Have you ever felt purposeless? Most people do at some point in life (e.g. teenage years, teenage wandering, mid-life crisis), and as a rule, it is generally considered to be a down point. But what if there’s good to be drawn out of purposelessness?
Photo by Kristaps B.
The Absurd
The word “absurd” can mean a lack of purpose, and this is exactly the meaning taken in absurdist fiction. Absurdist fiction, a genre of literature made famous by Franz Kafka, Albert Camus, Kurt Vonnegut, and Paul Auster, focuses on experiences of characters, who, unable to find an intrinsic purpose in life, are represented through meaningless actions and events.
Nothing about this genre is standard: the ‘moral’ of the story isn’t explicit (often the author rejects standard morality completely), and the structure of absurdist stories differs from traditional story structure. Thus, writers have great freedom to create unique works of art.
What is the point of absurdist literature? The value lies in the exploration of human existence and the universal philosophical questions that the majority of individuals ask themselves.
The aim of absurdism is to get at least a tiny step closer to the answers that matter, that offer consolation to the kindred-hearted, and bring forth the author’s individual reasoning that can serve as an aid to others.
As Paul Aster says in The New York Trilogy:
In the end, each life is no more than the sum of contingent facts, a chronicle of chance intersections, of flukes, of random events that divulge nothing but their own lack of purpose.
Writers’ Vulnerability
Writers are more prone than others to go through deep emotional turmoil due to intentional internal and external digging. The pool of undergone emotions also includes purposelessness.
As a teenager, I remember those steady feelings of universal meaninglessness. To combat these feelings, I often used to write notes on scraps of paper and café napkins. They came out strange and even slightly terrifying, in true absurdism fashion. However, they gave me a chance to grapple with the deep mysteries of life.
If every writer would publicly strip their experiences in this regard, literature would be rich with new perspectives on the great themes of life.
If it sounds as simple as diary writing, don't be fooled—absurdist writing is a tricky business after all. It requires willingness to suffer in order to be genuine in the illustration of a world that is both simple and complicated but nevertheless worthy.
What is your experience with absurd feelings? Did you ever attempt to write about it?
PRACTICE
Write for fifteen minutes about a character that’s going through an identity crisis. Think of all possible questions he or she is tackling in his or her mind, and try to present their inner monologues.
When you finish, post it in the comments and don’t forget to support your fellow practitioners by commenting on their's as well.
I have never heard of that term before, but as I was reading it all I could think is “so THAT is what genre my new book is in!” There are so many crime/romance/sci-fi/fantasy writers that I couldn’t think of how to fit my book into a genre other than “general fiction”. Great, now I can tell my family that I write “Absurd Fiction” haha!
Glad to hear you like the term and indulging in the genre without even knowing! It’s an amazing genre by the way.
I’ve never heard of this genre. Here is my practice. Hope the profanity doesn’t offend, it fits the mindset so I threw it in.
My Practice:
There have been times I wondered why any of us bother doing anything at all. I mean, what’s the point of coming to school every day? Will it really teach me anything? Do I really need to take math till Grade 11 when I knew in like, the fifth grade, that a) I sucked at it and b) I could probably own a house one day without it?
I mean, look at Dave. He dropped out of high school and owns his own salon.
I should take up studying music lyrics. Or kids picture books. Because I swear, I’ll learn more from them than from school.
And you know what the real irony is? That one day I’ll become one of these over thirty blokes looking at a kid my age and saying something like, “but that’s not the way it works. You need to conform.” Of course, they never say “conform” but that’s they mean.
See, these fools don’t understand Dr. Seuss anymore. They have fallen into line and followed all the sheep that came before them when they should have remembered that Dr. Seuss had it right.
Oh, the places I’ll go.
If I remember any of this shit when I’m thirty. Maybe by then I’ll be disillusioned by the disillusionment of reality and have decided to be yet another sheep.
I hate math. This is what it does to me. Makes me think too much. I’m not sure it’s healthy for a body.
I love this! Here’s my favorite part. “That one day I’ll become one of these over thirty blokes looking at a
kid my age and saying something like, “but that’s not the way it works.
You need to conform.” Of course, they never say “conform” but that’s
they mean”
Great writing.
Thank you! Glad to know it resonates with people.
I like that it captures what most students/children/young adults/(and even some adults) are thinking during Math class!
Thanks!
I love the final line, about math not being healthy for the body… or is that thinking? Either way, I can relate.
Ha, you know the only subject I despised in school was math. Argh – perhaps I was even making these same arguments in my head. Ooops, did I forget, did I conform? Enjoyable practice Giulia.
I hated math too. Glad you enjoyed the practice.
In the end, love is nothing more than an act of geography. This
is what I believed that day, watching my husband take the hand of a woman he
loved when they were both sixteen, back in their hometown of Denver. Had he
stayed there, they would have married. I believe they would have then divorced,
but maybe that was bitterness talking.
But he did not stay in Denver. His family moved to the
South, his father weary of big towns. His mother didn’t fit in here, or
anywhere, really, brought here as she was from Holland. The food was too big,
she said. The people too fat. The music grating. She would sing off-key,
Loretta Lynn songs, her accent a mean joke as she twanged along.
And here is where I came in, shortly after they arrived. A
girl who’d never traveled. A girl who didn’t have the advantage of geography.
