writer, an artist, a philosopher and a poet. She will also live forever, although the practical side of her mind sometimes says she should know better. She tries not to listen much to that voice though. It is always telling her she cannot do the things she wants, be the people she wants to be. It tells her she is a fool. Of course she knows about the inevitability of death and that eternity is a long time. But on the other hand, she feels far too alive at present to consider it could ever be any other way.
Sometimes, although she never allows herself to admit it for long, she feels her imagination beginning to slip. On occasion, she will find herself run out of rock video fodder and hip sashays and the details will spiral away from her (sometimes even taking God’s love with them). When she is deserted like this, she feels naked and vulnerable without the security of her happiness to protect her from the world. She is aware of her strangeness, and hopes that they will not pick up on it. But these feelings never last for long. The hipsters will always return, filling the air with the heat of their own feverous excitement, brightening even the most hopeless and dreamless day. And once again her imagination will grab the baton, laugh loudly, and tear magnificently through the East End of the City.
Isabelle was in a dingy café in the East End, but her mind was somewhere else entirely. She had never been able to dwell on the orders for long, which was probably why she was still working there for a pittance instead of in one of the City’s more upmarket and illustrious places. But Isabelle had never been one who needed her surroundings to inspire her. She gleaned her joy from the stories in her mind, where she would write songs about the mundanity of her current situation. Except Isabelle didn’t know how to write songs. So she made up a story instead, where she was a musician and a lyricist, and when she showed the world her music they were impressed and aghast, looking upon her with newfound respect. They were good songs, filled with promise and possibility outwith the trappings of what and where she was. She wished they could exist.
Isabelle is going to leave here someday to become someone else and something better. She hasn’t figured out the details of this plan yet, but then, she supposes, it doesn’t really matter right now. But then as she as she thinks this, she remembers a story she once heard about a boy who couldn’t see the detail. “God is in the detail,” it said, “and Sebastian could not see the detail”. He tried busking to earn money for glasses, but his music was maudlin and the Thursdays he stood at Hillhead Station were filled with grateful anticipation of the weekend ahead. The people passed by unaware of his existence, she remembered, and he never did afford glasses. Unable to see the detail, he had never known the love of God. Isabelle had never been able to dismiss such stories the way other people could. She was melancholy, and realised she would have to consider the details.
But for now, the forefront of her mind was simply occupied with the promise of being something. Being something was what carried her through the emptiness of being a nothing waitress in some seldom frequented café. The prospect of something else was what provided her with the right tone to enquire the orders of her lewd and lascivious customers. On those days when the air was filled with promise, and she herself filled with the self-important knowledge that she was indeed special, she could swan around like a 50s starlet, rising above the mundanity of midday on a Tuesday. Sometimes she pretended to be the star of some indie rock video, revelling in her dingy surroundings and practising her tortured expressions. At such times she considered herself quite magnificent, but the owner favoured top 40 stations whose incessant chatter was never conducive to inspiration. When the air was filled with such inanities, there was little to do but retreat to her mind, where she happened to be some redhot writer kid, slaving here only to afford the rent in the small room where she smoked endless cigarettes and punched out wild pages of crazed inspiration on some battered typewriter. Isabelle often thinks that if she bought a typewriter it would have to either be old, or else she would have to bash it around a bit till it resonated with the age and experience that feeds words to the writer’s fingers. Of course, Isabelle could never afford a typewriter on her salary, not even a broken one. Her words and inspirations are lost as soon as they leave her mind into the cool autumn air, the world lacking the energy and inclination to preserve them.
Isabelle is going to go to college some day, get the Highers she missed at school. She didn’t listen first time around, her mind too full of childish ideals. Her mind is still full of childish ideals, but now she also wants to make something of herself, and what better way to do so? But not yet. She couldn’t afford it, and besides, what would she study? But she knows she will someday. She knows because she belongs among the hipster students who come in the café late at night and, among the greasy floors, Formica topped tables and endless cups of coffee, talk Sartre and Proust and Kerouac. Isabelle does not know exactly what these words mean, but she can tell from the way they feel on her tongue that they are words of learning and opportunity. She always offers the hipsters free refills and shy smiles, but they are too wrapped up discussing their own crazed affairs to notice the downtrodden waitress. Isabelle does not mind. In fact, she considers, she would not really know what to say if they spoke to her anyway. They are the children of culture and academics, the bastard offspring of genius. She is the child of a bus driver and a housewife. Ideologically, she is as close to them as you could get. But she is also an inarticulate waitress, and persuading them of this would be too hard. Besides, what would she do if they did reject her? The very thought ripped to shreds her gossamer dreams, and she forcefully returned her imagination to its rightful considerations.
She knows she is not the same as the other people who complain about their jobs and talk of quitting for better things. Their better things are dreams of a better job or a better wage, whereas her better dreams consist of better things in all their entirety. She resents the fact she had to work weekends and the way this throws her working week into disarray. She longs to be able to look forward to the weekend. Sometimes, she also longs to say she is a slave to the working week. If she had to be the child of botched capitalism, it would be nice at least to be able to complain.
In reality, she is not a slave to the working week, nor indeed the working weekend. Her job holds no ties for her beyond its mere existence and the strange power that habit exerts. Isabelle is a slave to the workings of her mind, she thinks. It keeps her awake at night with its incessant chatter of the things she is going to do. As well as a hipster, her mind tells her, she will be a writer, an artist, a philosopher and a poet. She will also live forever, although the practical side of her mind sometimes says she should know better. She tries not to listen much to that voice though. It is always telling her she cannot do the things she wants, be the people she wants to be. It tells her she is a fool. Of course she knows about the inevitability of death and that eternity is a long time. But on the other hand, she feels far too alive at present to consider it could ever be any other way.
Sometimes, although she never allows herself to admit it for long, she feels her imagination beginning to slip. On occasion, she will find herself run out of rock video fodder and hip sashays and the details will spiral away from her (sometimes even taking God’s love with them). When she is deserted like this, she feels naked and vulnerable without the security of her happiness to protect her from the world. She is aware of her strangeness, and hopes that they will not pick up on it. But these feelings never last for long. The hipsters will always return, filling the air with the heat of their own feverous excitement, brightening even the most hopeless and dreamless day. And once again her imagination will grab the baton, laugh loudly, and tear magnificently through the East End of the City.
posted by Jane at 9:19 pm
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