Empty Words

by MARIO LEVRERO

  September 25

  My handwriting therapy continues. Yesterday, the person who usually reviews these pages said the writing had become a bit more difficult to read after the long break. I think there are at least two reasons for this, and one, of course, is lack of practice. The other, which is interesting to consider, is the fact that yesterday, unlike previously, the act of saying something and the question of how to say it (in other words, literature) felt more important than the pure calligraphical exercise.

  Right. I’m getting distracted again and paying too little attention to the handwriting and too much to the subject matter, which is anti-therapeutic, at least in the therapeutic context I’ve chosen. I’m sure this shift in focus would be welcome and constructive in other therapeutic contexts, but I can’t go mixing the different elements here. I need to stick to what I set out to do: producing a kind of insubstantial but legible text.

  I think my handwriting’s clearer today than yesterday. Let’s see what the person who usually reviews these pages has to say about it.

  September 26

  More handwriting practice today. It’s clear from the first strokes of my pen that I’m feeling down, that my heart’s not in it, and I have no interest in talking myself around. Maybe I’m coming down with a cold, caught from Juan Ignacio or Pongo the dog, who’s feeling down today too. There could also be something about the weather that’s bothering us all. Most likely, though, is that my mood is the result of a dream I had this morning involving piles of dead, rotting, blood-covered rats and my grandmother. The dream, in turn, must be the result of everything I’ve been through in recent days (between the twelfth and twenty-first of this month). The figure of my grandmother in the dream surely corresponds to that of my mother in real life, since when I was at my mother’s side during those days, I often found myself thinking about her and my grandmother, and about how much my mother has come to resemble her mother with age. What’s more, there were very few moments during that period when I had a clear sense of being next to my mother: instead I felt, with a profound, spontaneous certainty that came from deep within me, that she was my grandmother.

  In my dream last night, my grandmother lived in a house I was staying in; I was just passing through, as if visiting a new place, maybe a seaside resort. There were piles of dead rats in my bedroom, and then I started seeing them elsewhere around the house as well, especially in the kitchen. I said something about “calling the council or the police,” but in the end I didn’t. It was late, and besides, my grandmother seemed perfectly fine with what was going on, treating this situation that to me seemed so out of the ordinary as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

  September 27

  The important thing is to be very patient and concentrate hard, trying as much as possible to draw the letters one by one and giving no thought to the meanings of the words they’re forming—an operation which is almost the complete opposite of literature (especially because it involves slowing down my thinking, which is used to my typewriter and always wants to jump ahead, suggest new ideas, and make new connections between thoughts and images, concerned—it’s part of the job, I suppose—with the continuity and coherence of what’s being said).

  I need to stick to simple phrases, then, however empty or insubstantial they sound. The moment I start paying attention to the content, I lose sight of the point of this therapy (i.e., drawing every single letter).

  As I write this, Juan Ignacio is being a nuisance and trying to get his mother’s attention, while she’s enjoying a rare moment of relaxation and watching a film I recommended on the VCR. I notice Ignacio has been brought up not to accept his mother’s relaxing, having fun, or even being ill; when she does any of these things, he gets more demanding than usual, complaining and sulking intolerably. There’s an unhealthy equilibrium in this household and how it functions, the product of a set of habits or patterns of behavior that don’t do anyone any good. These patterns have been adopted gradually through “chance and necessity,” and the idea of altering even one of them leads to unease, nervousness, or even a crisis in any of the original members of the family unit.

  September 28

  I ought to get ahold of some phrases for practicing letters with “stems,” the sort of thing I used when I was learning to type. “European port,” “I’d like a table,” “quite a squint,” “tomato ketchup,” “fool’s gold.” But monotonous activities like that are so tedious. I’d rather make slower progress—a few steps forward, a few steps back—and often let my writing get smaller or more misshapen as my hand races wildly across the page in pursuit of my thoughts. Because I can’t stand repetitive, routine tasks, and—in writing, if not in life—want my experiences to be somehow new, unexpected, adventurous. Like, for example, my investigations into a computer whose instruction manual is incomplete.

  Earlier this week, after hours and days of hard work and research, and various (literally) thunderous failures, I persuaded the computer to make a noise. Then I managed to do it more consistently, knowing what I was doing, and yesterday I was finally able to make music (a basic, rudimentary little tune, but music nonetheless), all without the manual so much as mentioning the word “sound.” I managed it thanks to a program in BASIC with a few seconds of music in it, which I was able to “open” and “list.” The hardest part was making sense of the lengthy program code, identifying the part that referred to the music, and working out the meaning of a series of statements beginning with enigmatic words.

  September 29

  Today I didn’t have the chance to do these exercises (which, like all exercises, are best done daily) at my usual time, around noon—they’re normally the first activity of the day after breakfast—and so I’m doing them on what’s technically September 30, at 3 a.m. It should be understandable, then, if they don’t go as well as one might hope. I’m only starting them now because once I’d finished all the tasks that prevented me from doing them at the usual time, I forgot all about them and instead sat down at the computer to continue my investigations into sound. After a while, I managed to bring about some interesting birdlike cheeping, which I recorded, though I’m still not entirely sure how I managed it. Previously, using a similar method—or perhaps the same one, since I don’t remember exactly what steps I followed—I made it produce the sound of a guitar or mandolin. But I didn’t record that and now it’s lost, at least for the time being.

