Well when I came here I was insufferable, still lacking in social graces. As if America would change for me, if I shouted loud enough. But instead, I changed. I ate grits and biscuits with gravy and began to understand just what a diverse land America was, and it opened my eyes, I finally understood On The Road, and how things work, and why I love America.

You know that fiction, prose rather, is possibly the roughest trade of all in writing. You do not have the reference, the old important reference. You have the sheet of blank paper, the pencil, and the obligation to invent truer than things can be true. You have to take what is not palpable and make it completely palpable and also have it seem normal and so that it can become a part of experience of the person who reads it.

 from - Letter to Bernard Berenson (24 September 1954); published in Ernest Hemingway : Selected Letters 1917-1961 (1981) edited by Carlos Baker

There are some who shallowly cling to Life in the hope that something better will be around the corner. Like Mr. Micawber they feel that “something will always turn up”. Then there are those who have given up, and take pills to ease their burden. Still others who believe that Life is a random sequence of events over which they have no control. And finally there are those who have faith that they are in charge of their destiny, the sort of folk who know what they want and how to get it.

In the “Irrelevance Of Being” it is argued that the Self is nothing more than an artificial construct, an entity that defines itself not by reference to itself, but to others. Therefore, the book argues, other people (also entities) define each other so that no one entity can ever truly know itself.

Hence the title “Irrelevance Of Being.”

I can see the whole world through my coffee cup, explain the significant in a coffee bar at 3am and discuss poetry till the light returns.

