Transcript from a Session between Rex Young and Dr. Jay

Dear Lenore,

I'm worried about your psychic integrity after this whole incident in which Rex Young murdered your bird in such a Dostoevskian manner. You must be asking yourself again: how am I any different from a character in a novel, or how do I have any existence apart from words words words? Perhaps you even recognize the power of Dostoevsky's own "fictional words" over Rex's "real actions". I need to have some access to your reaction to the fact that reality and fiction have blurred even further in your mind to the point where you hardly trust the words your mind uses to represent your mind's own lack of trust in the words it uses to represent its own lack of trust in its... as you can see, I've been talking to Rex, but I want you to see that he's... well... he's... trying?:

-Dr. Jay

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JAY: Enter.
REX: Don’t say it.
JAY: I’m sorry?
REX: …
JAY: Very well then, let’s see. You must be… Mr. …
REX: Dr. Jay, I presume?—Damnit!
JAY: Mr. … Young! Is something wrong, Mr. Young?
REX: Damnit. I knew I was going to say that. And I knew that—
JAY: I’m sorry Mr. Young, you knew that you were going to say what?
REX: The ironic Livingstone quip: ‘Dr. Jay, I presume?’ I knew I was going to say that when I walked in here. And I knew I was going to react cynically to my having said it. And I knew I was going to engage in this recursively self-referential, desperately ironic, if not somewhat honest, but ultimately self-gratifyingly-epithetical self-remonstration after my cynical reaction. And (I could keep going) but I need help.
JAY: I see. Yes, I see.
REX: This is my problem.
JAY: Yes. I can definitely help you with your problem, Mr. Young. Now—well, before we get started with your breakthrough (and I can see that a breakthrough is certainly, very near)—before we actually get started I just need to address one … well, pecuniary matter, if you please—
REX: Oh, come on! Are you fucking kidding me? How am I supposed not to respond cynically to that. See? This is cynical. This is my fucking problem. Damnit!
JAY: Yes, I … see. I was … Yes, I was hoping for that response. Very good. Yes…
REX: Jesus! How am I going to stop being cynical if you keep feeding me bullshit! “I was hoping for that.” Bullshit. THIS is my problem.
JAY: Wonderful. Just what I was hoping for. You see, Mr. Young, every time I say something that seems worthless and bullshit and a complete waste of your money you have the opportunity to decide whether or not to respond cynically. Here. This is an opportunity.
REX: …
JAY: See?
REX: ‘See?’ Are you serious? This is a joke right? ‘See?’ Give me a fucking break. See. See me make a pecuniary matter out of your pretty, little quack face. See.
JAY: Interesting. When was the last time you made love?
REX: What? I know what you’re doing and I’m not going to say it but I have to say it because if I don’t say it then I’m not acknowledging it which, after fourteen-or-so more steps of logic, would render life meaningless. Ok, I’m going to say it. But you understand that I’m only saying it because I have to say it, right?
JAY: It’s been that lo—
REX: You asked me when I last made love because you knew it would elicit an ironic-slash-cynical response which itself would elicit a self-referential—I don’t even know what ironic-slash-cynical means anymore. Fucking words. This is worthless. I used to be a great writer you know.
JAY: Irony is not your problem, Mr. Young.
REX: “says the psychiatrist ironically.”
JAY: Your problem is that you haven’t yet considered … well, compensating me to divulge certain, maybe useful—I’m not suggesting anything technically unethical here—certain useful information about the object of your … frustration.
REX: Lenore?
JAY: It would be absolutely, fully confidential, of course.
REX: I used to be a great writer. I used to know how not to care about women. What the fuck has happened me?
JAY: …a very reasonable fee…
REX: Life is meaningless. How did this happen.
JAY: …and that reminds me of a certain, well, pecuniary matter…
REX: Who am I? Please let me ask “who am I” without sounding ironic-slash-cynical-slash-cliché-slash…pre-post-modern. Who the fuck am I?!
JAY: …
REX: Who am I.

JAY: Now it doesn't even sound like a question. You still meant that as a question, right? Let's start over.

REX: ...

JAY:...

