This is always such a difficult thing to explain, even to himself, and the truth is, he has no idea how to explain it to Ned without sounding utterly insane. "I guess sometimes I just start thinking about how strange the very nature of existing is. We're here, but it all seems so random. There were probably a million things that could've happened to make us not be here at all, not exist at all. And sometimes I start to wonder whether everything that I experience isn't just some kind of... I wonder whether it's all actually just in my head, if I'm just fantasizing about everything I think I'm seeing and feeling and doing. And if that's possible, and I know it is, because I know there're people who live with those kinds of delusions, then isn't it possible that I'm also just a delusion in someone else's head? Maybe the reason I feel so strange and out of place all the time is that I'm just not supposed to be here, that I'm just a figment of someone else's mind."
It doesn't make sense, when he explains it aloud, and he doesn't expect Ned to get it, but he's talking too fast now to slow himself down or to consider just how bizarre and downright strange he sounds, saying all of this. Ned might understand what some of this is like, but he probably doesn't question his own existence. Ginsberg, on the other hand, has been having existential dilemmas since before he really knew what they were.
"I mean, I don't really fit anywhere. I was born in Germany, but I'm not German. I was in Sweden for awhile, but I'm not Swedish. I came to America, but I'm not really American, not the way people think of it, even if my passport says I'm an American citizen. Where am I categorized? My father isn't my real father. I might not have had a mother at all, for all I know she could be a fictionalization, too, and I could have come from outer space. I have no idea what my real birthday is, I just know the one they invented for me. I have no idea what I was supposed to be named, I just know what they decided to call me. Everything I know about myself is fake. Doesn't that mean I'm not real, too?"
Much of this is, indeed, rather over Ned's head. He's never questioned the fact that he does exist, that the universe exists, that the people he interacts with are real and not delusions. He can't imagine how frightening it must be, to doubt on such a fundamental level. The closest equivalent he can conjure up from his own experiences would be his early religious crisis, when he decided there was no God, no heaven and hell, no benevolent omnipotent consciousness looking down on him. That had been a paradigm shift that changed the way he looked at everything. But Ginsberg, from the sound of it, is stuck in that transitional phase, not able to take anything for granted.
He doesn't understand, but he does listen, and gradually Ginsberg's reasoning becomes more accessible to him. Questions of identity, he has dealt with. Not in the realm of nationality, as it seems to be in Ginsberg's case. But he feels on firmer ground responding to that
"I don't think so." He's careful to phrase it as an opinion - not making fun of Ginsberg for having doubts as to his own existence, but firm in his own conviction that Ginsberg is, in fact, real. He wonders if anyone had ever bothered to give him even that, or if they had scoffed and spouted some variation on of course you're real. "The only way that would make you not real is if you believe someone's past is the key to who they are, and I don't think that. Not the only one, anyway. Maybe... maybe another way to look at it is: even if you don't know what you are, and can never know for certain, that means you get to decide who you want to be."
He knows it sounds cheesy, but it's what he's always done. He's focused that old anxiety over what kind of monster he must be into efforts to redefine himself, to build scaffolds and structures around that emptiness, around that unanswered question.
"Sure, I guess it could mean that. And I guess I decided to be what I am right now. Which isn't necessarily a bad decision, but if I'd've been able to pick anything, I probably would've chosen being someone with a little more money. You'd think advertising would pay well, but it doesn't."
He knows that's not necessarily relevant to the conversation at hand, but he never can resist going off on a tangent, if the opportunity presents itself. He finally dislodges his face from Ned's shoulder, although he doesn't pull away from him entirely. No way is he letting go of him before he has to.
He appreciates Ned's words, the obvious care that he takes to make sure that he doesn't denigrate his feelings, ridiculous as they may be. Other people haven't necessarily given him that kind of thought. They've just dismissed him, or worse, gotten worried about him. That's what his father had done, when he'd started talking like this. Decided he needed help, and found him a 'good' psychoanalyst. It hadn't worked.