  I’m still not entirely sure how sound works on the computer. I know how sound works in general, but not specific sounds, since each one involves three values—or four, if we include duration. The most disconcerting thing is that varying one of these values sometimes has the same effect as varying another. So the research goes on, the investigations go on. And for now, I have the cheeping.

  September 30

  Today I’m starting slightly earlier than yesterday: 10:25 p.m. But my writing’s too small. Let’s see: a slight effort at enlargement. That’s better. Don’t let it shrink again. Good. Now to concentrate on forming each letter. Forming each letter. Forming each letter. Slowly does it … But how the hell do you do a capital S? S. L. §. &. It’s no use. I can’t remember. A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z. Well, I don’t remember the K or the S, and nor am I very confident about the Q. (Alicia’s come to bother me. She’s always extremely jealous of my time alone. If she sees me concentrating on something other than her she’ll invariably try to distract me, making me lose my thread, my flow, and spilling my cerebral juices all over the place. In my experience, this is a universal law. In the experience of other men I know too. But I still don’t fully understand it and it makes life very difficult. Really, these exercises I’m doing to strengthen my character are a clumsy substitute for literature. I thought I’d be able to write a single page like this every day with no trouble at all, but that’s not what happens when Alicia’s at home.)

  October 1

  Onward, then, with the handwriting therapy. I must confess that I’ve alread
y noticed some positive psychological results, or so I believe, all related to different aspects of self-affirmation. And even if I’m wrong about this, it’s still helpful to believe it. (To be honest, I can’t think of a single true belief, by which I mean a belief consistent with reality, that would make much practical difference to anything. But then all beliefs are actually false, i.e., inconsistent with reality, since they’re limiting, inadequate, and incapable of encompassing the rich variety of the Universe in all its dimensions. And yet precisely because they’re limiting, and as long as they aren’t wildly outlandish—and sometimes even if they are—beliefs can have a tangible, precise effect on everything you do. Which means that to get anywhere in life, you have to believe in something. In other words, you have to be wrong.)

  Let’s leave things there. I think this is doing me good, helping with my self-affirmation. I feel much cheerier as a result, and with renewed strength to go on fighting for my recovery, that thing that seems so difficult, and perhaps even impossible, to achieve. Of course, I’d make much more progress if I didn’t face such stark opposition from certain factions of the world around me; I know full well that every step I take toward self-affirmation on the inside is harshly punished on the outside. But I’ll keep fighting nevertheless, and I’ll get there.

  October 2

  The problem of making sounds on the computer is still plaguing me. It’s really two problems in one. First, I still don’t understand the function of each of the three values governing the production of a single sound, and second, although I know how to select the notes, I can’t make any real music out of them, not even a very simple melody. I’m having trouble with the rhythms, too, from both a technical and a musical point of view.

  October 3

  Today is not a good day. Alicia doesn’t feel well, which is understandable, since her maid has just announced out of the blue that today was her last day—she’s found a job in an office where she’ll start out earning almost two and a half times what she’s paid here. This is a real tragedy for us, comparable to the death of a relative or close friend. I hope that time, the great healer, will gradually soothe the pain of this terrible loss, though everyone knows there’s not a woman alive today who can compare to our good, efficient, obedient, taciturn, sublime Antonieta.

  October 4

  A bad day for calligraphical exercises, and for lots of other things too. It’s raining (which I enjoy, though it makes me even more inclined than usual to sleep and do nothing). Yesterday (today) I went to bed after five in the morning; at ten thirty I was woken up by a truck with loudspeakers attached, which stopped right outside our house and held forth about some stupid raffle, at great length and appalling volume. Then, without having gotten back to sleep properly—I’d been dozing, but that was it—at twelve thirty I was woken up once and for all by Juan Ignacio and his grandmother, who were shouting for the dog in a deafening chorus. Because of all this, my eyes are burning and I don’t feel like doing anything. I notice, however, that except for the odd slipup, my writing is large and clear.

  October 6

  It’s fitting and helpful to have a ritual like this, of writing first thing every day. There’s something of a religious spirit about it, and you need that in life—though I’ve been losing it over the years for various reasons, along with Humanity as a whole. It’s very irritating to be so easily influenced by, and dependent upon, a society whose opinions, motivations, aims, and beliefs I mostly don’t share. But a person means so little as an isolated being, however much they’ve strengthened themselves as an individual and however emphatic their individualism may be. The fact is, all the individuals in the world are nothing but the crossover points between threads that stretch far beyond us, reaching from one unknown place to another. Not even this language I’m using belongs to me. I didn’t invent it, and if I had it would be no use for communicating anyway.