 …Ham returns to the table where I sit and he sits down and smiles. “What’s new?” he asks cause Ham is American and this seems to be a common expression. I am not sure how to reply. Nothing has changed, the table is still littered with empty coffee cups and a full ashtray of B&H, Silk Cut, Marlboro Lights and Menthol. Behind Ham is a big picture of that famous coffee bar scene, except we are at one of the tables in the window. Madison puffs on her Menthol cigarette with nicotine stained fingers showing dull yellow against the white of the Menthol cigarette that she puffs nervously. She leans forward to dottle the ash of her cigarette into the glass ashtray. “I bought Aerial today,” she admits as if we are all sitting at a readers anonymous instead of this newish coffee bar off of Stamford Street. “I like Plath.” For Madison to say she likes Plath is a bit like saying do bears shit in the woods. Its an obvious fact. Ham repeats his question, reaching for a magazine to check the latest news on some film starlet that crashed her car while driving drunk and distempered out on the A1. Nobody answers. Beside me, Shane wakes up. He didnt get to sleep the other night and we are still awake sitting here, smoking drinking coffee and listening to The Holy Bible that plays on the CD jukebox, because the coffee bar owner once knew Richey James. I light another Benson and look at Madison finishing her cigarette, her Faber and Faber paperbound lies on the table top face down next to her fountain pen made by Cross. Reaching across I borrow her pen and write a single word in my moleskine, the word says “Real”. I have this habit of writing down words at random. One day I may even collate them into something worth repeating aloud. Shane is about thirty two but looks older on account of his sudden grey hair that he keeps military short at the sides and longer on top. His leather jacket lies discarded on the floor. Shane chose the side with the bench and we let him sleep, because he is really tired. I give the pen back to Madison, who smiles. She takes a deep breath and then says “That was a present from my ex.” I nod as I know her story poured at one night in this coffee bar while it rained like fuck outside and lightning flashed through the sky - afterwards I had to walk her home and say goodnight. Madison is pretty in an unconventional way, she’s quite tall as well. Ham is the model of politeness, fetching drinks without being told. He hates tea with a passion and refuses to even buy it. Shane knows Ham from a trip to the States. Shane is a good friend of Ham’s. “I am fucked,” says Shane. Ham nods sagely. “You looked quite tired when you came in,” Ham says. I stare at the red upholstery, then take my ballpoint Tball from my jacket and add another word below the first “Life”, so now it reads “Real Life”. Maybe the reason we are not saying much is because it is 3am. Well 3.05 am. My wristwatch ticks away. “Die In The Summertime” is playing. There is a ching as the door to the coffee bar opens and in walks a girl carrying a heavy bound book with the word “Truth” written across the beige cover in blue ink. She has inked in the letters so it can be read from the distance. The girl is dressed in black and wears far too much makeup. Her hair is dark and her eyes are quick, but friendly. She approaches our table and asks to join us, even though there are many empty tables. “I am Jane Eyre.” She sits at the table and places the book carefully down on the table top. She is sitting next to Shane, who moves swiftly to one side to make more room. Jane Eyre fumbles in her pocket and produces a pack of Rothmans, and then takes a cigarette out of the packet. Ham lights the cigarette for her, and takes one for himself. Ham plays guitar for a rock band, although you wouldn’t have thought it to look at him. Jane likes Ham she moves nearer to Ham than Shane, but Shane is too tired to notice. “P.C.P.” arrives on the jukebox, and the sound goes up a bit. “I like this song,” says Madison. I smile. I know Madison likes the song, she nods her head in time with the music. I add another word to the two in my moleskine “Now”. Jane Eyre looks across at me and again the quick flash in her eyes, as if she knows me, but is not quite sure. I smile back and say “Do you like this music?” She nods. “I prefer Suede though,” she adds almost by way of apology. Ham gets up and asks if anyone wants another coffee. As if by cue the CD juke box switches to the next racked and ready CD that happens to be her band, I recognise “Trash” from “Coming Up”, it plays, Brett’s voice soars around the coffee bar. “We’re trash,” he sings. Ham checks the order and limps over to the counter, a motorcycle accident two years ago has left him with a noticeable limp that we all choose to ignore. Madison leans over to me. “Your favourite album by them,” she says. Madison knows a lot about me. Probably more than most people. But Jane Eyre is speaking: “It’s Jimmy,” she explains with a wave of her gloved hand. “He went to the city bookshop and hasn’t been seen since.” We all express our concern at this news. “But I got a text message from him before I came in here, he says he is safe and is currently in the Science Fiction section talking to Philip Dick about politics.” She stops speaking and tears form in her eyes. “Why is it always Philip Dick? Why not Bob Heinlein or Doctor Asimov?” None of us can answer her question. Suede contine to sing on. The sound cuts the air. “I love Jimmy,” Jane Eyre says. “I am sure you do,” says Ham who has overheard the conversation and is now placing mugs down on the table top, his hands shake. “But only as a friend,” she adds. Ham sits down heavily, I see him light a cigarette his hands still shaking. The girl with the book of Truth takes his hand in hers. “My you are cold,” she says. She holds his hand tightly till the shaking stops. Shane yawns. “What time is it?” he asks. “3.34,” I reply after a glance at my wristwatch that I wear on my right arm. “I need to write a letter to my agent,” Shane continues. “My agent.” The air smells of cigarettes and coffee. Madison opens her notebook and makes a few scribbled notes in it with her Cross. I look at what she has written: “The Beautiful Ones”. I get the impression she is writing down what she hears in the hope that in the morning it will all make sense. I hope it does. I paraphrase Oscar Wilde - “We are all of us trash, but some of us are looking at the stars.” That’s all we are, a whole society searching for answers in a book with blank pages, with nothing to guide us except what we feel. Our thoughts are our own but we choose to let others read them as they are written down. I light a Benson. All these people are my friends as I am theirs and it gives me a good feeling inside. Madison is laughing, and Shane has fallen asleep with his mouth ajar. We all hope he doesnt snore.

A writer creates a world in their imagination and shares this world with the reader. “A blessed friend is a book” I once read. I create a world that exists only in imagination, and if it comforts someone then I have done my work.

There is a space in my imagination that I like to keep in focus…..

…Madison opened her notebook and began to recite:

If you are in love do the birds sing for you each day?

Do you smile at the way

They sing to themselves

To each other

About the bright new day

Dawning

Yawning

And suddenly

Awake.

