“Terrace conversation” [Journey No.4. Techn. – Dialogue; Flow: Curiosity, Understanding]
With the laptop in his hands, he stepped out of his apartment on the top floor of the building and with three big steps he found himself out in the open, on the common terrace on the roof. He sat down on one of the two chairs next to the plastic table and he looked around. He was supposed to have an online navigation with a friend, and he wanted to make sure everything is in order.
“Navigation”. That’s what he calls the two-month creative writing workshop he’s been planning for some time now, and building since the beginning of this year, with his first pilot co-travelers. But what he has in mind is more than prose writing techniques: they also talk about “the natural flow of things” – a system of thoughts on spirituality and the nature of the human psyche. It’s some sort of a map that has been gently and caringly taking shape within him over the past six years, following his diagnosis and the profound mystical experience he had in a monastery. Then, there are other subjects. Today, for example, they should talk about defense mechanisms, and their potentials when it comes to deeper understanding of relationships and overcoming conflict. They should also mention Gestalt and the “empty chair” technique – and how much it resonates with writing dialogue.
No wonder, then, that as soon as he sat down on the chair on the terrace, he was a bit struck by the irony: what he saw in front of him was the face of his neighbor, who lived in the flat below. She did not like him. And that was an understatement.
“What are you doing?!”, she shouted, already angry.
He said nothing. “Hm… isn’t this an example of aggression?”, he asked himself, “turning against others: a primitive defense mechanism…” He kept looking at his neighbor without speaking: her hair, long and shiny, grey and white, had recently been combed. Somehow it was different: a few months ago he complimented her on her hair, and they even had a short conversation about things. She told him she wrote poetry, for herself. He lent her some books of poems by young writers: she read them, made some interesting comments. They even became friends, you could say. Heroes – for a day: soon she was flooded with doubts and judgments, and the bad mood came back to her and stayed there.
“Hey! Are you mute, or what?! Why are you making all that noise up here again?!”
“I am about to have an online meeting… It will be quiet…”
He was being meek. Or maybe just weak? Things aren’t black and white, that’s for sure, but what he was feeling was more like meekness. Maybe because he was also self-confident. He could even play-pretend, act aggressive, get into a film character. But it exhausted him. More precisely, it made him feel fake: for six years now, he had felt bound to the risky and life saving belief that love is the way, and the truth, and everything else: rage, envy, despair… are just forms of pride and pusillanimity. Illusions, essentially. After all – and before all, also – love is one of the names of the “the natural flow of things” itself. They will talk about it also today. Soon, in an hour, or so. After the neighbor leaves.
“Okay… let’s see if you’ll be quiet…”
He was startled. There was something in her voice – was she open to conversation?
“You know what?”, he said, pointing to his wrist. He wasn’t wearing a watch, but so what. “The online meeting starts in an hour, so… if you have time, we could have a cup of coffee up here and talk. What do you say?”
The neighbor didn’t move. That seemed promising.
“Well, if you make the coffee, then okay”, she said at last, and he catapulted himself out of his chair. He ran back to the flat, full of enthusiasm. He found a packet of coffee and put some on to boil.
It’s okay, it’s okay… things will be okay… she will be a friend… “love will save the world”…
He whispered sweet words to himself, but things were not really okay, after all. He liked to imagine himself and the neighbor hosting together friends on their terrace, but… he couldn’t help but wonder: wasn’t this plain fantasy, daydreaming: his favorite defense mechanism with which he often faced – or avoided – reality?
Some of the residents of the building mentioned schizophrenia when gossiping about the neighbor. But that didn’t make much of an impression on him. Or was it just another mechanism (minimization? denial? suppression?) that allowed him to fantasize about love saving the world? He himself often heard violent noises coming from the flat below: doors slamming, furniture being smashed, screams.
In any case, he often (in instants of despair, regularly) tried to figure out the reasons for her behavior. Some neighbors had also told him about her childhood, the traumas inflicted on her by her now deceased mother, whom, oh, he had also met. She was so intense at their first encounter, more than ten years ago: anger and curses at the former neighbors, eerie praise for him – whom she had just met. So, it seemed quite clear that his neighbor, who now appeared to be around fifty, had grown up under an avalanche of misery and stigma. It couldn’t have been easy for her: under all those layers of trauma, her nerves are probably severely compromised, the neural pathways are damaged; the myelin sheath, the axons, or who knows what – it’s all a big mess… so, one has to have understanding. And mercy. In compliance with the natural flow of things.
