THE LONELINESS IN TEA LEAVES, OR THE MELANCHOLY OF DOGS
De man in dit verhaal is gebroken en gedesillusioneerd. Zo hoopvol als Que Sera, Etcetera kan gezien worden, zo uitzichtloos is deze korte uitstap in het pessimisme. Veel kan ik hier zelf niet over zeggen – de man moet het zelf maar proberen uitleggen. Vast staat dat er iets verschrikkelijks gebeurd is in zijn verleden, iets waarmee hij nog steeds worstelt; daarnaast vindt er, na vele lange en eenzame jaren, een nieuwe gebeurtenis plaats die zijn wereld opschrikt.
Rond deze filosofische novelle werd een ander project uitgewerkt: een graphic novel. Hoewel deze nog niet is afgewerkt, geef ik hier graag wat schetsen mee, met toestemming van de artiest, Joris Silverans. Ga zeker eens kijken op zijn Instagram, want hij verdient het.
Onderaan kan je tevens een kort fragment lezen uit The Loneliness in Tea Leaves, or The Melancholy of Dogs.
You see, I think I understand it. The dog, I mean. It whines when it wants. It barks when it needs. And it is silent when it dies. Maybe we should take a cue from dogs, or, at the very least, perhaps I should. I seem to notice a spectre approaching in the distance. It’s still obscured by the snow, and I cannot hear it yet over the howling wind, but I can make out its silhouette. And then, a thought. In all this numbing quiet, I think I may feel glad about missing most of the world. All of this might seem terribly depressing; I assure you I do not intend it to be. Just as my melancholy was of a bleak nature, my declamation assumes a resigned tone, rather than a combative one. An acquiescence to pessimism, if you will. Even spending words on it seems superfluous, yet I feel tempted to choose them carefully – to discern those most deserving. To be clear, this is not a diatribe – nor is it an accusation. I bear no grudge, for there is little space left on my back for carrying things. That might be the answer to it all, that there is no fault to be burdened with, no respectable accusation to be made – no blame to hand out. I sit here now, my dog eating scraps, the blood nearly dry on my all too literal hands. Here, then – in this particular situation – is at least an inkling of a charge to be framed – a respectable accusation to be made. In any case, this experience is altogether different from any past experience – a veritable chasm has shaped itself between now and then.
I suppose I should not get ahead of myself. Perhaps I could take a step back, in order to give you some insight – if any is to be gained, anyway. I once knew a man who called himself my boss. Well, so did I, and so did others. Indeed, he probably was. I don’t want to make it seem like I had a problem with that – it’s just a factual observation. Sometimes I get caught up in semantics, forgive me. Specifics in this case are unnecessary, as the nature of the work is not the focal point of the matter. I do hate to get clinical, but sometimes it seems beneficial – other times, it seems to be the only way to keep myself from losing focus. You could take clinical to mean cold, empty – but I interpret it as being fairly to the point, keyword “fairly”. As far as last words go, I might as well make them count – have them be clear and concise. The man known generally as my boss had had a good lunch that day, and his mood had been cheerful. He was a small yet stout man, with little hair left on his head. To his credit, he did not attempt to comb it all over to one side, instead choosing to just let it move in its own way. It was often greasy and seemed to be unwashed most of the time. His rather large belly was constantly straining his yellow – always the same pale yellow – shirts, but he seemed like a strong man, nonetheless. He had called me into his office, to expound on his theory of terrestrial destruction that had apparently turned “from theory to plausible” overnight. It was a topic he was quite keen on, and he’d been raving about it for months. That day, he shared with me that the theory had started to come to fruition the night before, in his damp basement. His wife, so he told me, had banished him and his apparent lunacy to that nether-realm – his choice of word – ever since the printouts had started taking up parts of the sofa.
Sander Vanackere 