Who I loved had to show his face in Lone Elm, Arkansas, where the biggest event
of the year was when we all drove our cattle to Swanson’s farm, for the yearly
auction in August. And so my husband
did. He showed his face and I looked at it and fell in love.
Heartbreak is necessary. The crippling pain that hits not
only your heart but your entire body, the pain like fire. I was feeling it that
day, sitting in my Mazda, dark glasses on, a headscarf with the Eiffel Tower on
it, covering my dark hair.
He’d been emailing the woman for months, quippy little lines
about his job – he was the best auditor in his office, he said – and about his
house – biggest on the block – and about me, she used to be beautiful. I read them all, having stolen his password
months before, from a master list he kept in a file he’d named “Bigfoot and
Other Oddities.” That was a kind of
heartbreak too.
But sitting in the car, watching them on a park bench where
we used to take our son to play, I also felt this. Relief. Can you believe it? Relief.
He was a trying man, moody to a fault, and critical. I couldn’t please him.
After a while I didn’t want to. And now it looked as if he’d found someone who
could. Good for them, I thought, just before the tears started.
When he leaned in to kiss her, a thousand hammers fell on my
chest. The way he cupped her chin and drew her face up to his. Had he ever done
that to me? No, Not once. And she was delicate where I was sturdy. She was
calculating – I knew from her emails – while I was not.
I thought about Canada, the only place I’d ever wanted to
go. Gentle people, green, green grass, a queen to look up to. In a place like
that I might have a chance. Geography might be on my side there. Soul mates?
No, I did not believe in soul mates. What I believed was that your life is
determined by the soil you occupy, by the people who come onto that soil, and
nothing more. I should have driven away then, before he slipped down the strap
of her flimsy blouse, but I did not. That was my park. It was my son’s park.
She did not belong there.
Wow. Is there more of this story? I seriously need to know what happens next.
Giulia,
I don’t know what happens next. I may try to keep writing to find out. Thank you for your kind comment.
🙂
If love is an act of geography, then I think you’ve got a new term here, Marla: soil mates. I really, really like the lens of geography and chance and alternate endings in this piece.
I think soil mates trumps act of geography! Thank you.
I enjoyed your use of flashback in the beginning, and then, the very slight pitching towards the future in ‘I thought about Canada’ which gives one a sense at the end, that once she’s over the pain there might be a happy ending. It was believable. Well done.
Thank you Yvette. I enjoyed writing this one.
I feel like I am sitting in that car, watching the same scene. What an interesting choice of file names, “Big Foot and Other Oddities.” I really hope you made that one up.
Wendy,
I did make it up! I’m so glad you liked it.
Beautiful as always Marla, even when it’s sad. The act of geography thing is genius You should patent it now. 🙂
Thanks Sophie. Yours was a great post. And I kind of believe the geography thing.
Well, you asked for absurd…
I am not in the mood to write today
I am not imbued with the itch to type
I am drawn down into silly songs
I am not in the mood to read this day
I am not accustomed to sitting still
I am not one to be obtuse
I am not the one to tell the truth.
You want to tell me what I am
You pounce on me suggesting that I am
A prize to ride and rhyme like Sam I am
I do not like green eggs and ham
I do not like them, Damn I am
I dont like these words pretending that I am
Some kind of philosopher, when a stone, I am
The lioness of vast plains, I am
Bringing home the bacon.
You are waiting to claim the piece of meat I am.
You tried to tell me what song I am.
You tried to sing me to sleep when I am
Unable to rest in grasping arms, I am
Not accustomed to preying hands, I am
Sealing in a jar of light, I am
Chilling it over ice because I am,
Not cut out to breathe the air, I am
Not allowed to scream and shout, I am
A wanderer on watery shores, I am
Crying tears because I’ve lost my oars, I am
Overjoyed when passion ends because I am
Bent on sailing solo seas again, I am
A lover of empty rooms and cold tea, I am
Pressed between these cold sheets, I am
Alone and lovely with pillow creases, I am
All about these empty places, I am
Shutting the gates against the stroming troupes, I am
Resisting love that plants its roots, I am
Not open to bearing seeds, it’s true I am
A dancing sprite to stay aloof, I am
A wondering wisp of shattered proofs, I am
Intoxicating like 80 proof, I am
A devastation, an endless muse, I am
The thorn in sides that look for truth, I am
A careless nymph, a heartless wench, I am
An albatross that stays at sea, I am
A shorebird lost in ecstasy, I am
Tumbling on winds that set me free, I am
Endlessly lost in apathy, I am
Turned against my family tree, I am
An abandoned shell, buffed so pretty, I am
Not home, the lights are off, you see I am
Not here, I’ve gone, we’re through, I am
A fire that burns and brings no light, I am
A cautionary tale, you didnt listen right, I am
More things than I can say, I am
A complex narrative without a play, I am
Not an idea that you can own, I am
Not the saviour of boys looking for home, I am
A disappointment, only yours on loan, I am
Here today and gone the next, I am
That littlest hobo that never rests, I am
Scared to death that he’ll catch me fast, I am
A little child with too much past, I am
The end and the beginning of foolish prose, I am
That which takes you far from home, I am
A baying hound that leads the hunt, I am
Hunting hearts, and tear and rend, I am
Not yours, I am
Not for sale, I am
What, I am
That, I am
A screw turned too tight, I am
A song sung in falsetto, I am
A false friend like Jepetto, I am
A puppet that lies and cries in the ghetto, I am
Trading my life for silence and sound, I am
Mine, I am.