Shane coughed quietly, he looked at me and then at Ham. Madison flushed. “No, it’s not about anyone in particular,” she said, closing the notebook slowly as if she didn’t want anyone to notice. I lit a cigarette and leaned back in the chair. “I like it,” I said, exhaling a jet of smoke into the air, across the table it drifted. The smoke swirled in the light from the overhead lights. I looked over at Madison, who leaned back in her seat, her eyes flashing not fire but something else at me. I could see that she had spent more time on applying her make up this evening. Lines of black trailing back from the corner of each eye, and her hair arranged so. Ham stood up and the moment was gone. “More coffee?” he asked. He was like a lost sheep, dressed in a chunky white fisherman’s arran and faded blue Levis, as Jane Eyre was either late or elsewhere. Ham’s face was set passive, hopelessly passive, as he walked over to the counter to haggle with the owner over the cost of four coffees. Shane coughed again. His face looked wan, drawn, his hooded eyelids sleepily closing and opening again. “I must take better care of myself,” he announced, “I have Ham’s cold.” Madison giggled nervously. I watched her hands shake. Ham came back with the coffees and then sat down himself. He sat down heavily as if he had a weight on his back. “I may have to go soon.” Ham looked like a trapped rat turning one way then another his head. Shane stood up. “I will have to go, I am really feeling rough,” he added coughing into a clean grey handkerchief that had been in his back pocket of his black canvas strides. Shane picked up his cup and drained the coffee straight down, we looked in amazement. “Goodnight all,” said Shane as he left the table. “Good coffee.” And then he was gone into the night. That left the three of us. Ham looked as if he was about to be sick. “Are you ok?” Madison asked, touching Ham’s hands that he held clasped together. Ham shook his head. “I am sure Jane Eyre has a reason she cannot be here.” Ham fumbled with his sweater sleeve. “But she promised!” I offered Ham a cigarette that he took automatically. Madison lit it for him. “Why isnt she here?” Ham asked. He swallowed some of his coffee. “She promised she would be - she even messaged me - see -” Ham pulled out his ‘phone from his hip pocket and tried to show us, but even as he did so, the ‘phone beeped twice. Ham dropped the ‘phone on the table in surprise. “Woah!” he said, involuntarily the same way you would if a thunderclap broke over your head in a storm. He picked up the phone and read the message. His face cracked into a smile. “She was delayed getting out of the apartment. The neighbour had a package for her from the publisher. Wow! Wow!” The jukebox was playing a Byrds song. It seemed appropriate. “She’s got the contract for her book!” Ham tapped out a reply and then gulped his coffee. “Calm down Ham,” I said. “That’s great news.” Ham nodded. “It is Rob, it is, she’s been waiting for days for this. I am so proud.” Ham puffed up like a rooster when he said that. “That’s wonderful,” said Madison, and again I could see her hands shaking, but not with envy just something else. Madison’s manuscript was genius, but she still had yet to hear from the publisher. Jane Eyre walked into the coffee bar, wearing a Bogart done up tight against the rain. Her hair was wet but not dripping wet. Ham stood up, and limped over to Jane as she stood by the door trying to undo the belt that she had tied too tightly. They kissed and then they joined us. Madison lit a cigarette, and now I could see that her hands were shaking so much that I thought Ham and Jane would notice. They didn’t of course, they only had eyes for each other. We said congratulations and then Madison turned to me and said: “Rob, I have to go. I don’t feel well.” I took her hands that felt like ice in mine. “No you don’t,” I said. “Not just yet.” Jane Eyre pulled out a manilla quarto sized envelope and passed it to Madison. “I am not sure why this came to me as well, may be  a mix up with the address, I don’t know.” Madison ripped the envelope open. We all waited. She read the letter. Her face was wonderful to behold. “Oh fuck!” She said. I waited for her to calm down. “They have accepted my poetry collection.” She looked at me her eyes gleaming. “They have accepted my poetry collection.” I felt her hands grip tightly on mine. “Rob, I am going to be published. Oh fuck, this is wonderful.” She drank some of her cooling coffee and re-read the letter again. I took out my notebook and wrote down the time, and added a note to say that Madison was happy again. Madison’s happiness. Ham and Jane Eyre both stood up. “We’re getting a late supper at Boney’s,” Ham said. “Jane Eyre hasn’t had anything to eat since breakfast.” And then they were gone, a paper napkin fluttered to the floor in their wake. Madison put the letter back in the envelope. She had the biggest smile I had ever seen on her face. “It’s just you and me now, kid,” she said. “I am so happy I could burst.” I took her hands in mine. “I know,” I said slowly. “I know, Madison, I know.” There was a long pause without music, then a Morrissey song started playing,  “Can we get another coffee?” Madison asked. “I don’t want this time to stop.” I got the coffees, and we were there till the coffee bar shut, listening to Morrissey.

Life is what you make it.