tsvetoslav shalev

“Did you say the stars were worlds, Tess?”
“Yes.”
“All like ours?”
“I don’t know, but I think so. They sometimes seem to be like the apples on our stubbard-tree. Most of them splendid and sound – a few blighted.”
“Which do we live on – a splendid one or a blighted one?”
“A blighted one.”

― Thomas Hardy, Tess of the D’Urbervilles

Recently, I sacrificed some sleep to sit outside and keep Jessie company, as he slept on the ground next to me. Am I imagining things, or was the stillness of a starlit sky over the countryside, some two decades ago, only ever disturbed by the odd object burning up in the atmosphere? Nowadays, what with the rapid development of commercial spaceflight and satellite infrastructure, the heavens appear positively congested. My eyes keep noticing aeroplanes, drones, and myriad satellites as they whisk around in such numbers that the stars themselves seem diminished. The great beyond appears as if reduced to a minimalist background, not unlike the mass-produced “art” sold at your local IKEA. Yes, even a perfect reprint is just a fancy decoration, and no price tag can help it. Only the gesture of gifting can nudge the needle in how we perceive such objects. After all, it’s the sentiment that counts, right? Right.

My relationship with money and the things money can buy has evolved over the years, but it has never been purely transactional. The stuff I accumulate on impulse I seldom enjoy, let alone think about for more than a few brief moments post factum. Yes, I too have contributed greatly to the growing trend of “treatonomics“. The preconditions don’t just include the availability (or lack thereof) of disposable income, but also the impoverishment of the mind—feel free to use the word ‘soul’, if it feels more comfortable. I’m good, thank you. After close to two decades of trial and error, of buying myself “meaning and contentment”, I get the sense that those of us lucky enough to have been born in the largely-developed world can end up having a perfectly decent life, completely devoid of anything profound. It’s almost as if a price tag alone doesn’t transplant value. What do, are associations. Take, for example, a spent cigarette butt, littering the space just outside the entrance to a petrol station’s shop. At first glance, it is just that—litter, not even worth the energy of picking it up and disposing of it properly. A member of staff (or the wind) will come and sweep it up. In Orhan Pamuk’s Museum of Innocence, however, four thousand two hundred and thirteen of said cigarette butts—pinned, mounted, dated—become the most coveted of artefacts in the eyes of one afflicted with a pathological obsession with a distant cousin.

When I was younger, if I felt loved and appreciated, each gift, each gesture, was an affirmation made manifest. When the inevitable breakup ensued, whatever light I ascribed to these things died with it, rendering them worthless. It took me living through ten thousand nights of rain to wash away whatever had lodged in this heart of mine during adolescence. Nowadays, I’m often guilty of the extreme opposite. No gift, no matter how generous, means more to me than how I feel towards the giver in that moment in linear time, and that alone. Speak, memory. As we entered the cosy kitchenette of our Airbnb, she handed me a paper gift bag. This being my first date in years—my first strong romantic emotions since my late teens, no less—I almost completely brushed aside the bag and its contents. She must’ve expected a different reaction, one of genuine surprise and gratitude, but I was already too overwhelmed by the neural storm of our shared reality to even register that I was letting her down in that moment; her radiant presence was all the light I could possibly see. Apologetic, I started going through the contents of the gift bag, turning them in my hands one by one, paying each the homage its lovely giver had every right to expect of me… Our relationship, in its romantic form, did not last. Yet, unlike days of yore, these objects did not end up in a skip. They travelled with me the length of Europe, from my house in Leigh to my parents’ home in Tutrakan. In a way, they (among a fair few others collected throughout the years) have become bookmarks of a sort to various chapters in my life; physical reminders that not all of what I can recall of my past is imagined. Some of it was real, even if the details elude me.

I don’t think I’ll soon tire of reiterating the observable fact that we all live on the very crust of a giant rock, spinning on its axis whilst simultaneously flying through a void in the company of others, including an even bigger burning ball. Much like a rotisserie chicken, we are spun around to get light and warmth alternating with their absence. We must be thoroughly done by now. This, a present that’s lasted billions of years, and will continue to be that way for a little while longer. In an attempt to make sense of it, our ancestors have given things names. When the giant burning ball is visible, we call it Day; when gone, we call that Night. Our floating companions are heavenly bodies, with two in particular, the Sun and the Moon, cast as siblings. We tell such fantastical stories about them, and so much more, that a past and a future inevitably colour the reality which surrounds us.

If objective reality is the terrain, our journey through it is mapped in large part by narrative. Whenever something doesn’t quite match, we suffer. Under such circumstances, we can redraw the map—but only up to a point. We all fancy ourselves the co-authors of shared experience, and for the most part we are. And yet, we ought not forget that even one such declaration as “all men are created equal, endowed with rights unalienable,” was never found in the terrain of a continent new to its authors. Instead, it was written with ink, yes, but ultimately signed with the blood of eight years of deadly human conflict. The stories we share can sustain us or expedite our demise.

For better or worse, narratives shape more than just the contours of our lives. Outside their context, we risk being reduced to the state of a thin crust of fungi on the surface of a slice of bread. Proof of existence like ours anywhere beyond our planet would be of profound significance; in most households, however, finding mould on your bread is merely a nuisance, a precursor to food waste. Yet even mould can bloom in tiny constellations, if you care to look.

“June suns, you cannot store them
To warm the winter’s cold,
The lad that hopes for heaven
Shall fill his mouth with mould.”

— A. E. Housman, More Poems

So long as we remember who holds the pen, and that it’s just that—a pen—I think we will be alright. I hope.