Well I love this! Favorite part – , I am
Intoxicating like 80 proof. You should turn this into a rap song. Brilliant.
Thanks Marla! I’m a spoken word artist, so I lean toward that style when I’m free writing. If I get it cleaned up, maybe it will make it to the stage. I’ll drop it like a rap, just for you 😉
Well, I’d be honored!
This breathtakingly refreshing, like walking outside and realizing your tank top isn’t gonna cut it with the new breeze that is the beginning of Fall. Have you written like this often before? And how long did it take you? This is a style I’d have no idea where to begin if I attempted.
Hey JacHeart, thanks so much. It was a fifteen minute free write, and I took a little time to clean up some of the “I ams” that were out of place. It’s a spoken style, so I just found my rhythm and almost swayed to the beat while I wrote. There is so much page convention you can break when you feel it like a song or like a spoken piece. Most importantly, don’t second-guess your voice as it comes out. Whatever your inner editor has to say about what it looks like or flows like doesn’t matter until your fingers stop writing. Give it a go, no rules!
Thank you! I love that you say there are no rules, because it seems so structured and perfected that I would think you followed some guide. I’m excited to try!! Maybe I’ll share.
This is an intriging poem! Love all the images. Could easily enjoy more.
Absolutely love it! Can’t even say what my favorite part is; the whole of it is great. Amazing work.
Tony was an artist. His creative hand could sketch a deer, design a water garden or season a gourmet meal. His sensitivity included a touching connection with pets and children. When Tony came to visit, our small terrier, Luci, jumped into his lap and covered his face with kisses. She never left his side. Had they known each other before?
When he joined children, they thought he was one of their own. He was on hands and knees teaching them games and making funny faces.
He made friends easily. Tony danced with a style that made you wish for a video camera. Women were drawn to him like butterflies to Lantana. You could reach him in a crowd by following the laughter.
On occasion there were flashes of anger, mysterious and unpredictable. There was a sharpness to his tone and impatience in his gestures. Quickly the sun appeared from behind the cloud and all was well.
There were days when Tony could not be found. Phone calls were unanswered. His friends shrugged off questions and tried not to worry. The silence made them uneasy. Then he would surface like a dolphin from the waves, full of life and laughter. No apologies. No explanations.
At times there was a tear in his eye. One could only watch as the survivor ambled out of sight.
Love the Tony adult-child – just like the women in the story. 🙂
“Yes, I do have a Bachelor’s in Physical Fitness, I did minor in Accounting, and I have recently completed my teaching certification. Sure, some may call it indecisive, but I call them accomplishments. They took great effort, focus, and dedication. I am fully committed to and passionate about each of them. I worked my ass off, damn it, now someone hire me!,” is the ongoing thought in her head as she sits in the front offices of Elementary schools. Today it’s Viking Elementary. At this point, she has become a bitter, self-righteous defender in interviews. She sits in the large office chair at the end of a table filled with 7-10 school employees, clutches the arm rests, and prepares her logical, heartfelt explanation of why she has higher education in three completely separate fields. She knows she should be used to it by now; they ALWAYS have some starting spiel to attempt to seem “interested” in her other areas of study. It usually starts with the counselor that is sitting in for the interview. You know they have their own irrelevant explanation, attempting to rationalize their misunderstanding of your wide range of intelligence. Heather always despises the counselors’ initial question; she knows they already have tehir own explanation and fully intend of ignoring hers. “What bitches!,” she fumes in her mind, as she’s waiting to be called for her interview, “What makes them think that their ONE area of expertise elevates them compared to my THREE areas of expertise?! What makes them think they’re…”
“Heather?”
A cherub of a woman, calling her name, interrupts her thought. She can’t help but smile. Mrs. Nims is rosy-cheeked, btton-nosed, and doe-eyed, causing Heather imediate endearment. “Maybe this won’t be so bad,” she thinks.
So funny!
Thank you!
Why haven’t they called me back? I thought the interview went great. It appeared to me the whole HR team was impressed with my answers. They said they loved my resume. I guess I’m better on paper than in real life.
I really felt the boss and I cliqued. I could see us doing lunch together or taking an afternoon for nine holes at the club. But weeks, no months, have gone by with nary a call or email, not even a Dear John letter.
“Dear John, thank you for your interest in our company. The entire Human Resources team here at FCC was quite impressed with your bullshit, but alas, we are moving on to someone more gifted and valuable than you. Mr. Smith, you are dead to us. Sincerely, Mr. Shaft.”
I suppose it could be my previous experience was too specialized or maybe too broad. I fear it’s both. Why didn’t I get a third Masters instead of this useless Doctorate? Why am I so stupid?
They must have found out about me. Some how they found a copy of my diary online. Maybe they didn’t like all the political comments I made on Facebook. Perhaps they saw me naked and were repulsed. All I know for sure is, if they discovered the real me, it’s no wonder they dropped me like a hot potato.
It must be my age! I’m too old, a has-been. Or maybe I’m too young, a desperate wanna-be.
