Sweet Misery

Melancholy can take several forms. Mine is currently incarnated in a multilingual, six foot three-ish, jewel-eyed quinquagenarian colleague of Germanic/French Caribbean heritage. The Nordic genes won out. There's not a trace of kink in his luxurious chestnut-brown locks. The only concession to his mulatto origins is a year round deep-olive complexion and notably sculpted cheekbones. Sigh. With the combined power of our sharp bone structures, imagine the babies…

We converse about everything from pop culture, politics and gender relations to our own personal experiences with cultural displacement. It gets deep, personal and candid. His softly-spoken bass can be hard to hear but is unintentionally sensual. He's funniest when pissed off. His wry humour manifests, sapphire eyes enlivened with indignation. The volume doesn't increase but his whole face is engaged in narrating the source of his irritation. I miss him terribly between rendezvous’. My mind races with the ideas I look forward to sharing with him, crafting them in my head with grammatical care.

Of course he’s fallible, like the rest of us. He tends to generalise about the sexes. He’s slow in acknowledging the depth of his own suppressed anguish. He drives a luxury car and I don’t believe he’s as committed to socialist policies as I am. On the other hand, he is a stable and calming presence. When I struggle to fully express myself in his language, he waits patiently; in silent encouragement. He’s a dedicated employee, conscientious father, a dutiful and devoted son, nephew and [fill the blank]. A beautiful man.

Our fairly consistent encounters are chaste. (My thoughts, well…not so much). We haven’t even shaken hands, let alone exchanged the customary French bises. 

He represents so much of what I’d desire in a significant other. And yet…

We’ll forever be kept apart by the unholy combination of vastly different life experiences (i.e. romantic), a generation gap (fancy me, an ageist Xennial falling for a late baby-boomer) and divergent values on matters of faith.  Whilst some factors could evolve with time, others are unyielding. History would have to be re-written for our stars to properly align. I doubt that I’ve met someone who so closely fits my ideal but is simultaneously so incompatible. Oh, the bitter ironies of life.

Although never articulated, tacitly we’ve both come to accept any latent mutual attraction will remain unconsummated. Think Lost in Translation or more apt still, Annie Edison and Jeff Winger-right down to the age and height differences.

I’ve grasped it intellectually but my emotions are playing catch-up. There are moments when I’ve overshared. Subconsciously, I want something from him that he cannot give. My face clouds over with possessiveness each time I witness his cheerful disposition towards a particular female colleague. My innards tighten with jealousy when, on occasion, he refers to former lovers or even the acrimonious relationship with his ex-wife. Although their liaisons might be a thing of the distant past, these women have known and held him in a way that I never will.

Being a man of experience, he has moved on far quicker than I. Our email exchanges were once playful and regular. Now, reality has kicked in and the demands of his hectic schedule have taken over. Where he used to lose track of time in my company, now he's more conscious of the clock. His eagerness and frequent dimpled smiles (in spite of his default solemnity) have mellowed into ad hoc responses and occasional chuckles. It makes me unnecessarily anxious. When he does reply to my emails, it gladens me more than it should.

I crave nonetheless our weekly fix of ‘informal’ French lessons. I am crestfallen if, as often happens, we have to reschedule. All dressed up and nowhere to go.

In the end, our connection might prove as ephemeral as a sandcastle. Nothing to show it was there when the tide comes in. The situation makes me feel lonelier than I otherwise would. If I had the courage, for the sake of sanity I’d make a brutal but clean break to totally recover my equilibrium.

He has thus come to embody every disappointment, unfulfilled longing or closed door. The heartache that has accompanied me for these past months is further compounded by a pre-birthday panic, as I approach my late 30s.

