tsvetoslav shalev

A circumspect attempt at relating. Poets of the Fall did it better.

Recently, I started listening to Inside Story by Martin Amis. I happen to know (and now write) about the gentleman because of a period of keen interest in all things Christopher Hitchens. The latter, I could watch and listen to for days on end, but the former I enjoy reading more. Sorry, Mr. Hitchens! Early in his latest novel, Mr. Amis raises an intriguing point about writing and the challenges of expressing the emotions that sex evokes. To his experienced mind, even the sincerest of attempts fall short of the transcendental nature of the very act that not only elicits pleasure but also “peoples the world”. Alas, I could not possibly make a dent in this problem either, given my “lovemaking”, as rare as rainfall in the Sahara desert, can be so very uninspired and ineffectual. A kiss, on the other hand, is more than just a kiss to me, but is in fact, the only aspect of intimacy at which I feel adequate. However, this writ won’t be about kissing, but an intimation of what lies within; what has been stewing for the past month – a month of unemployment and acute lonesomeness, in London, United Kingdom.

I envy persons of faith. Faith, as in the blind belief in something, lacks empirical evidence. In the face of overwhelming hardship and adversity, such individuals find solace in knowing that they are not utterly alone and that things will somehow work themselves out. As an overly rational individual, I struggle just the same, with no respite in sight. Hands outstretched searchingly towards the unknown, I feel no kindred energies reaching back to answer my needs. To this day, I still have not heard my one-handed clap. One other thing I didn’t hear also as it crept up on me, was the Christmas festivities. Preoccupied with my studies of front-end web technologies, the occasional gaming session or two, and some truly embarrassing amounts of YouTube fail compilations, I suddenly found myself on the receiving end of attention and presents, as well as holiday greetings from friends, ex-colleagues and acquaintances via WhatsApp. Despite my personal dislike for these processes, I tried to reciprocate in kind. The distance was (still is) palpable. And I don’t just mean the physical such, as London entered a Tier 4 lockdown, but also the shadowy mental presence of disillusionment towards established norms. In other words, mediocrity will always be the bane of my existence. Then, there’s the matter of employment (or the lack thereof), as I scour the web space for junior roles. I have always found the wording on most job ads cold and contentious and was unpleasantly surprised to find out that this hasn’t changed much in the last 4 years. Too great an emphasis is being placed on the technical specs, while too small the appreciation for the self-motivated, the diligent and the responsible among us. I am yet to read an inviting job ad that would make me think to myself ‘Huh, cool! Whoever gets accepted is going to join a great team’. After all, we invest so much in trying to quantify and understand user experience, design philosophies and techniques that allow us to maximise and capitalise on the pros of our products while reducing cons, so why should this be any different when seeking new employees? My views are, of course, biased, given my lack of commercial experience or a university degree in the field I am applying for currently. There’s also an unhealthy amount of shyness and low self-esteem, as well as doubt and anxiety, too. One other matter of great personal importance, my casual affairs with writing, also warrants a line or two here and contributes to the overarching narrative of my December 2020. As always, I have a bunch of excuses as to why certain ideas do not progress as quickly as I’d originally anticipated. At this point in my life, I do not expect to be able to make money out of writing about the things I want to talk about. So, I struggle to strike a harmonious coexistence between my spontaneous creative nature, and the monthly direct debits. The latter exudes a subtle, yet apparent influence on the style and the nuance of the former. This won’t ever change for me, but I try and sweep such thoughts under the mental rug of my psyche. We keep (somewhat) calm, and carry on.

Eyes transfixed on a pair of parted lips, the color and firmness of sour cherries, I pass through a thin veil of processed vanilla and powdered sugar into a world of warm kaleidoscopic rain. Sometime later, she texted me that it was all but a pleasant mistake. This is one of many tapes, stuck in replay, and a bittersweet memory that I enjoy recalling, even if running the risk of replacing factual reality with imaginary constructs. I can only hope I will be forgiven if I end up writing about such moments of cosmic insignificance, more than once in future posts. 2021 will also be a lonesome year for me, and a step closer to the inexorable finale that we all have to face sooner or later. I promise myself to continue to try, while you—you’ll just have to wait and see. Thank you for taking the time to read through this slob. Good luck and a Happy New Year when you get there.