‘All habits are tinged with sadness, / for being habits.’ Paul Theroux
During pre-dawn silence, no longer part of noisy families, greeting another day released from night’s hobgoblin dreams, he reads mostly depressing news with derivative sub-headings. He tackles delivered newspapers in the same sequence after removing glossy feature sections like a rich man ignoring a beggar – Epicure, Money – that sometimes slither unwanted to his floor. Ritually, he begins with the front pages’ clamour, then sports from the back, saving word puzzles he completes nonchalantly until last. Serious reading, a cello’s sumptuous notes enhancing his mood sometimes, comes later in the day.
His coffee brewed in a pot the same as he sees in favourite movies, those with brave direction and storylines, he sips from the same mug, its handle missing, stirred the same number of times, rattling lightweight pages, some filled with ads. Loathing advertising since youth, its chief crimes banal repetition and boneheaded appeal, this irony is not lost on him. He could catch radio news afoot to counter chores’ tedium, or when driving, ditto with his phone attending to life’s quiet desperation, yet he reads newsprint days into weeks, months and years uncaring what narrow minds think, of him or anything else.
Wide reading spurs recollection. He lowers a paper or book to his lap reminded of old haunts he falls into again, street by street, fizzing along vaporous memory’s fraught trails where the splendour of scenes like cherry blossom didn’t even exist in the imagination. Only church bells chiming on Sunday mornings offered an approximation of beauty. He hears their idiom, tawdry yet sweet, redundant now, so elegiac, and relatives’ voices, sees his classrooms’ faces. Some names hover just beyond reach, as do smells he wants to breathe once more. Feeling like a character in one of his books he time travels over and again. Those harsh precincts remain fertile for him but they are all changed of course, gentrified now.
He collects what amounts to a muse carnival. Although being overcrowded with gewgaws instead of people, he can’t resist op shops and market stalls, their ridiculous bargains. One favourite site, within a fenced off rubbish tip, is on an island where pre-loved items left by locals and holidaymakers are displayed in a tin shed by volunteers. To the sound of seagulls’ cries you can leave your own unwanteds and/or help yourself to others’. Hats, clothes, board games, wetsuits, a beautiful statuette suffering a broken ankle, Mozart on vinyl, curios and chronicles, even damaged stained glass imbued with classical hues, from the gimcrack to the magical, are free.
Convincing himself he is not addicted, just obsessive, he moves his treasured trash around, but not much. Glancing in certain dusty directions he sees its artful reflection in mirrors. He has found an oil painting, its canvas lumpy, possibly a pentimento, and a watercolour, both by unknowns, and famous books written long ago that he should, and probably won’t, read again. Other relics from cobwebbed lofts and musty chests of drawers remain, as he does, freighted with keeping everything unchanged living alone on the plains of sorrow. Like the band playing on the doomed Titanic this trove comforts, so too, his coffee and memory accompanied newspapers that contend with his awareness of incomprehension’s replication, a kind of hideous virus.
Ian C Smith’s work has been published in BBC Radio 4 Sounds, Cable Street, The Dalhousie Review, Griffith Review, Honest Ulsterman, Offcourse, Stand, & Westerly. His seventh book is wonder sadness madness joy, Ginninderra (Port Adelaide). He writes in the Gippsland Lakes area of Victoria, and on Flinders Island.
You can find more of Ian’s work here on Ink Pantry.