  This trivial digression was interrupted by Juan Ignacio (who’s just looked over my shoulder and seen his name written down and wants to know what this is all about). (So I write: “Juan Ignacio is a fool.”)

  October 13

  I’m a naughty boy. I haven’t done my homework for days. I haven’t showered for days, either. I smell terrible.

  It all started when Antonieta left—our house hasn’t been the same since. Not that it was ever anything special, but now it’s much worse. I can’t work out why this is happening. I’ve had maids before, at various times in my life, and their absences never particularly troubled me. They’d come once or twice a week and whisk through the work in two to three hours. My house was always reasonably clean, maybe because I’m a tidy person. Dirty dishes would pile up in the kitchen, but when they started bothering me I’d roll up my sleeves and wash them myself. The bed was never made, but I didn’t mess it up much when I slept, so at night all I had to do was straighten the sheets and blankets a bit. I don’t see the problem with an unmade bed or a few unwashed plates. But my opinion (that “the Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath”) counts for nothing in this house; instead, we live within a rigid structure determined by Cleanliness, which has become a value more highly prized than People and Life.

  October 16

  Yesterday I managed only three and a half lines of exercises, and then I was interrupted and had to stop. It happened just as I was beginning to write about interruptions, or rather, about my desperate need for some continuity in my work, some order and discipline, because these mindless, scattered days aren’t doing me any good. They overwhelm me, making me forget who I am and sucking the meaning out of existence.

  It’s not that I define myself by my work, and nor am I one of those people who can’t live without something to do or even who have the capacity to get bored. No, when I talk about continuity in my work, I might just as well be talking about continuity in my free time. What matters is the continuity itself, and the psychological danger comes from fragmentation—at least, it does in my case, and in this phase of my life.

  It’s not interruptions or changes in activity that upset things, but rather sudden interruptions and forced changes when I haven’t had the chance to complete a psychological process, whether in my work or in my leisure activities.

  The situation is made worse by the accumulation of things to do, which, thanks to all the interruptions, I never get around to. Days, weeks, and months can go by like this; unfinished tasks mount up and weigh on me, and it seems impossible to get through them all—unless, as with my monthly crossword obligations, they become urgent. I live from one urgency to the next.

  October 17

  I’ve realized that the system of interruptions governing this house derives from the fact that Alicia is a fractal being (see Mandelbrot) with a fractal pattern of behavior. And since she decides what goes on in this family, everything that goes on is fractal and can develop only in a fractal way, like a snowflake.

  Psychological fractility must surely correspond to some psychological fracture. I don’t think these phenomena have been studied in enough detail. For now, I could formulate a kind of law to describe the general behavior of this family I find myself in: “Any movement toward a goal will immediately be diverted toward another goal, and so on, and the movement toward the original goal may or may not ever be resumed.”

  October 25

  Today I failed in my grand plans to start living more healthily, with less time spent on things like reading and using the computer, precisely because of an irresistible urge to use the computer. There’s always some idea I want to try out, or some mystery that needs solving once and for all. I think the computer is taking the place of my Unconscious as a field of investigation. I went as far as I could with my investigations into my Unconscious, and the by-product of those investigations is the literature I’ve written (although literature was also a tool I used in those investigations, in some cases at least).

  To be honest, the world of the computer is very similar to the world of the Unconscious, with lots of hidden elemen
ts and a language to decipher. I probably feel like there’s nowhere left to go when it comes to investigating my Unconscious; the computer also involves much less risk, or risk of a different kind.

  The strangest thing about all this is the value I ascribe to investigating something that is, quite definitely, of no use to me whatsoever. And yet I clearly do see it as immensely valuable, as if there were vitally important clues hidden in the workings of the machine. (Once again I got distracted by the topic and paid no attention to forming the letters properly, or to the size of my writing.)

  October 26

  Over the past few days spring has sprung, or rather it’s loudly announced its presence all over the place. Our garden is teeming with plants we didn’t plant; they’re popping up everywhere, apparently of their own volition or because the soil itself is feeling inspired. They develop quickly, getting bigger by the day and making themselves very much at home. There’s a proliferation of insects and feverish activity among the ants. In the street the girls are blossoming too, their breasts seeming to awaken and press keenly against light fabrics that barely conceal them. They look around boldly, their eyes full of life and the pleasure of living.

  My own personal spring primarily involves taking high doses of psychiatric medication in a (futile) attempt to control the usual anxiety running through my veins. The seasons are all the same in this house, each as depressingly oppressive as the last. A big invisible clock marks the same time for every day, every month, every year; it marks the rhythm of the blood in the veins, the beating of the heart, the forbidden desires, forbidden but sometimes—if the clock allows it—permitted in dribs and drabs. Life, with its own logic, its own hungers and needs, is going on somewhere, but not here. Here, all that goes on is the prisoner’s unproductive solitude, the inner chill that summer will never dispel. Time doesn’t run alongside us and we don’t know how to play with it; time is nothing but a murderer, slow but sure, watching mockingly from behind its scythe as it lets us go on enjoying—in manageable portions—the cold that awaits us in the tomb that bears our name.