I know, it’s because I’m white! Oh, God, why didn’t you make me an exotic shade of brown!
Or, it’s because I’m not a woman! Is that it? Oh, why was a born with this damn penis? Whyyyyyyyy?! By the way, God, if I’m gonna have this thing, couldn’t you have made it bigger? I bet that’s why I didn’t get the job! I simply didn’t measure up.
Would it help if I were gay? Just say the word, and I’ll come over and kiss Mr. Shaft on the lips or his ass if he prefers.
But wait, maybe I did get the job, but they’re just waiting to surprise me. Maybe they’re waiting so I can have time to transform into their ideal candidate profile. How long do you think it should take me to evolve into the person everybody wants?
I feel every ounce of your pain! Think how many have shared these same emotions. Well expressed.
So much angst. This was funny Tom. “How long do you think it should take me to evolve into the person everybody wants?” Such a sad question about the absurdity and tragedy of the whole economic situation.
Oh Tom, the feelings of so many people nowadays. Great job.
I lost my mojo and now I can’t find it. I left it on my computer screen, but now it is gone.
I search my house for the thief, looking first at my husband who I blame for the loss of most things between us. He looks innocent, eyes glued to PBS NOVA revealing the secrets of nature in high def. The voice-over announces that every second 14,000 bolts of lightning strike the earth. Each flash is four times hotter than the sun. That is getting close the heat I feel at my mojo gone missing.
I am thunder in his ear. There are no commercials on PBS so I just burst in like a rain cloud overflowing.
“I lost my mojo and I think it’s your fault.”
He doesn’t look up at me but he does pause the program with a click of the remote. “Me? I’ve just been watching TV all day.”
“Exactly.”
“Why don’t you go out and exercise?”
“Do you think that will help me find my mojo?”
“Not sure, but you are not going find it standing between me and television.”
I turn toward the window. “I’m not going outside, it’s raining.”
If he hears me he doesn’t acknowledge. The program has started back up again. It is raining on the large screen TV as well. My storm just blends in. He is just hoping that it will pass.
I turn to leave.
“I’m hungry. Can you stop looking for your mojo long enough to make for dinner?” On the screen there is a satellite image of Hurricane Katrina being born in the ocean. Her white swirls look full of mojo and I feel jealous. Where she is headed at this point in unpredictable, but at least she is moving with fury.
“I’ll heat up leftovers. Would you rather have salmon or stir fry?”
“Sounds great,” he says.
“Mojo thief,” I whisper as I leave the room. My words are wet and hot. They evaporate like sea mist getting sucked up into Katrina’s vortex.
Next, I blame my children for stealing my mojo.
“She kicked me,” my son says, holding his younger sister in headlock at the kitchen table. The lunch I made them of hot dogs, sliced oranges and two percent milk sits untouched in front of them. The chocolate chip cookies are gone, though.
“Well he called me the princess of losers.”
“Princesses are nice,” I say. “Have either of you seen my mojo? I think I might have left it on your plates. Did you gobble it up along with your dessert?”
“You’re so weird, Mom.” My son lets go my daughter’s neck.
“Yeah, really embarrassing.” My daughter pops an orange slice into her mouth and smiles with rind simulated teeth. Her brother cracks up.
They are done fighting. For now.
Still I cannot find my mojo. I look in the laundry bin full of soccer uniforms, running shorts, dance leotards, a coffee stained work shirt I’ve already pre-treated twice, a blouse of mine that is missing a button but I wear anyway. It is not there.
I go back to the kitchen. My children have left and are outside in the rain, wearing socks but no shoes, chasing down the ice cream man who comes regardless of precipitation. My purse is on counter, unzipped and without green.
I drink Diet Mountain Dew and scoop leftover refried beans out of Tupperware with my fingers. My mojo is not in an aluminum can or a plastic container. I throw both of them in the trash can, not in the blue recycling bin, smiling at my act of rebellion. Then the search is on again.
I sit back down to my computer, pulling up Facebook. I check the profile of Bobby Riedel, the boy who never asked me out on date in high school and then twelve years tracks me down through Classmates.com and says he should have asked me to marry him. I tell him I’m married and pregnant. He says, oh, and gets married two months later to a girl he taught in ROTC. He divorces her two years later, then sends me a friend request on Facebook. I accept. I check his status but he never updates it. If he did, I think he would post that he was somewhat responsible for my missing mojo.
I call my sister up to complain about how my mojo has run away.
“Well, that sucks,” she says. “I totally cannot find the right color cream to paint my bathroom.”
I don’t want to talk about paint and remodeling, but I slide “Yeahs” and “Uh-huhs” into the conversation at appropriate intervals. Meanwhile, I surf the net for Erotica, hoping that maybe my mojo is stuffed into something soft-core.
“Are you typing?” she asks.
“No, I’m chopping onions.”
“I hate doing that.”
“Me too. Gotta go.”
After dinner, I stand at the kitchen sink rinsing plates and washing my good knives by hand. The blade slips and cut my finger. I drop the sprayer attachment and it squirts all over the kitchen counter and my white “I haven’t had my coffee yet. Don’t make me kill you” t-shirt. I suck my finger into my mouth, letting the rain of the sprayer fall where it may. I slide down to the kitchen floor. A laugh hums around my finger, as I suck up the blood like Katrina drawing her force from the ocean. My blood tastes rusty and unfamiliar.
