This is Trevor's story. It is the one he mentioned was rejected by Overland in the previous post.
The Same Old Story by T.H. Maddock
Did I tell you? I gave a talk on Adorno for the in-the-pub show. They were all there, the old faces: the man in charge, Rollo, Vicki, the Padre, et cetera, et cetera, even Stravinsky. Dee was overseas. I asked Jürgen but he didn’t show up.
And one of the bastards had a go at me – I can’t remember which one now, maybe it was the man in charge, or was it Rollo? Let me see… Anyway, it doesn’t matter.
The thing is, they got me on the hop. I hadn’t really boned up. Instead I relied on my cultural capital to get me through. You know an academic is bludging when he’s relying on his cultural capital. I was bludging.
‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’
He repeats himself for effect. He’s playing to the audience. It’s straight out of the academics’ song-and-dance book, gesture for gesture, ploy for ploy.
‘I’ve read shitloads of Hegel and this stuff just doesn’t seem right to me.’
He’s got me off guard. I hadn’t expected anything of this kind. What did I expect? Who knows? I know I didn’t expect that angle and I wasn’t prepared.
On the hop I say, ‘I’m talking about Adorno. I don’t care whether he’s got Hegel right or not.’
But already I’ve lost the game. Everybody was hearing that Adorno wasn’t very good. Shit, he got Hegel wrong! Who cares what he thinks? QED.
He’s got the cheek to follow this up with a diatribe on Hegel. And listen to the shit, will you?
‘Hegel knew the value of institutions. We owe it to institutions for the way we live.’
Some people owe more than others, I thought, but I didn’t say anything.
He was trotting out The Philosophy Of Right, I thought, Hegel’s most died-in-the-wool conservative reactionary book. (You might look at the preface one day, all the same. It contains one of his most famous sayings. I can’t remember which one, but have a look sometime.)
‘Because of what the state does for us we’ve got a moral obligation to support it.’
Still I didn’t say anything. I thought it through and next day I knew all the answers, but by then it was too late.
I knew that what I was hearing was just Hobbes and reaction. Thirty years had taught me that much. This was nothing like the Hegel I knew, the one who said that once we were at one with the world and somehow we lost this identity, and as soon as we lost it we put all our attention into getting it back again. It’s the usual liberal wank, I know, except that Hegel said it better than anybody else. That’s the difference.
And what he said – that we return to this oneness through frustration – I like that. Every time we try to put one of our ideas into action, my Hegel said, it only ever makes matters worse.
But here’s the rub: Hegel thought that the process of making things worse would go on until it reached the point where it made everything right. It’s a hard one to follow, I know. And Adorno? Well, he knew that was a load of crap.
As we walked away at the end of the night Stravinsky said, ‘He’s just a reactionary conservative.’
He could have been talking about Hegel but he wasn’t. He was talking about the man in charge – or whoever it was who made the speech.
Changing the subject I said, ‘The Padre was acting funny. During the break he just sat there smirking at me. Didn’t say a word, like.’
‘Don’t forget,’ said Stravinsky. ‘He’s become a Buddhist.’
That’s right. I forgot to tell you. The Padre has given up on Christianity and he’s headed east, well, north if you’re in Australia, but you know what I mean when I say ‘east’, don’t you? In fact, the Padre wasn’t just heading east metaphorically. He was heading to the Indian high country for real – and that is high country! – going there to study with some American guru who’s set up base in the hills, the modern conveniences and an escape from the grind rolled into one contradictory package, all booked on the Web or through Wally-World Travel, for those who still like to see other faces when they do business. There’s one for Hegel, that’s for sure!
‘Yeh, but there was something funny about him, his manner – I don’t know.’
‘Yes, well. Hasn’t anyone told you?’
Stravinsky stopped walking and looked at me.
‘The thing is, he’s not going alone.’
Somehow I knew Stravinsky wasn’t talking about the Padre taking his missus along.
‘Fuck me! The Padre!’
‘He’s always been a pants man. Haven’t you noticed? What the fuck do you look at when you go out? I mean!’
‘But the Padre! THE PADRE!’
‘Yeh, he’s bonking some Buddhist shiela he met while he was on retreat in that old place on the main road going into Embee, you know, the road from the freeway. Haunted house type place. You know! Yeh, the Padre went on some retreat there but spent his time finding a place to keep his pecker warm. I think it came back with scorch-marks on it. He told his missus that he caught it in his zipper and that unfortunately he won’t be able to bonk for a few days.’
‘From what I hear, she wouldn’t mind,’ I added.
Stravinsky always likes to have one over on me.
After a moment he added, ‘It’s the talk of the town. I thought everybody knew.’
‘Well nobody told me.’
That’s the trouble with being a hermit. Of course, there is the phone and the internet. We can keep in touch. We need never see each-other again. But just because you don’t see me it doesn’t mean we can’t keep in touch.
‘Nobody told me,’ I repeated.
‘The thing is, it’s all over the place because his missus is spreading the story.’
I must have looked incredulous because he added, ‘I kid you not. His missus! What do you think’s going on there?’
‘Shit. I don’t know. I guess she’s had enough. If he’s a swordsman, like you say. I mean, what does she think about it all anyway?’
‘She’s put up with it for years. And now she’s telling everybody the whole story. No wonder he’s heading for the Himalayas. He has to get out of town. You gotta laugh.’
Stravinsky laughed.
So, the Padre was making a run for it. It was all out in the open. He wanted more than just a sore dick on weekends. He wanted a sore dick all the time.
Stravinsky seemed to be reading my thoughts. He said, ‘He’ll get tired of it in a few days. At our age you can’t keep any pace up for long.’
I wasn’t about to get into any conversation of that kind with Stravinsky.
I said, ‘You’re right! He ought’a watch out. He’s in his fifties, like us. He’s getting on.’
‘She’s fifty-six!’ Stravinsky came back at me.
‘Still, what was the name of that politician? He died in a brothel. He was only fifty-something.’
This line was a dead-end.
‘His missus is spreading the story,’ Stravinsky repeated.
‘She obviously doesn’t like it. I mean, fuck!’
‘No. She doesn’t like it.’
‘But she stays?’
‘Yeh, she stays. You know the story.’
We were silent for awhile then he began to sing, quietly, almost to himself, ‘I still get the same old fee-ling, pulling-at-this-heart-a mine.’
‘Picketywitch, er?’
I thought for a moment.
‘Some time in the seventies?’
‘You got it,’ he replied.
He stopped singing.
He mentioned some date but I didn’t take it in.
There was silence.
My mind was ticking over.
I said, ‘There’s one thing I don’t get.’
‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘Well, who was it that told you he came home with a sore pecker after his retreat? Was it his missus? Or did he tell you?’
‘Ah!’ said Stravinsky. ‘Now that’s another story.’