Matt Valentine's Blog for Writers and Readers

So when I find myself here - no relationship, no assets, no property, no paid job - I ask myself; what is my worth?

It seems that we are programmed to 'succeed' and that success is scored out of a traditional, well established, accepted and expected norm of 10. 1) The Home to Call Your Own 2) The Whitest of Weddings 3) The Spouse 4) The Family 5) The Money to put all your kids into Harverd 6) The Career (to pay for your kids education amongst other things) 7) The Buzzing Social Life 8) At least One Car 9) The two-to-three-to-four Holidays a Year. and 10) The Unlisted Number (to filter the hoards of nobody's who are desperate to know you - 'The Somebody').

Hmmm.... well here I score 1.5. The one is my glorious 9 weeks a year in India, perhaps shed half a point by the 6 months it takes to pay the debts that have accumulated whilst away. The other half a point is my car, yes I have a car. it has no MOT or Tax so is rotting in the driveway, so just half a point.

So I begin to wonder...just how would I be seen by the system of programming generations that automatically welcome high scorers in the success stakes? I am 36, Single, I rent my apartment, have £1.86 (about $2.30c) in my bank account, a rusty car and an unemployment cheque (check) in the post. What am I? Well...that I can't tell you.

But what I can tell you is; I sleep like a baby, I wake up giggling, I dance when there's no music and I hug strangers.

1.5 out of 10? Paff! I wouldn't have it any other way.

Previous:

Dining Alone

Walking through the city suburbs to the kebab shop, again I walk carrying the lonely white carrier bag containing my greasy meal for one. I call into the off licence for the usual Cabernet Syrah. I know I shouldn’t really be drinking wine or eating such bad food, it won’t help these ‘viral sweats’ I’ve been having. But as usual, I hope that the grease, wheat, toxins and bread will fill a hollow within my heart. It doesn’t, of course, but my ego convinces me otherwise.

And so I arrive home, slump in front of the TV with my hoard of fast food and throw myself into emotional-eating. Twenty minutes later I feel nauseas, hot, sweaty and don’t smell too good. Oh well, it distracts me for a while from the absence of family, friends and that special someone.

Usually I would then take a sleeping pill and go to bed; blocking out the reality of the isolation, but this time, although I feel deeply sad, I decide to surrender to how I am feeling. And so I sit at my laptop, not needing to concentrate as my pain just flows from my body, bypassing the blockages of chicken kebab, chips and naan bread. My laptop soaks up the realness of my distress, understanding what many don’t. And so I recall the previous Monday’s Spanish class: “Tonight we are doing ‘la familia’ – the family. Everyone is to do their family tree, learn the relationship in Spanish and then go into pairs and discuss your favourite members of your family.” My mouth dries and I tell myself it isn’t as big deal. But at the same time i look around the room to see if anyone else seems to be struggling with it. I don’t notice anyone; “Mine are all dead” I say to the teacher in a defensive, allusive tone. “Oh you just put ‘superman’ ‘batman’ then and make the names up” Oh that makes me feel much better.

The night goes  from bad to worse as ‘we’  introduce our ‘favourite family member’ and tell  our partners ‘how many are in my family’ I jest to hide my shame of being an orphan but I think my anger and resentment at all those bastards taking family for granted shows. How fucking dare they assume everyone has family, a partner, husband, wife. How can they expose me in this way? Why the fuck am I the only one in a class of thirty with no-one? My experience of detachment and resentment towards everyone intensifies with each ‘sympathetic’ look and pitying glance. I wish I hadn’t come tonight.

©Matt Valentine 2009 Rights Asserted

The Last One Standing:

Walking down this fall-blessed street in downtown New York, I feel the promising chill of winter. The crisp air shivers my lungs as I breathe deeply. I jump from the sidewalk to plough my way through the mountains of auburn leaves as I make my way to Mo’s Place for my ritual morning espresso and a hot date with the New York Times.

It’ a new day in my new city and in my new life.

Yes it’s a new life for me, after six months of cocooning my wounds in my tiny but perfectly formed apartment in the upper precinct. You see, my mom died and although it was a relief in some ways (she was an alcoholic – a big one) I still had to grieve and let go of some pretty dark demons. But now, today; I feel good, alive and ready to stand on my own two feet.

Standing is a weird phenomenon. Look around you; how many people are actually standing strong? Many rush, stumble, strut, jog and shuffle; but watch carefully, how many are actually standing? City life tends to push you from behind at such a pace that it leaves no time for emotion, rest, grief, friendship, or indeed, standing. So today I figured I’d try it out.

As I stand in line for my caffeine hit and bagel, I sense an emptiness in my chest and a hollow feeling in my gut. I think of mom with a fondness and absent attachment. I look around at all the busyness in the cafe, guys in suits screaming into their Bluetooth, women in pressed jackets trying to look powerful; and then there’s me. Standing here, alone, waiting for my espresso. That’s all I’m doing but I feel like I’m changing the world. You see today, remember, I’m starting a new life so I’m not doing what I used to do. No running for the bus, no jogging to the subway and certainly no rushing to make a deadline. Now all I do is stand, drink coffee and read my paper.

Tonight when I get home, maybe I will write about it. Maybe I won’t. Death opens so many doors and puts city life; my life; into perspective. It’s all a crock of shit. Yeah so you make a lot of money, you get on the guest list at bar 38 and everyone knows your name. But that won’t really matter when you’re dead honey. And it certainly won’t matter when you’re being carried away by the paramedics because you weren’t looking where you were running.

I may just have enough money for my rent, my espresso and my New York Times. But people, listen up and listen good – I; am the last one standing.

©Matt Valentine 2008 Rights Asserted