My husband walks back into the kitchen carrying an empty bowl of vanilla ice cream. At first he says nothing, just turns the water off and pulls a towel out of drawer. He throws it on my head thinking he’s being funny and I kind of laugh, but not at his joke.
“It looks like a monsoon hit in here.”
I nod and the towel falls into my lap.
He reaches into the cabinet, behind the sea salt and cinnamon and pulls out a box of cartoon band-aids. I pull my finger out of my mouth. The cut is jagged, like a lightning bolt. He kisses my finger then wraps it in Sponge Bob. It burned when he kissed it, but I liked that could feel something between us.
That night in bed, while he is reading The Economist and I am writing a chapter two of story I had left for unsalvageable I announce that I found my mojo.
“Really? Where was it?”
“Right at my fingertips.” I wiggle the bandaged one between his face and the magazine. He touches my finger to his eye, then to his heart and then air-draws the letter U with it. He’s so practiced at the gestured I love you, he doesn’t even need to look up from his article.
I pull my hand away from his grasp and go back to typing up a storm.
I loved reading this, Wendy. The storm references were fantastic. “I am thunder in his ear” – made me jump!
I loved this Wendy. It’s hilarious. The whole thing is set up wonderfully, how she goes looking for her mojo in her family, who don’t seem to care too much. Made my day reading this.
Quite cool Wendy.
Wendy, How perfect! I love the term “mojo thief”. I love this woman.
What was the point of it all? Twin brother dead, parents gone, what did it all mean? Without his twin he was only half a man. Half a what, he thought? Was I really a man then? Am I more of a man now? Who knows what is a man? What if I’m really a woman stuck in a man’s body? What if I’m a man stuck in a woman’s mind stuck in a man’s body? He decided he liked his body. Did that mean he was really comfortable in it, or was it just conditioning? No, he decided, he really liked his body. Did that mean he really liked other men’s bodies? He found he couldn’t decide. Why couldn’t he decide? Was he denying something or was he really unsure?
What was the point of it all? Twin brother dead, parents gone, what did it all mean now? Why was his twin so important? Why did his death so upset him? Why did he feel so incomplete? What was to happen now? How was he supposed to continue his life without the foundations of his brother and parents? Why go on? Why not end it all now? What was so bad about death? Why did someone’s death so affect others? Who could he twin with now? Could he find someone else to be his twin? What did it really mean to be a twin? He thought he had known but not anymore.
What was the point of it all?
Steve, the sentences that made me see the pointlessness of it were “Who could he twin with no? Could he find someone else to be his twin.” It’s poignant.
I really like the sequence of questions; it really goes like that when we’re talking to ourselves.
He stood out in the courtyard, holding his box of personal effects. Now what? He’d
come into work as usual that morning ready for a productive day, only to be
walked out a few hours later. He thought about the projects he’d worked on for
years. Who would finish those, if anyone?
The wind was blowing leaves around the courtyard. He watched them skitter around
like insects, headed somewhere yet nowhere. He turned and looked up at the
building. The windows that had seemed inviting now looked impenetrable, like a
fortress. The day was bright enough that he could see only reflections. Was
anyone up there watching him?
He turned back around and sat down on one of the concrete benches, still holding
his cardboard box. The box seemed to contain all that mattered, all he had to
show for his work life. He wondered if a security guard would come out and run
him off. He knew all the guards by name, almost personally. Would that matter
now? He thought about calling his wife, but decided to do it later. His mind
was starting to buzz with all the next actions he should take. It was
paralyzing him. Job postings, resume updates, interviews, waiting. And all for
what, he wondered.
He sat there for who knows how long, watching the leaves do laps around the
courtyard. His mind gradually began to clear, a frosty window thawing as the
sun comes up. Now the next thing was just to leave. He walked toward his car,
not looking back.
Worrying about who will finish your projects when you’ve been escorted out – absurd! Wondering if anyone’s watching you from the windows when there’s so much more to worry about – absurd! So much more to worry about but is it worth it – absurd. You’ve got it nailed Paul. Nice riff on the topic.
We guitar players like riffs! Thanks for the note, Audrey.
Great depiction of the feeling of purposelessness Paul. Hopefully the meaning in life will return shortly after the job loss is processed.
Thanks for the kind note, Sophie.
I lost my sense of humor sometime around my tweens. Writing about the absurd is dangerous for those who can’t laugh at themselves or their situations. Who knows what I might be driven to? Perhaps I might even end it all.
Here’s a great sentence though from a brilliant 19 year old writer I follow – ajsanders.wordpress.com in her post Maggot and Misogyny. I’m trying to quote it verbatim — I’m not sure if I got it all right, but it is for me the height of absurdity, and so sad as well – There was a maggot in her ear. It was there because she left me. It had been there for two weeks but she didn’t mind. She was certainly not complaining. It was a question of distance – the distance between her head and her heart. It had always been too big, but now it was more than 3 miles. The one was on a shelf in his bedroom, and the other under a metric tonne of coal in her mother’s cellar. He’d always hated her mother.
Fantastic isn’t hilling isn’t it? Go over there and read it. The height of modern absurdity.
