je suis Gaguique
His inner voice questions
what’s the use
of delivering lahmajos
find a proper job to your liking.
Your idleness is striking.
Why would this bacon in suit speak in rhymes, this simulacrum of a spirit, this potential slave, this overmotivated camel, this tame alter ego of mine with his potential to become the any second one?
Gago, aka Gaguique, my bro, my buddy, mate slept through the week, deeply, selflessly and sweetly like a baker after a night’s shift, slept over the weekend, lighting up Garni cigarettes every thirty minutes, inhaling the smoke deep and slowly into his lungs, inhaling and then exhaling demonstratively symmetrically like a fake yoga instructor in a group of women-starters, lit up, then had a smoke, had processed cheese with bread and sour yoghurt after he woke, sliced bastourma, lay down to rise later, had some radish, purslane, potatoes, bread crusts, chewing which he remembered his silent God, drank water tasting like rust , cola without gas, lay down again, stifled his hoarse cough and froze heavily.
Gaguique, move your arse!
Call Melan, take her somewhere!
Shave, change your clothes
and merge with her
as Inter with Milan.
Something seems wrong with one of us, I used to bang her five times per night, when now I’m in no mood even to wink at this chick, my jones for her is unborn and down. This sends me home.
Gago served in the army, was granted the title of a Senior Sergeant, graduated from the Uni, worked for a bank, has hands-on experience with money. Marketing, sales, in an office which was a pain in the arse, bonuses, portfolio, corporate culture, shares, and all of this by the age of fifty.
Gago is not living, his is a slow death, he gets knackered every day, like polar ice, drop by drop he melts slowly, still irrevocably, whatever the will of the world. My first feeling was he was tired and a holiday on the beach would do him good, but a week later, he is bored again, lifeless and crude, stares at his own wife and there’s nothing, not even a flicker of desire … He’s in quest of adventures, mountains, ravines, whiskey, ecstasy, pot, stealthy experiments with things his body was unaccustomed to, BDSM practices and stuff, still his mood rate score is zero.
Regressive, existential apathy
Middle Age crisis finally
Gaguique you’re not the only one, trust me
Though I might be snickering.
Gago changes jobs monthly, he’s an opera singer first, a GG taxi driver afterwards, a paragliding instructor next, political anti-sexist, a nightclub bouncer, a Facebook fake, an analyst for Turkish Studies, a noble bookseller, a fair-minded and querulous reporter, a chef versed in steaks, a drunkard, then a great and professional innovator with a scholastic mind, destitute and homeless, finally a bum, two weeks in prison for misconduct, a barman, a delivery man, a broker, bolero, an oud player in an ethno-jazz band, an ASSistant to a member of the parliament, even a poet for two weeks with Homer Lendrush penname, then cross borders, trenches, combats, bloodshed for the country, a medal for bravery and I wish Gaguique had gained his hearty smile back.
In the end or we’d better say by the end, when something has to happen, something significant and credible indeed does happen. Gaguique wakes up in his dreams from the warmth of sunlight flooding his room, slowly enjoying the persistence of his will he approaches the window, holds up his palms and receives communion. In response to his persistent queries, he is blessed with the heavenly truth: one should not escape boredom but search it, consume all the puzzles and secrets that still devour mind. One should walk into the boredom-centric essence of the universe, the emptiness, the void, the point where life and death are so close that they don’t preclude each other, consume all motivation to act but preserve life. This is what the end is supposed to be. Gago, as the one in hold of communion, should spend his days by preaching his religion. He can even establish his own church, say the Church of Gaguique of Latter-day Saints and impute his teachings, like, «do, what you haven’t done yet to get through», « go to sleep in any complicated situation », «eternal absence of motivation », «don’t give a crap», «be indifferent» and stuff like that.
Here’s to the story of Gaguique’s glorious rescue. A lovely life story of our bro Gago, who experienced sanctifying boredom and revealed selfhood in his moments of lucidity.
Dedicated to William Shakespeare’s 400th anniversary of death
Translated by Lilit Bekaryan