REX: Don't say it.
JAY: I'm sorry?
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Paper-Airplane #1003

Lenore, I have written this letter a thousand times. Maybe I’ll write it a thousand times more before it becomes the letter that you deserve. Incidentally, in the previous seven iterations of this letter I wrote the same first two sentences. And in the previous six iterations I wrote the same first three sentences. And in the previous five iterations I wrote — wait.

Lenore, I have written this letter a thousand times. Maybe I’ll write it a thousand times more before it becomes the letter that you deserve. I'm trying. This is the first iteration of the letter that I've written in which the previous sentence wasn’t cynical/ironic/self-referentially clever. Postponing irony until the fourth sentence is a serious feat for me, Lenore—almost as serious as postponing self-referential — wait.

Lenore, I have written — wait.

I can’t do this. I haven’t written this letter a thousand times, Lenore. I was just writing that to try to create an interesting rhetorical foundation for what would have been a brilliant piece of non-literary prose-poetry. But I don’t care about literature right now. I care about you. Incidentally, perhaps this unexpected honesty provides an even more interesting rhetorical foundation for what will be an even more brilliant piece of non-literary prose-poetry. Was that ironic? I didn’t mean it to be. I’m just trying to be honest, Lenore. There, that wasn’t ironic. But that was self-referential. And now this is definitely self-referential and maybe ironic as well. I’m trying, Lenore. I’m really trying. You have no idea how hard it is for me not to write a sentence considering whether or not I really am trying by writing “I’m really trying.” I’m really trying, Lenore. Or how hard it is for me not to write a sentence considering how hard it is for me not to write — wait.

I can’t do this. What do you want from me, Lenore? You’re killing me. This is real. This is not cynical. This is not ironic. You are forcing me to kill myself by not being myself. But can’t you see that I’m trying? Fuck. This is not ironic. Jesus Christ. Fuck. Fuck you. I wanted to write “Fuck You!” but the exclamation mark made it look silly. Fuck. Fuck! This is not a shield, Lenore. I’m fucking dying. Fuck! FUCK! — wait.

Wait. Wait. Wait.

Ok. Can you see that I’m trying, Lenore? Do you care? Don’t you care that I can write “Do you care?” without writing a self-referentially, ironic — wait.

Ok. Can you see that I’m trying, Lenore? Do you care? I care. I care enough not to write what you know I want to write right now. Can’t you see that I care? I’m crying, Lenore.

Ok. I’m leaving now. I can’t write anything more.¹

Wait. I need to write something more. I’m listening, Lenore. I’m trying, I’m feeling, I’m dying, I’m believing, I’m crying, and I’m listening. I hope your way of thinking can affect mine. Maybe it will save me.

This is what I wanted to write: Is trying enough?


________
¹ At least let me be cynical/ironic/self-referentially clever in my footnotes. You can’t expect me to go cold-turkey. I wanted to say that I actually did write this letter a thousand times. And I will write it a thousand times more if I have to. And if I still can’t write the words that you deserve, I’ll make my letters into a fleet of paper-airplanes and fly them through the hallway, past your desk, through the window and into the dumpster. And maybe you will reach out and grab one. And if you grab this one, Lenore, then you will know that I – wait.

How can a man write “I love you” without being ironic?

There's good self-consciousness, and then there's toxic, paralyzing, raped-by-psychic-Bedouins self-consciousness.

Are these words dead on the page? Will they appear too sentimental? If I write without a certain cynical self-referential irony (whoops) will you mock me?

What if I'm not cynical? What if I think it's too exhausting to be cynical? What if I'm cynical about being cynical? Is that ironic or just convoluted and nonsensical? Is that question itself ironic? Do you see how stupid that sounds?

Ask yourself: at what point does your hyperawareness climax in some kind of psychic overload and even basic human awareness is no longer possible because your brain was never meant (this doesn't invoke Fatalism or God) to be contorted in such reflexive shapes? Can you think yourself into becoming a sociopath?

I think irony is just a flimsy shield you overuse to deflect the most basic blows delivered to anyone who bothers to attempt to live.

Weltschmerz isn't my favorite German word. It's kind of pathetic that it's yours.

You killed my bird and my heart (don't laugh at that sentiment - I mean it more than you've ever meant anything, probably) that night.