I had to read it twice to get it. Wonderfully chilling, definitely absurd.
Thanks for sharing the link Audrey. It does look interesting. You are welcome to try and write about a fictive character, if the personal writing is too hard for you in this practice.
Sophie… my bit was also meant to be absurd. It was a joke haha!
Haha, sorry about this – you definitely got me confused!
I wrote this as a bit of a rant from a character that can’t understand his place in this world and has had enough of trying. I draw a lot of it from questions I have asked myself and thought deeply on in the past but it’s still just a rant so go easy on me.
The more you know the more you wish you didn’t
know. I was born into a world that is incomprehensible. Since day one I have
received nothing but input, all day, everyday and the human brain can’t process it all. There are people I don’t know
telling me how I need to live my life and I don’t know why. The problem is that
as soon as you realize you aren’t steering your own life you become
compromised as a person. You start to search for a meaning; an answer. You become obsessed with questioning everything and you learn to spot the scam in everything. You try to figure out what exactly it is that you stand for and you come back with nothing. The world has been this way for too long. You’re simply a cog in a machine that can’t be stopped. You can’t get away from the things that make you feel so utterly meaningless in the grand design of our world. That’s when you
start to ask yourself the dangerous questions. What purpose am I serving on
this planet? Do I strictly consume and give nothing back? Is our species a
virus meant to decimate the entire planet? We know what we are doing to our
planet and yet we can’t stop or even slow down. We seem to be serving a very specific purpose: decimation. We live on a planet that is 4.5 billion years old and in
the last 200 years we have done more to destroy it than in the last 4.4999
billion. What does that say about us? Why do we get to remove ourselves from
the circle of life that ran the planet harmoniously for so long? Why do we not
have to take responsibility for any of our actions? Why do I have to be a part
of the machine that destroys the world? We let it go too far and now greed runs
the world. I read once that our ancestors regularly took psychedelic substances
to destroy the negative aspects of our character like ego and to eliminate pride and
learn to live with and for each other. That custom was lost and now we live in
a world where the ego and pride are everything. The worst part of the human
being is the part that thrives in the world today so in order to adapt you need
to be more greedy and selfish than your neighbor. We live in an age where it is
acceptable to make your living essentially stealing money that you never earned
and don’t deserve in the first place and you never have to give back. Human
existence for many is no different than the life of a leech. We have become the
first species to successfully devolve into a lesser being and it is for this
reason that I am forced to part ways with this existence…
I actually quite love your rant. It definitely depicts the flavor of meaninglessness . To me it reads like a lonely soliloquy directed to oneself.
“So what have you been up to since graduation?”
I dread this inquiry more than my dentist appointment
next week. There is no response that can validate my existence. Nothing comes
forth but the trite reality of the last few years. While I was in school I had
an excuse for procrastination. After all, I was working towards something,
towards some bright future behind hopeful eyes. I could answer with ease back
then. Now my mind searches for internal consolation at my lack of success. “I’m
still young” is one such rationalization. But this excuse will serve its time
as well, and then what? I’m sure I’ll come up with something. The expectations
of others weigh too heavily on us post graduates who still waitress or work
retail or answer phones. It’s as if we are already failures and our hopeful
eyes grow dim by our lack of direction. I know it isn’t just me, and I know I
am a bit whiney. They just expect so much of me and school was a joke of an
excuse anyhow. Five years and tens of thousands of dollars later and I can’t even remember the majority of information that I memorized and regurgitated. I justify my whining. It seems I can justify anything these days. Like
a defense mechanism against my own discontent with all I haven’t done. But
there’s always a ‘yet’ to insert. A future where I have things figured out and
people think of me without concern because, behold, I am successful! So this is
it. I am driven by fantasies of some future that is as real as my next daydream.
But what if all the inspirational articles are true? ‘Seven Steps to Make YOUR
Dream Reality!’ they promise. For a moment my hope is renewed. What if I quit
dreaming and started really living? What if I defined success on my own terms?
What if I could just shrug off those silent expectations and rest in confidence
that I am doing my best? Am I doing my best?
“Oh you know, I’ve just been working and enjoying life and such.” That is the best response I can come up with. Their hope for me dims.
Although he is not interested in the spam-mail folder, he will always, when selecting them for deletion, unconsciously be attracted to those titles advertising miraculous recuperation of a lost virility. He decisively will refuse it, but sometimes he opens and read some of them. He knows that these are fake offers, but even then, he opens and read some of them. He dialogues with himself: I don’t need this. Why am I looking at this, anyway? The daily dilemma of ignoring the “already” or accept them and move on. He might change the
“already” to look as the “yet.” His wife will encourage him to apply dye; just to see how it looks – she adds. He does not show – alike all men – but she knows he’s in a struggle. He has been playing with the idea for a while, but he can’t be convinced. Doing it, is accepting he is “already”. I don’t need it. Grey hair makes me an appealing man – something that he wanted since his adolescence, when his mother said she liked men with grey sideburns – and, incidentally, I still have left some darker hair, – he assures himself. But deep inside him, he knows that someday he will have to accept it. Someday, maybe. With age, humans are more concerned with the fallout left by aging in the body and mind. Indubitably he wanders back in time; to a time in which he was a young man full of energy and nothing scared him. At a time when he was proud of the first three or four curly hairs pushing out of his chin, in the corners the upper lip, and in some other parts of his body; admiring and treasuring them to the point that the teacher had to remind him of the staffs personal appearance norms. Nowadays, he finds that shaving every day is a burden and, he could be in fashion with one-week stubbles, not been for the colourless, untamed and uneven growing hairs. They grow long, everywhere and in the most unexpected places. But of course, there are some other issues: the missing hairs where he needs them; the many visits to the loo – nights and days – the lack of energy; the inevitable wrinkles and the drop of loose skin. So, he knows it. Still, it is difficult to accept.
