Columnist
I’ve been reading The Black Book by Orhan Pamuk lately and fallen into a common trap - the romance of being an author. I feel I was always meant to be a columnist, rather than a person.
The less curious among us attempt to be purveyors of information to create their own truth. Thus they end up writers, writing stories about writers writing stories, or instead failing to write stories about writers sitting in cafes failing to write stories, or succeeding at writing stories about writers sitting in cafes writing stories when they are interrupted by an actual Thing happening until they go back home to write a story, until they’re stumped again, until they quit to do something else, until they quit for good. A book about books is almost as offensive as journalism about journalism. Democracy Dies in Darkness - then why are you writing for the Washington Post?
I think I’m different - I’d only like to purvey information because I have so much time, so much time. As someone who does not do their real job, I have all the time in the world to survey information, and I would love to disseminate it to my loved ones who do not have time to watch the five hour debate between Destiny and Norman Finkelstein, or do a surface level reading of Mao’s Quotations, or listen to hours upon hours of… “jokes” in Cum Town. If you can’t do it, god willing I will, and I’ll tell you about it so that you don’t miss anything. My dear reader, I have nothing but the noblest intentions!
Dried fruit
My mom asked out of curiosity, “How much does [my cat] eat?” I answered diligently, “A quarter can of wet food for breakfast and dinner, but breakfast has a third cup of dry food too.” My mom looked puzzled. “Dry fruit?” “No, she’s a cat, she can’t eat dry fruit. I said dry food.” “Yeah, dry fruit?? What?” “Dry food!” “Huh?” “Dry fruit” my dad enunciates, and my mom gets it.
I’m quite unfunny, especially when I need to be. Once, while making carrot muffins, a carrot-like friend (red and close to the ground) challenged me to come up with a joke. She graciously decided to make it easier for me by giving me a topic… the first object she saw, a box of Organic Medjoul Dates my dad had given me despite my dislike for them - I’m picky too. I racked my brain for five whole minutes, scratching variations on the same singular theme into my notebook - if I couldn’t come up with a better idea I’d at least try to sell this one. Did I succeed? Well, when the time came, I shot my notebook at the floor in frustration (JOLTing my roommate, also present), and told my awful joke: “I was, uhh, on a date with a beautiful woman last night. And you know, we were talking and stuff. I told her, I really appreciate how well we get along. Talking to you is uhh, quite natural, and I think that’s important. But, well you know what - dates shouldn’t just be organic, they better be medjoul too!”
My family used to be a company of traders between Afghanistan and India, traders of what I do not know. I think dried fruit would be as good a guess as any, maybe even better knowing my family - real estate, health foods, vapes, and liqueur are all things that my relations know no one needs and yet of course, everyone needs. What did Marx say about eating and drinking? I have a distant cousin, who told me of his distant uncle, who came to Canada before the rest of the family did. He recalls meeting him throughout his childhood, his uncle in a fancy car that seemed beyond anyone’s means. This uncle is an entrepreneur like the rest of us: When asked how he can aff- When asked what he does, he says he sells dried fruit. My cousin is skeptical.
Misgendering
A few days ago, I visited a used bookstore in downtown. As I entered, I panned my field of view leftward - I’m here for Joma Sison, not for vibes. I had my business dress on - a faux-denim shirt dress with a tie belt, which I had fastened tight around my waist but not looped through the dress’ loops - I was on a walk to get some serious steps in, not to waffle. As I turned my gaze, it skipped over a customer speaking to a clerk, who was glowing in her own ether. I wish I was ruder, baser, dumber, more willing to come off as transphobic, I wish I had stopped to stare.
But I was here for business. My head kept turning, my body too, and I darted for the poetry section, then the literature section, then the Philippines section. I raced my eyes across hundreds of books, focusing on parsing them lest I start wondering and wandering, like a dullard just loitering.
Eventually I decided to ask a clerk for help. The one so beautiful was not at the front desk, so I asked another - not the owner, who I love to bug each time I go - someone else I had never met before. She asked me for all of the authors I was looking for; I listed basically everyone I’d expect @Newposter2 to have on their shelf. We searched and made smalltalk.
“I guess Joma isn’t here, maybe let’s just move on to another author.”
“We can ask A (the owner) about these books afterward too, he might know if they’re here even if we can’t find them.”
“Oh, that’s A at the front?” (I didn’t know his name before this visit.)
“Yep! So, another author?”
“Oh okay. Yeah, I think I’m annoying A, I keep coming in here asking for books he doesn’t have.”
“That’s okay! He loves talking to people about books even when he doesn’t have them.”
“Oh okay, that’s a relief. Hmmm. Who’s the other guy…”
“Oh you mean B?”
“Oh.”
…
“No, I meant ‘Who’s the other author I gave you.’ I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to do that.”
“Oh oh oh oh yes sorry.”
“I’m so sorry.”