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I guess on a basic level, if I set my inquiry into your indecipherable motivations aside, I shouldn't really be surprised. After all, there's something sadly ironic and even appropriate (given your fixation on irony) about the fact that the first man I considered becoming intimate with in four years murdered the only substitute for intimacy I've had for the last four years. I'm talking about you, Rex, killing my bird, by the way.

You walked in without knocking or ringing. You know I'm a very jumpy person, so why'd you do that? I almost cut my finger off since I was in the middle of dicing onions. As I recovered from my shock, you fed me a quotation from Wittgenstein which I've since attempted to track down without success. Did you make it up? If you did fabricate it, does that make it even more Wittgensteinian? I hate the way your thinking has affected mine and I fear that I'll never be able to expunge (I can write like I've read a thesaurus, too, Rex and it doesn't make either of us into a great writer) the detritus you've spewed onto my frontal lobe.

I can't believe we almost made love. I wasn't thinking. Thank God you killed my bird. I just wanted to make contact with you - to feel you feel me - something about how careless you seem to be made me want to try to pull you out of your comfortable manner of hip-ennui and dismissal and actually feel something for me. I wanted you to love me - to love me without commenting on your love for me or commenting on your commenting of your love for me - to wake up in the morning and not want to get out of bed - not because the enormity of your anxiety paralyzed you, but because you were exactly where you wanted to be - can you imagine what that feels like? I think I can.

Listen, Rex, I'm lonely. There's nothing ironic about my loneliness. You may disagree and say there's something ironic about the fact that my oppressive father owns a company that makes baby food and that his various machinations have arrested my development such that in many ways I have the emotional maturity of an infant, but listen...

I'm lonely. I've always been lonely. I'm not sure if I've ever met anyone who made me feel less lonely. Maybe Rick. Probably not. I've met people who've made me laugh, or cry, or offered me companionship on some level, but even then I've still woken up in the morning and usually cried before getting out of bed. I don't know why. Neither does Dr. Jay. Often, I feel sick and stuck inside myself - I can't speak and I can barely breathe and I shut my eyes and just listen to myself barely breathe and there are moments where it seems like I won't be able to draw another breath or let another out - that my entire respiratory system is suspended in some thick, sticky liquid that I may not overcome unless I shut my eyes tighter. Are you listening?

I want you to listen because I want you to understand that this loneliness hasn't made me a cynic or an ironist - that it doesn't have to work that way - that when you feel lonely or shameful, or shameful about your loneliness - that you can internalize it without letting it deaden you - that you could feel the shame and respond by doing your best to never shame someone else - that you could become an altruist instead of a cynic.

Case and point: you drive a DeLorean, because you like to think of the car as some kind of essential, but overlooked symbol of your generation, encapsulating the promises of technological advances and optimism which were completely unfounded and on some level you feel ashamed for having believed you'd ever get to ride a hoverboard or get rich from a sports almanac, or kiss your mom when she was 18, but you allowed that pain to make you into a cynic. You drive the DeLorean as an iconoclast. Really - it's just a shitty car from an even shittier movie trilogy that's part of the cultural landscape of your generation; you had no business taking its depiction of the possibilities of time travel seriously. Perversely, you especially like to make love to women who confuse their attraction to your DeLorean as a piece of their lost childhood (lost, by the way, because too many men like you have lied to them and made them insecure about themselves so they desperately search for access to a time when they were more secure and naive: childhood) with an attraction for the man who is driving it. If you want irony, consider the fact that you're using a childhood association in order to perform a very adult act. Is that irony? Or is that just disgusting?

I'm so glad you killed my bird. I can see this alternate dimension so clearly where we're lying in bed together and I've actually convinced myself that our intimacy means the same thing to you as it means to me. Would you ever admit to being lonely? I'll bet you've made your wife very lonely.

Just so you know, I don't romanticize this pain. I've actually come to realize that being lonely is better than being in the company of a doting cynic/ironist.

In case it's lost on you, know that this whole piece is a testament to the fact that the hyperawareness of cognition and expression that you seem to value above any sentiment is not restricted to the application of irony, cynicism, or cryptic verbosity. It can be used to expose sentiment - to risk sounding naive and stupid - I think if you actually appreciated this fact, your facade would come crashing down and you might finally experience some approximation of who you really are - if it makes sense to even speak in such terms to you.

I can't believe I almost made love to you.