He saw the coffee rising in the coffee pot, aware that what he was doing was rationalizing by intellectualizing: another of his favorite defense mechanisms. But, what could he do? He did believe in neuroplasticity; it was not a myth that, given the right conditions, nerves can heal. So, why not also in this case? With enough patience, love, honest effort and acceptance… yes, why not? After all, why not believe, in the most general sense? As a challenge. “A ten–day challenge.” A lifetime challenge. The feeling of belief itself is rewarding.
He went back on the terrace with the two cups of coffee and a book of poems that he grabbed on his way out from the cupboard in the hall of the flat. It had been waiting there for the neighbor to come. And she indeed came, and was now sitting comfortably in the plastic chair.
“You know what?”, she continued with a strict tone, “since you’ve been here, there’s been nothing but trouble in this building…”
He nodded, full of understanding. He put on the table the two cups and the book of poems.
“Yes, but you know what?…”, he asked in the most tender voice he was capable of, “…maybe what you are doing is displacement?…”
The neighbor sharpened her gaze and reached for the cup with both hands. “Dis-what?”
“Displacement”, he repeated, “a defense mechanism. It’s when you redirect emotions, such as anger or frustration, from their original source to a less threatening or safer target. For example, you’re angry at someone, or at yourself, who knows, and it’s a problem, of course, but then you maybe redirect the anger at me because you know I’m a safer target, I won’t get angry. Do you understand?”
He asked the question and “Mansplaining, man…”, he thought. He felt a knot in the guts. However, he was so fired up about his upcoming online journey that he couldn’t help but see defense mechanisms everywhere.
“No”, she shook her head. “You’re the one who has a problem.”
“But we all have problems…”
“I don’t have a problem!”
“No, you do…”
“What?!”
“…just like I have a problem. Yes, the two of us, we have a problem, just like everyone else!”, he raised his tone, and for a moment he was sure she was listening. “…all of us – we are big, dirty sacks of problems and frustrations and childhood traumas. Me, you, all humans! And the more a person refuses to see this, the more he – or she – spreads misery and sadness around. And that is it!”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t look away either, but he noticed that her gaze was focused somewhere far behind his head.
“I have 10.000 followers on Instagram”, she said out of the blue, and he opened his eyes wide.
“What?”
“I have 10.000 followers on Instagram.”
“Really?” he said, puzzled. And a little disappointed. But not too much: he was also pleased that the conversation didn’t end there.
“Yeah, I post pictures of flowers and quotes and stuff…”
“Wow! What’s your account name? I’ll be your follower too.”
“Aaha, no!”, she shook her head again. “It’s a secret. I won’t tell you”, she added, radiating confidence, in total control of the situation.
“Oh, man…”, he thought to himself, “…isn’t this another example of fantasy?”
“Aha, I see…”, he muttered, and threw a glance at the book of poems lying on the table. “I brought a book, I will be happy to hear from you…”
“…I also had Twitter, you know, but there’s a lot of hate over there”, she interrupted him, stressing delightedly the foreign word, “I don’t need all that hate”. He nodded again, then turned aside for a moment, raising his eyebrows towards some other, invisible interlocutor.
In the warm summer afternoon, they could hear the children shouting in the street below them, and the sounds of the soccer players in the playground a few buildings away. He glanced at the phone: twenty more minutes until the start of the navigation. He remained silent; the neighbor didn’t add anything either. They drank their coffee in silence. And that was probably the most successful part of their dialogue.
“You know what?”, he raised his eyebrows. “I’m going to make a short story out of this conversation of ours. I will try to be honest, and to write about our conflict. I will write about defense mechanisms, about dialogue…”
“It’s impossible for a normal person to have a dialogue with you”, the neighbor hissed, her sharp gaze piercing his face. He opened his eyes wide. He looked at her in confusion for a few seconds, then a shadow of a smile appeared on his face.
“Humor”, he said, nodding.
“Humor what?”
“Oh, nothing much…” he murmured and fell silent. “What a defense mechanism…”, he thought to himself, “…pure drug. But still incomparable to sublimation – you channel your unwanted or unacceptable impulses into socially acceptable activities. Job of an alchemist: to turn mud into gold. Turning conflict into art. An argument into a short story. For example.”
“Well, okay…”, the neighbor muttered as she stood up. She took a few decisive steps towards the door, then turned around. “There, we had coffee. But I don’t want your books of poetry, no. You can’t manipulate me. There are so many of you in this building, each worst than the last. All you do is gossip. But you are the worst of all – you also make noise, all the time. So, now you do whatever you want, but make sure you don’t make any noise, as usual, okay? Don’t make me call the police again.”