He is in a mood for some pranks. What pranks to play on? He could
just dial an unknown number and talk? That would be fun. Or perhaps ring bells
on an unknown apartment and chat with a stranger for a while?. Yeah!! That’s fun.
You call it kiddish, well that’s exactly the purpose of it, to act and play
kiddish. Sal is this big kid kidding around all the time and having fun. When you
hear most of the people around the world bored and sleepy, Sal is the one in
mood for pranks and playing nothing but pranks. Sal is never upset, even when it’s
time to become upset he turns around the angle of the whole situation and find
out something to laugh about . And he laughs hard. He is too good at laughing.
If you ask him if he is happy with himself, Sal will answer,
“Well I never gave that a thought!’. That’s the best thing about Sal, he never
gives anything any thought of any kid. He just kind of makes it through without
thinking. When in college he was given this homework on the great forest Amazon,
Sal invested all his savings and left for Amazon, putting college education at
risk.
People had asked him, what if you never return from there?
Sal had answered, ‘ In that case, I guess you will have to
miss my funeral, but you could send a card!’ and he laughed.
Sal had actually sold out most of his belongings, his car ,
his books and even his t-shirts to see
what Amazon was like because he read
about it in some college book! Nobody does that, and well, Sal is not nobody.
Sal’s professor had asked, “Is that a wise decision to make Sal?
to go after some factual statements in a book? It’s not even your personal aim
or dream’
“I have no dream Professor, neither any aim. I even have no
great statements to live on like’” Live up to every second” or “Make most of
your life”. I am just doing it and no reason why’, Sal had answered.
Sal’s professor could not reply to this student, what to say
to someone whose reasons are way beyond reasons?
And so Sal got all packed up and left for Amazon. To see it
, explore unknown or live in? no one knows. Everyone was just waiting for Sal
to return and tell this story or if never return, make some story on newspaper,
or if not even that, everyone was waiting with their lives for Sal to come back
any way and tell them what happened there. Everyone was just too curious to
know what’s happened to Sal afterwards, but, well Sal himself is not too
curious. Hence, everyone’s curiosity did not even matter.
What happened afterwards is, on the way Sal changed his decision
and made up his mind to explore deserts instead and headed for Egypt, but everyone
else back at home kept on waiting for Sal, waiting with all their lives t o
know what happened to the great guy who had risked his college education for the Amazon.
“And you know, it doesn’t really matter.”
And you know, Alicia’s heady voice should be the last thing echoing in my head a thousand times a minute but it is, seeping into my brain matter, fucking with my neurons, etching and carving into my skull.
And you know, if it actually doesn’t matter, who am I? A human, essentially, is a web of memories and things we hold dearly to our hearts. It’s like zooming into a picture of a crowd. The things you care about, what makes you you are the little people and their little faces and their little hands and the little bags of popcorn they’re holding but when you zoom out, their little hands and feet and legs and arms are as inconsequential as a drop in the ocean, a change in the weather. What have I wasted my life on? What matters, in the grand scheme of things? What matters? What does it mean?
That teddy bear you’ve had since you were a kid. If it disappeared tomorrow, what would change? There are no memories attached to it. Those memories are in your head. They’ll be there forever. You projected them into an inanimate object. It’s almost a form of insanity. If it disappeared, what would change? Would earth shift off it’s axis? Would the cosmos change direction? Who would roll around in their grave? What effect would it have on anyone except you, you, who has created a reality within reality and assigned meaning to things that were never supposed to mean a thing?
What have I done? Oh God, what have I done? What have I been living for? What have we all been living for? Because, you know, if it doesn’t really matter, nothing really matters at all.
I know a person who is in constant pain for what is going on in his life. I guess she is so happy for what she has achieved so far. However, she has pushed herself so far that she has forgotten the real meaning in life. This person sometimes asks herself, why do I have so many times on my schedule? Why cannot work out early, eat at certain hours of time, and spend time doing my hobbies? Why cannot have time to sleep more? Why do I feel so bad? Or she just exclaims “my body doesn’t resist anymore the pressure of life.” All of this is because she is a hard worker and really makes big efforts to accomplish all her achievements. Even though, this happens sometimes I really believe that she knows how to manage the situation, and she will some day find a solution that let her be what she sees as an ideal life. In addition, I think we as humans all have a moment when we do not feel comfortable with our lives, and we suffer for it, but there is also a point where we conceal with this opposite emotions and continue with the day to day.
“Will my future pan out the way I want it to?”
