Symphony

I shan't lie to you; I'm a single male, with a dog and a stack of books. I wish bad upon couples, I spit at them, cut an eye at them, snort my derision at them, hate myself a little when around them.


They are the Mozart to my Salieri.

With dreams of being the wanted ideal I spent adolescence praying to gods of couture and when the blessed day of financial independence came, days were spent in attendance at the houses of worship on Oxford, Regent and Bond Streets. The blunt knowing that I was no Adonis had me desperate to become beautiful; the instruments of clothes were at my disposal. 


I studied fashion literature with such veracity that the ensuing melody came in experimental forms, new genres, new beats, new orchestrations, but again, these left me out in the cold. So to the mind I went, from couture to literature. 

Books had been ever a constant. A childhood was spent with words, suckled and weaned with newspapers, toddling with tales, scribbling at puzzles and babbling over dictionaries. Books had lined my walls and carpeted the floor where I trod and because of such, it had been taken with total ignorance as to their importance. 


So when realising my strongest asset was the mind – for my aesthetic was failure – books in every form became what I idolised. Never forgetting my original devotion to gods of couture, I became polytheistic with my prayers. It was all desperation, to be sought after, to be found attractive. Rather than creating music I read it and wrote it and imagined it. Heard the strings, the brass, the percussion, knowing how to utilise them instead of the actual performing.


Little did I know that being a blue stocking was also to lead one on a path to deeper isolation. Seeing around me people partnering, falling and being hopelessly in love rendered me hopeless. I, the one with the closet of clothes and the library of books, a mind saturated with knowledge and information, was sitting alone amongst a throng of the unread and unknowing.  So I plotted and schemed ways to show my hatred of them all. Perfecting the evil eye, summoning curses so they too would become as dreadfully alone as me.


My aesthetic orchestration was no longer seen, creating raised eyebrows and curled lips; it was simply overlooked by sexual beings.  Here was my lacking, a serious lacking of person. I simply am not a sexualised being. Whatever sex I had experienced had been one of convenience, a convenience to the other person. When no one was around, then I could be seen.


No longer wanting to be seen by any kind, I hid away amongst the books and clothes. No more music was to be made – a life of silence and isolation was to be mine. With evil in my heart I ventured out to work and executed daily chores, trying desperately to ignore those around me sporting a loved one on their arm, hands holding another hand made my heart burn with vicious fire. 


However, what the heart wants, the heart tries to attain. I could not maintain this anger; it was ruining the mind of wondrous knowledge I had gained. No more pleasure at the music I heard, only the war drums of loathing. And I wanted to hear the concertos, the operas and minuets so beautiful in sound and aesthetic.


I try now to be content with my solitary existence, praising those who find love, living my own love through theirs. The pain it creates is brutal and scarring; it jars the mind upon every occurrence but I bear it with the greatest equanimity one can muster and dab the iodine over the lacerations, repeating the arias in my head to soothe the ache being felt as I see lips meet and hands grasp each other.

To return home to the books and the clothes, my unsexual body is swathed in cottons, cashmeres and silks, no longer having to see its deformity. Building the mind with new information, theories, settings and vocabulary, I find love using the instruments only known and ever trusted.

Cardies

Did you know a revolution is occurring? It’s outspoken and renegade, punk in its truest form. It is individual yet collective, emotion-based and with its own particular uniform.


Singleness. Not chosen singleness but singleness by default. Being part of this revolution, a newcomer but already a very committed revolutionary, we live quietly, unheard, often unseen but existing and spreading our declaration in quiet, passive-aggressive pamphlets. An underground scene, we recognise fellow revolutionaries by a certain item of clothing, a common garment but with a certain identifying mark.


We wear cardies on a regular basis in varying shades of drab – greige, creams and ecrus, browns and charcoals. It is an item of highly particular distinction. 


First of all it’s not a cardigan, it’s a pristine item preferably in cashmere or merino, fitted and in rich colours worn for nice events and purchased for fashion or style. A cardy is bought either in Marks' or a charity shop (never vintage which again elevates to cardigan status via the price tag); if once an old relative’s and hand knitted, so much the better – this is for the Robespierre of revolutionaries.


A cardy is worn at all times despite whatever weather experienced, hot or cold, worn with various layers, misshapen, bobbled and stained. There should always be a dribble of egg or coffee on the front; for those truly alone, a cigarette burn on the sleeve. Crumbs will inevitably be found within the knit, hobnobs or digestive or shortcake; for suburban dwellers ever lemon puffs. A lingering aroma of fried bacon, eggs and chips permeates the garment and yourself and the person must be adorned with a dab of baked bean juice at the corner of the mouth. Only dab, mind you – any more and it’s a sign of dementia. We are compo mentis and are proud to be.


Our loneliness is put upon us, not chosen; it is a situation foisted upon us because our place in modernity is deemed unworthy, and so we read our loneliness away, read and ponder, muse and peruse, cogitating and comprehending. Loneliness has paid the high price for our gained intelligence, debts repaid with celibacy and cold beds. Installments are heavy and regular, but we bear the situation with more books, radio and cigarettes. It’s all we know. To experiment is a concept far out of our reach; the challenge of a new author and genre is welcomed but it’s a calculated risk.


The last time we risked it was on the last date we had, several months (or, for some, years) ago, so horrendous that it cemented our determination to give up on humanity. It simply no longer exists, the proof in the amount of mutants and zombies we have had to share a beer or coffee with.


After each horrific date we ran to the comfort of our books, to chain smoke with a mug of coffee, warmed by the cardy. It is the ultimate safety net; it will cosset when trembling, shroud when pale, warm when cool. The cherished garment to keep near at all times, it was depended upon, but is now required for fear of the world collapsing or one’s blood halting in circulation.


It was our companion in the hermit existence, but since realising we are part of a Lonely Hearts Club, it has become our members badge and is worn with pride.