"But that thing you say about the past not being the key to who you are... I don't think most people see it the way you do. Why else would people be so focused on making ads about childhood memories? These things are supposed to shape us in some way, and we're supposed to become adults based on what we experienced as kids, right? But I mean it, I can't remember anything until I was five or so, and who knows what happened before then? I mean, I've been told, but that's different. So if it shaped me, I don't know how. And that's scary, not knowing how things you can't even remember might have changed you for the worse."
The fact that Ginsberg feels up to a tangent like that, up to a crack about how little he makes at his job, tells Ned that he's doing somewhat better. He feels like his presence here is helping, if only a tiny amount. His eventual plan is to get Ginsberg feeling stable enough to leave the closet, then to whisk him out of the building and back to his place for the night, to get him ready for that inevitable meeting the next day. But he doesn't want to rush it and ruin this small improvement.
Ned thinks that his memory from before he was five is fairly spotty, too, that some of that is natural, but he gets the feeling that what Ginsberg is talking about is more complete than that. He remembers what Ginsberg said about being in the meeting and drawing that complete blank, tries to imagine how alarming that must be.
"If I couldn't remember years of my life, I'd be pretty freaked out, too," he admits. He doesn't have any words of advice, or wisdom, to make that gap any less daunting. Nothing he hasn't said already, anyway. "I don't think people make ads about childhood memories because they're more important for shaping who you turn out to be, though. I think... I mean, I'm not gonna pretend I know anything about advertising, but I would think it's because nostalgia is missing something you can never have again, so it would make sense to take that desire and try to redirect it towards something that you can have. Right? It's an easy way to make people want things. It's not like the first five years of your life are more important to making you who you are than the last five have been."
"That's exactly what it all is," he says, nodding, glad that Ned seems to get it. "It's a cheap way of inducing nostalgia, and then directing peoples' attention towards some product that can give them a simulacrum of the experience they think they had as kids, that they're desperate to get back. Mostly because adults are so unhappy that they're willing to do just about anything to regain the experiences they feel like they had as kids, but the truth is that even if they did have a sense of wonder and innocence when they were children -- which most people didn't have as much as they think they do -- they'll never get it back. And I guess that's why I prefer the darker ads. No pretending there, or at least, not in the same way. We're still trying to sell shit people don't need."
It does seem like he's feeling better. His talking is still quick, but his breathing has slowed down to a more reasonable rate -- part of that's down to being this close to Ned, to breathing in his smell and leaning against his shoulder and absorbing his calm -- but part of that's being able to talk about this without fear of judgement. He hasn't had that opportunity in far too long.
"So we should probably get out of this closet soon, right? I mean, Peggy and Bob are probably wondering what we're doing in here, and if I don't come out soon, they'll probably think I murdered you on my obviously psychotic, panicked, poetry-spouting rampage. You missed that. The poetry, I mean. I thought it would be a good way to calm down, but I guess it just sounded nuts."
"You're not going to try going back to work, are you?" Ned asks, with a trace of worry creeping into his voice. He wouldn't put it past Ginsberg to try: his job is so stressful, so competitive. But there's no question in the piemaker's mind that the best thing for Ginsberg would be to just get away from this place for a little while.
"Can you tell them you'll be ready for the meeting tomorrow and come back with me?" He doesn't want to just leave, can't bear the thought of heading out on his own with Ginsberg staying here, to deal with the rest of them, giving him sidelong glances, making remarks. Ned knows he can't keep him away from that forever, can't hold onto him forever, but he's not ready to be parted from him just yet. For his own sake, as well as Ginsberg's.
"No," he says, shaking his head emphatically, as though the emphatic tone of voice isn't enough to articulate just how much he's not going to try going back to work. "They know I'll be there for the meeting. Haven't missed one yet. Truthfully, I think they just want me out of this closet. I don't think they care where I go. And I doubt any of them are working right now, anyway. It's, what, almost five by now? They're probably all having a drink."
A drink at the office, he means, not going out anywhere to have a drink, but he probably doesn't need to say that, because he's already told Ned about just how much people get up to around here. It's not that he disapproves of it, exactly, it's just that it's never quite appealed to him.
"We can go tell them I'm leaving. You don't have to come with me to tell them, if you think it'll be awkward. I don't mind if you want to, though."
With that, he finally disentangles himself from Ned and stands up, opening the supply closet door and squinting into the light of the hallway.
