In the room
Inside the Soaring Twenties Social Club we’ve challenged ourselves to write about ‘Beauty’. This is my piece about the topic. Enjoy.
I was resting for 3 minutes and watching.
She was pregnant, but still here. If I had to guess, I’d say 5 months gone. Growing another life, but still here doing the work. Doing the important work, in fact, doing the same things as me. She was picking it up, and putting it down. Picking it up, and putting it down.
Rest over.
Pick it up, put it down.
Pick it up, put it down.
Pick it up, put it down.
Pick it up, put it down.
Pick it up, put it down.
3 minutes rest.
He was fiddling with his vest, tucking it into his little black fashionable shorts so his little fashionable logo became obvious. He put on his gloves, made sure the velcro was fastened just right. He wouldn’t pick anything up without his gloves. It’d mean he’d have to moisturise. He kept looking at himself whilst himself looked back at him. Both versions of himself seemed happy with what they saw.
Rest over.
Pick it up, put it down.
Pick it up, put it down.
Pick it up, put it down.
Pick it up, put it down.
Pick it up, put it down.
3 minutes rest.
These two were talking. Talking too much, if you ask me. They were here for other things but they were talking about other things. The bald one wore a vest that looked like it used to fit him 20 years ago, and the other one wore a hoodie that looked like it might fit him when he hit puberty in 20 years time. You come here to do one thing, and neither of these two were doing that. Come to think of it, I’d seen them do nothing but talk to each other and use the room’s oxygen since they walked in. I smiled in their general direction and pretended I’d just heard something funny on my headphones. The truth was I’d been watching some kind of silent movie about two men procrastinating.
Rest over.
Pick it up, put it down.
Pick it up, put it down.
Pick it up, put it down.
Pick it up, put it down.
Pick it up, put it down.
3 minutes rest.
I heard the next man before I saw him. Filling the entire room with his bellows and other people’s scornful looks. He lifted something up, screamed, then put it back down. When he’d finished putting it down he walked around the room, swaying his arms and swaying his head. He was on a different plane of existence, alone with his work. The room was his and he didn’t care what anyone else thought.
Rest over.
Pick it up, put it down.
Pick it up, put it down.
Pick it up, put it down.
Pick it up, put it down.
Pick it up, put it down.
3 minutes rest.
Then there was this guy. He didn’t look like he belonged. He didn’t look like he’d ever been in a place like this before. I’d not seen him here before. He looked like there wasn’t a size of clothing small enough that would fit him well. He was wearing shorts that he could have easily have fit into twice. He was wearing a long-sleeved tee that looked like it was billowing in the wind, even though there was no wind. But he was trying hard. Doing the right things. Picking things up and putting them down. Not talking. Writing his work down in his notebook. Not looking at his phone every 30 seconds. Not talking to anybody. Finishing his work, resting for two minutes, then going again. Doing the right things. He looked like he wanted to change things and if he kept going, eventually he would.
Rest over.
Pick it up, put it down.
Pick it up, put it down.
Pick it up, put it down.
Pick it up, put it down.
Pick it up, put it down.
I was done.
The room is full of characters, all trying to sculpt their own definition of beauty. Some of them are pursuing outward beauty: sculpted muscles, flat stomachs, Instagram arses. Some of them are here pursuing inner beauty: doing the work, improving slowly, building their attention spans and their patience. Some are here doing neither: here because they’re escaping from something or enjoy the idea of being here to pretend to lift things up and put them down again.
Me? I suppose I’m here for some of all of that. It’s an escape in my day, an interval between the madness. It’s a simple pleasure, picking up things and putting them down again. Making them heavier, picking them up and putting them down again. Next time, I might put a bit more weight on and pick it up again. The weight doesn’t change unless I want it to. Nobody is adding tax to weight, adding inflation to weight. Nobody is redefining weight. The weight is the weight and it always will be.
In the room, we’re all here pursuing beauty. And that’s, well, beautiful.