Hello next-level America. Happy New Year. Have I come to the right place? It’s high upon a hill, this party destination, at the end of a sinewy road that snakes unnecessarily to the topmost view in the city. I guess someone has to be there, I muse. I’m early, unfashionably first to arrive. That’s good in one sense, as I’ll catch a few moments of one-on-one time with the amiable host. His name’s Ed, which doesn’t feel like it fits his stately abode. He’ll be pleased to see me, says I’m one of his favorite people, after all. He wants to gather me amongst his new yet disparate clique, showing us off to one another, pulling us from our separate tracks and reflecting the magnetic pull of his life, which full of…something. Ushered along a high foyer, I glance at the artwork that adorns his home, some of which is his work. The area is lavish, colorful, psychedelic in flavor, and it draws the visitor to a center that offers luxury and warmth to counter a sparse, vaguely industrial feel. Within minutes, other guests arrive and before long, talk of art, dance, sculpture, and music fills the air. Smiles abound beneath twinkling eyes, winning laughter, and garrulous demeanors. Most of these people: they know one another, see other at work, or else in work-peripheral endeavors. They’re on committees together, share lawyers, doctors, and financial advisors. They invest in projects, patronize the local arts council. A woman Ed wants me to meet is from Russia and will blow my mind, he says.
She doesn’t. Or her body does, for she has piercing green eyes within a scalene face, ala Taylor Swift. She’s half amazon, half-muse, undecided as to what works best. A gothic necklace around her sturdy branch draws my eye but it’s nothing compared to what’s happening below. No, not the middle. Past the midsection, which is mostly obscured by furs, she wears a mini-skirt from which two muscular legs stretch out, poised for a stomping. These trunks could jackhammer the earth beneath us all if she wanted and she wears the knowledge of this with a serene yet arrogant look. As for her mind, it doesn’t so much blow as whisper with expectation. What she does is speak in a quiet voice as the sound of chatter amid clinking glasses gets steadily louder. She speaks haltingly of finding “free” space in her art, which has something to do with churches and rockets, is spiritual in nature yet possessing of a wild, nihilistic fervor. Gingerly now, she laughs as she offers a leading query, wanting my thoughts on the nature of the wild in the modern…what was it? An exuberant shout of another partygoer has drowned out the question so I lean in, perhaps appearing to steer a kiss at her before turning my ear and appealing for repetition. This conversation, plus the effort it’s taking to make it happen, much less divine understanding of my fellow guest, is yielding a great strain in me. This will be a long night, I surmise, now aiming a look past the woman’s shoulder to a collection of guests forming in pockets. Everyone here is situated in a social bath that has enveloped them with ease and it will carry them through the night, and time will seem to pass unnoticed. Indeed, they will pass the night unnoticed, because that’s what it’s like when you’re fitting in nicely and feeling good. You’re invisible.
“Are you hungry?” I ask the woman before me. She still wears an expectant expression, as I’m yet to supply sustenance of another kind—to be interesting or juxtaposing in return. Her face twitches in confusion as if to suggest that food and drink, the impressive refreshments that our host has laid out, is nothing compared the quest for free space in the realm of art, or something like that. I politely recede, gesturing to my nearly empty glass, suggesting a refill is necessary. She nods, lets me go with faint hurt, but appearing more sympathetic, because intoxication is closer to the spirit of artistic bliss, or at least the more apt physical regression for this end of year context. Next, I am circling a teak-topped island that houses the array of delicacies, appetizers, aperitifs, bottles of sprinkling soda water and sundry delicious edibles. A plate of salmon pieces upon toothpicks entices me to the other side of the island so I inch along its perimeter, meeting flickering looks from other guests. Here, people assess within a nanosecond whether you’re recognizable, whether you’re worth talking to, and if you’re not, there’s a thin smile, an obligatory nod, or possibly a blank gaze on offer as you nudge by them.
By the time I’ve reached the salmon, I stake out a spot that might suit me for the remainder of the evening. A foot of space either side of the plate is mine, so anyone encroaching will have to reach past me, or request entry into the zone. Then, as a bonus, I notice the champagne and wine bottles are flanking the fish section, so I can load up for another round of snack and drink, keeping my mouth occupied without having to speak. The only problem is the conspicuous gap all around me, like a moat of air, or “free” space, perhaps, as that woman might have put it. Now she’s in the distance, speaking much louder than she did with me, calling out in barking Russian a bray of greetings towards a new pocket of guests. Soon, this art gallery cum luxury home will be overrun with rich, interesting, attractive and sociable people who are all in their element, it seems—all feeling quite at home, or else comfortably or confidently stepping out of their homes to take in this celebration, this gathering of pleasure and hope that’s happening while society is collapsing. Yeah, that’s where my mind went. Will it sink, this fixture of glass and steel, artwork and luxury furnishings, under the weight of the oblivious rich and go tumbling down the hill on which it lives. Then, will it plunge into the tented development down at sea level and crush the poor that sleep there?
I have nothing to say except that, I want to say. Only I won’t. I’ll keep that thought, like I’ll keep myself, to myself. At best, I remain in my lonely spot, clearly separated from any clique, an apparent runt in the social order: an outcast, someone who’s not reading the room, but stands there as if he is doing just that. As the minutes pass, I field the odd cold look from a disapproving guest. I’m not following the rules here. I should at least position myself in reasonable earshot of conversation and contribute a thought or two, or at least an indulgent chuckle at a guest’s half-drowned out witticism. A couple of feet, possibly a bit more, is surely the limit of distance before a separatist attitude becomes apparent. My unpartnered, refreshment-chomping presence will soon be getting on nerves, embarrassing the collective, compelling the host to step forward to make a polite inquiry: can I get you anything? I’d love to introduce you around some more. That would be the call, the right move on Ed’s part but for the fact that I seem fixed in my spot around the kitchen island, not budging from my seized property and hogging the wine, champagne and salmon, if not quite the cheese, which is on the other side of the island, out of reach. Oh well, you can’t have everything, I want to say to people who might disagree and think that some people can have nearly everything—if they try, if they really try. Meanwhile, as my cheeks fill with more food, my smile widens and now my own eyes are twinkling, for I am like a pig in shit, grinning as a greedy interloper, not interested in art, or culture. Only consumption, plus a little politics, I suppose.
Finally, Ed approaches with a nervous laugh, like he’s about to intervene. But a pocket of silence seems to fall about us as it seems the party is backgrounded. The sound of chatter and movement seems to dissolve into a soft white noise as Ed locks eyes with me. A sympathetic chuckle prefaces his pally, “what’s up” overture. “Not much”, I say dully, as if determined to not try. “Absolutely nothing”, I then add, feeling spontaneously provocative. Enjoying yourself? I want to ask, with layered meaning. How did he get this life? That might have been my follow-up. Ed nods in a fashion that heralds a validating gesture. He knows exactly what I’m talking about. He gets where I’m coming from, etc. Suddenly, it occurs to me that where he’s from is pally and down to earth, not perched on a hillside looming over the world. As I find the question that fits the moment, I note that I’m adopting a touch of the southern drawl that matches Ed’s background—Tennessee. “What are yawl talking about tonight?” I ask. And this is where he seems to relate. “Nothing”, he says, still nodding, but adding a knowing, bond-seeking laugh. “Absolutely nothing”.
Graeme Daniels Psychewriter 