"I'll come with you," Ned says without hesitation, getting to his feet too and picking up the discarded box of pie. As he, too, is blinking against the bright light of the hall, he suggests, "Maybe I can leave this as a peace offering for your coworkers..."
One of whom, Ned spots, is at hand. If he didn't know better he'd call it, well, lurking. He didn't have his ear pressed to the door or anything, but it's clear he's been lingering, checking in, probably drawing his own conclusions. Ned's not sure why, but he finds that warm smile a little too warm. Maybe he's just being paranoid, feeling overprotective after the very intimate conversation he'd just had with Ginsberg, but he feels a strange twinge of dislike towards the man.
If he's just being paranoid, Ginsberg is, too, because although he doesn't say anything to Bob, he gives him a sort of look, one that couldn't accurately be described as distrust, exactly, but one that doesn't scream great levels of friendship, either. And perhaps it's significant, too, that he doesn't say anything to Bob as he heads back towards the offices -- apparently, the guy doesn't warrant any comment about where the two of them are going.
Opening the door to the large yet cluttered room he and the rest of the creative team work in, he gestures around, like he's giving Ned the official tour. "This is where I work," he says, easily slipping back into what sounds like a cheerful tone now that there are other people around. "Stan's usually here, and I'd introduce you, but he's not here today. Sick, or so he says."
There're papers scattered all across the table in the center of the room, and the walls are all covered in scraps of paper; drawings, scribblings, fully formed advertisements, single word notes that must mean something to someone but are probably incomprehensible to Ned. "Peggy?" he calls out, and several seconds later, she's peeking her head around her office door. "I'm going home," he says, not asking for permission, not explaining himself, "But I'll be back tomorrow. Of course. For the meeting. Wouldn't miss it. It'll be great."
Peggy stares at him for a moment, then shifts her gaze to Ned, offering him a smile -- a genuine one, and not at all the too warm smile that Bob had given them. "Okay," she says, "Get some rest. It was nice to meet you, Ned."
Ginsberg grabs an overflowing file from the stack of them on the table, and hurries out of the office towards the elevators as fast as he can without looking like he's running away. In truth, he kind of is running away, and he's glad none of the executives had been there to apprehend him. Bob gives him a strange sense of unease, but he's got no power, and Peggy might get frustrated, but at least she cares a little and isn't likely to gossip too badly. He presses the button for the elevator three times, urging it to come more quickly.
Ned stares around at the workspace with open curiosity. It looks pretty much how he'd expected it to: a brilliant collage of scraps and ideas, all jumbled and dauntingly, well, creative. He's glad that Peggy doesn't object, to see the relief that's on her face. Perhaps, he thinks, he'd been a bit too harsh in his opinions of Ginsberg's coworkers. Well, some of them.
"Nice to meet you, too," he says, with real feeling behind it, rather than just as a formality. What he really means is thank you for calling me. "Here, you guys-" he puts down the pie in the center of the table, as Ginsberg is gathering his things. There's still a kind of frantic urgency to his movements that worries Ned, but at least they're getting out of there. "-help yourselves."
That offering given, he follows Ginsberg as he rushes out. He'd give anything to be able to set his hand on the small of Ginsberg's back as they wait for the elevator, but he doesn't dare. So he murmurs, low enough that no one else will overhear, "You know, I just thought of another thing that helps when I'm feeling stressed? Digby." Ginsberg might not share Ned's love of dogs, but he hasn't seemed to mind Digby's company, in the time they've known one another, and he is very calming company. Ned's seen that with dozens of people. "I'm sure he'll be happy to see you-"
With that, the elevator has arrived, and Ned follows Ginsberg on, more than prepared to dedicate the rest of his day to making him feel better, feel - if not happy, at least normal for a little while.
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This is always such a difficult thing to explain, even to himself, and the truth is, he has no idea how to explain it to Ned without sounding utterly insane. "I guess sometimes I just start thinking about how strange the very nature of existing is. We're here, but it all seems so random. There were probably a million things that could've happened to make us not be here at all, not exist at all. And sometimes I start to wonder whether everything that I experience isn't just some kind of... I wonder whether it's all actually just in my head, if I'm just fantasizing about everything I think I'm seeing and feeling and doing. And if that's possible, and I know it is, because I know there're people who live with those kinds of delusions, then isn't it possible that I'm also just a delusion in someone else's head? Maybe the reason I feel so strange and out of place all the time is that I'm just not supposed to be here, that I'm just a figment of someone else's mind."
