I'd like to argue, Tamara Alekseevna, that summer isn't really summer at all, but "holidays", because that's what I actually spent, whilst summer itself just passed by like autumn will pass, and winter, and spring, and then summer again. Whoosh and it's gone! Here you'd argue that one can't write "whoosh" in an essay, and I'd parry — yes I can, I've just written it, haven't I, and you'd parry back and give me an F or even fail me completely or throw me out of class altogether without finishing reading, missing all the interesting bits, because all the interesting bits are always somewhere in the middle, towards the end. I'd never write so that everyone finds it interesting straight away. It should be the absolute opposite! The beginning should be uninteresting, boring, off-putting, so that one'd want to slap an F on it. The beginning should make the reader (in this case, you, since nobody’d read this — how you'd put it, "utter tosh" — except you, unless I throw myself under a train, then social services will come, dig through the notebooks with handwritten texts like "How I Threw Myself Under a Train This Summer (essay)" and find all the answers) get bored, think: "What utter tosh!" But that's how it should be, Tamara Alekseevna, because everything starts precisely like this — with the feeling that you've come uninvited, unexpected, and don't understand what's happening at all. And it ends, Tamara Sergeevna, absolutely the same way.
Me and the lads got pissed and went to siphon diesel from the local forestry depot, and whilst we were siphoning the guard caught us — a drunk without clothes and with a rifle, flaccid, hanging to his knees. What I'm getting at is — after a confusing beginning there should always be something that knocks you off your feet, as if from that room you accidentally entered, they're now forcefully ejecting you, like from a class. However we really did go to siphon diesel, why — I don't know. The-one-I-don't-want-to-rat-on-to-you-or-the-police asked me not to spread it about; you would probably guess straight away who I mean. I'll honestly admit, I didn't siphon any diesel, just stood nearby, looking on disapprovingly. Honest to God, they wouldn't even let me sniff it. I swear, lived to sixteen and don't know the taste or smell of diesel. Alcohol either, by the way, lied about that too, such is my writer's lot — making up all sorts of utter tosh.
I didn't read any books, Tamara Alekseevna. Well, I did read, of course (what, am I going to lie?), that's all I did in the evenings, but you don't consider them books, you don't like "youth poseurs", anyone whose surname doesn't start with "Tolsto" and end with "evsky". Oh, I'd argue with you about this, Tamara Aleseevna, I'd explain to you about real contemporary literature at the turn of the century, written, by the way, by your peers, about how one should and shouldn't consume faeces or triple cologne or brake fluid, get carried away with anti-Christian Buddhism malarkey, be inspired by foreign thinkers into deep post-modern conditions! And you wouldn't even argue, Tamara Alekseevna, you'd give me an F without even listening, without reading, and even if you'd got to the beginning of the second paragraph, at the bit with the dangling todger you'd definitely throw me out — a gun would shot eventually, as the classics say. But you'd have laughed, when alone at home, at least, and if you'd read this far, you'd have realised the whole "meta" of this situation, and how I, "a layabout, but such a clever boy", am leading you round in circles. Let my classmates write about how they went fishing, swimming, travelled to Moscow, flew abroad on holiday, weeded garden beds, ate berries, grilled shashlik, twisted cows' tails and girls' plaits, and the girls kicked them in the nuts in return. Like, your balls have dropped? Here, learn to live with them now. But me? I won't write nonsense like that; nobody kicked me in anywhere, and apart from indirectly participating as an outside observer in various indecent and illegal activities carried out by non-educated delinquents, sort of wanting to take part myself, but "what will people think" and "you've got to get into university in a year" and "mother would be sad" and other such reasons, I just moped about the area, sat at home, played Postal (you don't know about that, Tamara Alekseevna, and it's better you don't), read sheets of paper with letters about all sorts of antisocial, anarchist, nihilist, counter-cultural stuff, the very stuff your Tolstoevsky didn't like.
Here, Tamara Alekseevna, there should be some sort of ending, which I'd also argue with you about, and you'd give me an A so as not to average out a D for the year, because your heart is kind, and where would I go in these wicked times with a D in literature? I've got to get into university in a year. In a proper essay, Tamara Alekseevna, the ending only comes at the very end, in the last sentence, often in the last word, because it, like everything in this life — even like summer — comes suddenly, and just as suddenly ends and causes a storm of emotions, and nothing, Tamara Alekseevna, whatever you might think, however you were brought up under your bright communism, nothing expresses emotion like swearing. Fucking hell! Absolutely cuntastrophy, how can this be? Bollocks! I'm in complete fucking shock, Tamara Alekseevna, honestly, fuck this for a game of twats, bloody Christ on a bloody bike, makes me want to fucking bawl, there are no words, and when there are no words, that's when it comes to help, swearing; swearing is always with you, always supports you, always fills the gaps in language; swearing’s better than a father even; it's absolutely fucking mental, Tamara Alekseevna! All I can say is — from this cunt of a holiday summer I've gone completely off my fucking head. Here you'd probably finally give me that F and I'd leave, your favourite student, a D-student to spite you, to upset my parents, to my own strange, reckless fervour, thrill, self-satisfied joy — did something deranged and sit here pleased, ears burning with shame, head pounding, but apart from that no external signs, outwardly solemn, inwardly a degenerate. That's the kind of man I am, Tamara Alekseevna — rotten to the core, with a spoonful of tar in the barrel of honey, which you'd probably argue with, and I'd argue with you. I'd so bloody love to argue with you, Tamara Alekseevna, prove to you what a proper bastard and twat I really am, not the one you think I am, but it's a shame, Tamara Alekseevna, a shame that we'll never argue again, a shame that you'll never read this utter tosh, and an absolute shame that for you this summer was the last.
This essay is presented for the Soaring Twenties Social Club (STSC) Symposium. The STSC is a small, exclusive online speakeasy where a dauntless band of raconteurs, writers, artists, philosophers, flaneurs, musicians, idlers, and bohemians share ideas and companionship. Each month STSC members create something around a set theme. This cycle, the theme was “Summer.”
Brings back trauma