I have enough self-awareness to realise my misery is disproportionate. I need to maintain perspective. I am only broken-hearted, after all. I am not entitled to anything. There are circumstances far sadder in this world than a futile infatuation. Friendship is a higher and purer state of interaction anyway. And yet…

Life goes on. Dignity dictates that I don't build my world around a man. Besides, I can’t dwell in the doldrums as spring gives way to summer, and the day doesn’t surrender its light until long after 10pm. Aestival Strasbourg is bright, humid and given to spectacular thunderstorms at night.

I channel my chagrin into creativity. Nothing gets those juices flowing like a bit of pain. I am writing more often. I have turned to musical therapy, singing my blues away at night. That’s not quite as glamorous as it might sound. I’ve simply revived an adolescent obsession of recording myself singing harmonies; one of life’s greatest joys. The multiple cassette-stereos have been replaced by Audacity free-software. It’s an incredibly effective catharsis.

I seek refuge in my faith. I am joining more activities at church and endeavouring to look beyond myself. I push deeper; directing my hurt and disappointments towards heaven in tears of anger and frustration. I try to remember Christ is the source of -and ultimate response to -the yearnings of the soul that no one mortal or relationship can satisfy. Needing to understand what that means in real terms during this life season, I knock persistently- sometimes violently-on heaven’s door.

I pursue my political activism as much as I can remotely, being vice-chair of my regional branch of Labour International.

I continue to hit the town with fervour. Summer in Strasbourg is ablaze with free activities. I invite Muriel and my new work acquaintance Camila to a theatrical piece inspired by the uprisings of May 1968. Despite it being the 50^th anniversary of this seismic socio-historic event, it will be the first commemorative show I have attended. Alas, Muriel will drop out to support a friend’s product launch.

It’s my second foray into French theatre since relocating to Alsace. Paradis Maintenant is a mise-en-abime conversation piece about the titular controversial play, devised by The Living Theatre Company. The production opens with roughly 10-minutes of silence. A series of provocative questions posed by Julian Beck, one of the founding members of The LTC, are projected onto a screen.

When they do make an appearance, the student actors’ portrayals are assured. They articulate well enough for me to follow the dialogue without enormous effort. I gather that, amongst other issues, they’re engaging in a philosophical discussion about the efficacy of work destined to be censored. Whilst some characters believe it defeats the purpose, others maintain it is success in itself to attract the ire of the authorities.

My enjoyment is hampered slightly by the presence of Camila’s boyfriend, Pierrot. He’s a last minute addition. I am frank about my discomfort with the idea when she informs me the day before. I’d prefer by far to attend an event on my jack jones than be the third wheel. Some couples are self-involved. I don’t know in which reality it will be fun for a single friend to tag along, especially when there’s only one common denominator.

Camila is gracious about my reservations but Pierrot can’t exactly be uninvited. I groan inwardly as, on approaching our agreed meeting point, I spy them canoodling.

Pierrot does have his uses. He is knowledgeable about that period of history and fills in some contextual blanks.

The following weekend I attend an all day Sunday music-fest with Muriel (thankfully, sans copain this time) and Japanese sweet-pea Kokoro. I am dressed up from Sunday morning spent at church. I coat myself in gold shimmer and put on a dash of vibrant red lipstick. I call this dating myself.

The festival is organised by an institution for mature amateurs who want to hone their musical skills. The event is hosted in an establishment very similar to an English gastro-pub.

The main show doesn’t live up to the enticing programme. The first act, a Jazz covers band, is a mixed-bag. Some of the instrumentation is tight but the lead singer is visibly nervous. Bless. Her movements are stiff, her volume low and pronouncing the English lyrics is an obvious challenge. The other acts, although more accomplished, are too arcane for my tastes. The performances that would interest me most are billed towards the end of the evening. I have a workman coming round the next morning to fix my bathroom blind. Plus transport in Strasbourg on a Sunday is too rare a phenomenon to chance it. I’ll have to miss out on the Latin Jazz band this occasion. I leave underwhelmed but not regretful.

At least it gets me out of the house.

Soundtrack of the Week: Lost & Found by Jorja Smith.