It doesn't make sense, when he explains it aloud, and he doesn't expect Ned to get it, but he's talking too fast now to slow himself down or to consider just how bizarre and downright strange he sounds, saying all of this. Ned might understand what some of this is like, but he probably doesn't question his own existence. Ginsberg, on the other hand, has been having existential dilemmas since before he really knew what they were.
"I mean, I don't really fit anywhere. I was born in Germany, but I'm not German. I was in Sweden for awhile, but I'm not Swedish. I came to America, but I'm not really American, not the way people think of it, even if my passport says I'm an American citizen. Where am I categorized? My father isn't my real father. I might not have had a mother at all, for all I know she could be a fictionalization, too, and I could have come from outer space. I have no idea what my real birthday is, I just know the one they invented for me. I have no idea what I was supposed to be named, I just know what they decided to call me. Everything I know about myself is fake. Doesn't that mean I'm not real, too?"
no subject
He doesn't understand, but he does listen, and gradually Ginsberg's reasoning becomes more accessible to him. Questions of identity, he has dealt with. Not in the realm of nationality, as it seems to be in Ginsberg's case. But he feels on firmer ground responding to that
"I don't think so." He's careful to phrase it as an opinion - not making fun of Ginsberg for having doubts as to his own existence, but firm in his own conviction that Ginsberg is, in fact, real. He wonders if anyone had ever bothered to give him even that, or if they had scoffed and spouted some variation on of course you're real. "The only way that would make you not real is if you believe someone's past is the key to who they are, and I don't think that. Not the only one, anyway. Maybe... maybe another way to look at it is: even if you don't know what you are, and can never know for certain, that means you get to decide who you want to be."
He knows it sounds cheesy, but it's what he's always done. He's focused that old anxiety over what kind of monster he must be into efforts to redefine himself, to build scaffolds and structures around that emptiness, around that unanswered question.
no subject
He knows that's not necessarily relevant to the conversation at hand, but he never can resist going off on a tangent, if the opportunity presents itself. He finally dislodges his face from Ned's shoulder, although he doesn't pull away from him entirely. No way is he letting go of him before he has to.
He appreciates Ned's words, the obvious care that he takes to make sure that he doesn't denigrate his feelings, ridiculous as they may be. Other people haven't necessarily given him that kind of thought. They've just dismissed him, or worse, gotten worried about him. That's what his father had done, when he'd started talking like this. Decided he needed help, and found him a 'good' psychoanalyst. It hadn't worked.
"But that thing you say about the past not being the key to who you are... I don't think most people see it the way you do. Why else would people be so focused on making ads about childhood memories? These things are supposed to shape us in some way, and we're supposed to become adults based on what we experienced as kids, right? But I mean it, I can't remember anything until I was five or so, and who knows what happened before then? I mean, I've been told, but that's different. So if it shaped me, I don't know how. And that's scary, not knowing how things you can't even remember might have changed you for the worse."
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Ned thinks that his memory from before he was five is fairly spotty, too, that some of that is natural, but he gets the feeling that what Ginsberg is talking about is more complete than that. He remembers what Ginsberg said about being in the meeting and drawing that complete blank, tries to imagine how alarming that must be.
"If I couldn't remember years of my life, I'd be pretty freaked out, too," he admits. He doesn't have any words of advice, or wisdom, to make that gap any less daunting. Nothing he hasn't said already, anyway. "I don't think people make ads about childhood memories because they're more important for shaping who you turn out to be, though. I think... I mean, I'm not gonna pretend I know anything about advertising, but I would think it's because nostalgia is missing something you can never have again, so it would make sense to take that desire and try to redirect it towards something that you can have. Right? It's an easy way to make people want things. It's not like the first five years of your life are more important to making you who you are than the last five have been."
no subject
It does seem like he's feeling better. His talking is still quick, but his breathing has slowed down to a more reasonable rate -- part of that's down to being this close to Ned, to breathing in his smell and leaning against his shoulder and absorbing his calm -- but part of that's being able to talk about this without fear of judgement. He hasn't had that opportunity in far too long.
