There is nothing more both tragic and ironic than a writer, being a writer of their own story. Or rather looking at their life as at a story, or mutiple stories one after another, often without an end nor beginning. Tragic, I used to think, as these stories often have no purpose, they are an elusive creation, shaped to last only for a minute, for example, during a one-off ride on the escalators. Writing a novel of your life without inspiration. And without any chances for premature appreciation.
My friend George Noskov knew it. He more than anyone else understood this sickness of being one experiences while walking around the streets with no purpose, writng their own story, seeking and reaching forward to hold it, the way it smells, the way it sounds. I was thinking about it while sitting at George's desk in one winter afternoon, and reviewing pages of his diary-style short story. Of course, if I can even call him my friend, as he died long time before I reached the age of consent.
Here I was. Sitting at the desk a deadman once sat, reading his story so close to mine, his story so tragic and ironic. I used to think bad things about George when I first heard of him. And I owe him some apology. He would, probably, like no one else, understand the higher purpose, for I keep searching for a friend to walk with me around Covent Garden, with no success. No one likes walking without a reason. People don't like walking in general, but you George, were not just like other people.
How would it be, George, if you were still here. If we came to share this desk, would we be colleagues? Would we become lovers? Or maybe just good friends, sharing long discussions about Russian poetry, and why we both don't like Pasternak. 'Doctor Zhivago' is a poorly written novel, as you claimed, reading my mind once again. Or maybe we would argue even more than once, if it came to Sonya Marmeladova, and you would repeat again while taking a sip of coffee: 'a whore is just a whore'. And nevertheless, I would admire your hunger for life, always nevertheless, and your reluctance to ever compromise. We could both curse the era of technology, and complain about those around us who understand nothing.
But ironically, the only thing I have left from you is your diary, carelessly left on your desk for all these years. I was asking for your picture, but no one has been storing any. I have to tell you though, you haven't been forgotten. Just yesterday I was reading your scripts, shame on you, George, that this is all you left us. With these few words, how to we keep talking? One day your story will be over, written, finished and stored in archives, until one day another person comes to take over your desk, and opens your diary, to release the magic of your world again.
Beacuse you see, dear George, I am writing to you today in need for a friend. The one you can sometimes argue with, and it changes nothing. The one you can admire and contradict at the same time. I am looking for a friend who would walk with me, right now, around Covent Garden with a can of Red Bull, with no purpose. Dear George, shall we?
*I have gone a bit quiet for a while due to overthinking the whole shape of the blog. However, next chapter of The Journey to Yesterday will be released this weekend.