This is a question Tess asks herself often, she is afraid of the uncertainty the future holds. Entering into the beginning stages of adulthood everything seems uncertain at this time. Not knowing what career path she wanted to take only a few months prior is a scary fact, considering this decision will determine a huge aspect of her life for at least 20 years. “Am I making the right decision, will I be capable of performing these duties?” College is supposed to teach you all you need to know about your major, preparing you to enter the workforce and be successful. But what if you doubt you are cut out for this and the idea of being a responsible adult makes your stomach churn. You take every aptitude test available and consider your strengths, interests, and values. You come to a conclusion and finally declare your major. At first you are excited and confident but the more you think about it the more you doubt yourself. You think you’re a pretty intelligent person but what if you are just fooling yourself. Your mom reassures that you are, but she’s your mom she has no choice but to. At 19 almost 20 you are technically an adult but you still hold the title of “college student”. In essence, you’re a fake adult having nothing figured out. This is the dilemma Tess is experiencing at this point in her life. A quarter life crisis? She doesn’t identify with people her age and making friends is a challenge. With a considerable amount of distance from her and her family, alone is the only word to describe her feelings. “Is this even worth it?” Life seems pointless and unfair, after all we never asked to be here. Either someone determined this or a random act landed us right where we are. Either way it was not our conscious decision and that seems unfair. Life is just a regime; We go through the motions but for what purpose? Tess hopes in time this question can be answered, that one day a feeling of enlightenment will wash over her. She can look back and say “Ahhh, that’s why”.
“Here I stand.”
Here I stand upon this white sand. Every which way I look there is only more white sand. I do not know which way is East, West, North or South. I do now know where to go or indeed where I can go. All I can see is the multitude of fine white sand stretching off in every direction. The only thing that I know for certain is where I stand. Upon a patch of fine white sand. Surrounded by an infinitesimal number of patches of fine white sand. Left, right, North, South, East West. Whether I take one step or a hundred, I will still just be standing on a patch of fine white stand. Identical to every other patch of fine white sand in this fine white desert. No matter where I go, nothing will change, I will still be standing upon this fine white sand. Surrounded by an infinitesimal number of patches of fine white sand. Nothing will change. Nothing will ever change. So here I stand.
This is really good. I liked it very much.
Some excerpts from a friend I know (not sure if they can be thought of as absurd, but it’s somehow strange reading them):
This morning also, and it came as quite a surprise, I happened to see that intern sitting behind the counter as I entered through the glass door. I never thought I’d see her again. We made small chat, asked each other how we were. She said she has three months remaining on the job. I said I was on holiday. Soon, I had to leave. For all the memories, we merely waved and said a short goodbye.
Someone said something, and I started to laugh. I couldn’t stop laughing. I laughed all along the way home; and when I reached the front of my door, I was still laughing. I think some of the neighbors might have been woken up by my laughter, because I saw lights suddenly come on and a silhouette coming to stand at the window sill. But after I had stepped inside of my house, I stopped laughing. I had forgotten what it was that I had been laughing so furiously about.
I helped someone in the morning, did I tell you that? There was a mad scramble at the front of the lecture theater after class; everyone was rummaging through the stacks of papers to find their own ones. And then I happened to see the name of that person on a paper, and immediately, I fished it out. I handed it to her and she thanked me. Later, in class, she thanked me again.”What a mad scramble it was,” she said.
I made this for an assignment in my english class. I’m not sure how absurd this was but i though it was decently absurd.
“When you drink alcohol you borrow happiness from tomorrow” I thought to myself as I took another sip. The whiskey made my throat burn as it went down, although I have built up a sort of tolerance it still hurts. Just like the idea in my head of where I’m supposed to be and who I am. I just got back from the church I frequent when I pass by every now and then. I go every now and then to contemplate what the heck am I supposed to be doing with myself and I think of all the things I’ve done, good and bad, and it depresses me. The 20 foot ceiling and the stain glass windows crammed into every wall, there is a seemingly disorganized way they are put in but a sense of purpose in their placement. God, I wish I had that. I tend to stare at the large crucifix and “talk to God” while I complain silently about how my body aches from the punishment I put it through throughout my life and my back and ass hurt from the wooden pew. Sometimes when I go and pray, I think that’s the word, I think about my five tours in Afghanistan. Thinking about it makes me want to go back because it was the best time of my life and I miss it so, but I miss my friends more. We had so many jokes and good times, but the worse is when your friends die right next to you and you can’t do anything to stop it. I usually cry when I’m there. I cry a lot now that I’m back home. Almost every night. I wish I could see my kids every day, that’s mainly why I cry. My wife took them when she left because of my drug and alcohol habits. She had said she doesn’t want the kids exposed to that kind of thing. I had stopped going to the church a while ago and felt bad about it because it was healthy in my eyes. I felt better every time I went. But the happiness was fleeting, like a whisper swept away in the wind. So I went back, a few minutes after I had sat down for the first time in a long time, the pastor came up to me and commented about how he has watched me every time I came in. He asked me I wanted to talk, I wanted to say yes, but I just couldn’t I didn’t know this guy, who he was, what he thought of me. “No” I replied half-heartedly, he shrugged his shoulders and left.
I had gotten so deep in thought about how I should have talked to that priest I found I had finished the bottle of Maker’s Mark. I went to get another but found my legs could not hold me up, I flopped back down in my Lay Z Boy. I thought to myself that I need to figure out what I should do now that I am a drunken fool.