"So we should probably get out of this closet soon, right? I mean, Peggy and Bob are probably wondering what we're doing in here, and if I don't come out soon, they'll probably think I murdered you on my obviously psychotic, panicked, poetry-spouting rampage. You missed that. The poetry, I mean. I thought it would be a good way to calm down, but I guess it just sounded nuts."
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"Can you tell them you'll be ready for the meeting tomorrow and come back with me?" He doesn't want to just leave, can't bear the thought of heading out on his own with Ginsberg staying here, to deal with the rest of them, giving him sidelong glances, making remarks. Ned knows he can't keep him away from that forever, can't hold onto him forever, but he's not ready to be parted from him just yet. For his own sake, as well as Ginsberg's.
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A drink at the office, he means, not going out anywhere to have a drink, but he probably doesn't need to say that, because he's already told Ned about just how much people get up to around here. It's not that he disapproves of it, exactly, it's just that it's never quite appealed to him.
"We can go tell them I'm leaving. You don't have to come with me to tell them, if you think it'll be awkward. I don't mind if you want to, though."
With that, he finally disentangles himself from Ned and stands up, opening the supply closet door and squinting into the light of the hallway.
no subject
One of whom, Ned spots, is at hand. If he didn't know better he'd call it, well, lurking. He didn't have his ear pressed to the door or anything, but it's clear he's been lingering, checking in, probably drawing his own conclusions. Ned's not sure why, but he finds that warm smile a little too warm. Maybe he's just being paranoid, feeling overprotective after the very intimate conversation he'd just had with Ginsberg, but he feels a strange twinge of dislike towards the man.
no subject
Opening the door to the large yet cluttered room he and the rest of the creative team work in, he gestures around, like he's giving Ned the official tour. "This is where I work," he says, easily slipping back into what sounds like a cheerful tone now that there are other people around. "Stan's usually here, and I'd introduce you, but he's not here today. Sick, or so he says."
There're papers scattered all across the table in the center of the room, and the walls are all covered in scraps of paper; drawings, scribblings, fully formed advertisements, single word notes that must mean something to someone but are probably incomprehensible to Ned. "Peggy?" he calls out, and several seconds later, she's peeking her head around her office door. "I'm going home," he says, not asking for permission, not explaining himself, "But I'll be back tomorrow. Of course. For the meeting. Wouldn't miss it. It'll be great."
Peggy stares at him for a moment, then shifts her gaze to Ned, offering him a smile -- a genuine one, and not at all the too warm smile that Bob had given them. "Okay," she says, "Get some rest. It was nice to meet you, Ned."
Ginsberg grabs an overflowing file from the stack of them on the table, and hurries out of the office towards the elevators as fast as he can without looking like he's running away. In truth, he kind of is running away, and he's glad none of the executives had been there to apprehend him. Bob gives him a strange sense of unease, but he's got no power, and Peggy might get frustrated, but at least she cares a little and isn't likely to gossip too badly. He presses the button for the elevator three times, urging it to come more quickly.
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"Nice to meet you, too," he says, with real feeling behind it, rather than just as a formality. What he really means is thank you for calling me. "Here, you guys-" he puts down the pie in the center of the table, as Ginsberg is gathering his things. There's still a kind of frantic urgency to his movements that worries Ned, but at least they're getting out of there. "-help yourselves."
That offering given, he follows Ginsberg as he rushes out. He'd give anything to be able to set his hand on the small of Ginsberg's back as they wait for the elevator, but he doesn't dare. So he murmurs, low enough that no one else will overhear, "You know, I just thought of another thing that helps when I'm feeling stressed? Digby." Ginsberg might not share Ned's love of dogs, but he hasn't seemed to mind Digby's company, in the time they've known one another, and he is very calming company. Ned's seen that with dozens of people. "I'm sure he'll be happy to see you-"
With that, the elevator has arrived, and Ned follows Ginsberg on, more than prepared to dedicate the rest of his day to making him feel better, feel - if not happy, at least normal for a little while.