"What are we going to do?" said my friend, piercing my conscience with his question. And I wept in reply. What are we going to do?! What are we going to do??! Is there anything to be done at all? And who are we?

    I write poetry. But somehow it's not enough. Poetry just entertains; it does not change people. What are we going to do?? We live in a world of dead forms and dead ideas. And we question if anything has meaning. So what are we going to do???

    My friend is drinking a cup of coffee and smoking a cigarette. "We live in a world still dominated by Plato and the Bible. But we must free ourselves from the old ideas that paralyze our thinking and our lives," he says to me. "We must learn how to think again. The 'technological man' was born out of the old ideas. But we can no longer live our lives according to the outdated philosophy. Technology cannot solve the problem of existence."

    I agree with him that man cannot worship technology but I'm not quite sure if we can create a "new" philosophy that can liberate human beings and make them happy. My friend has read Marx, Nietzsche, Kazantzakis, Bergson, and other writers, and he's burning with the flames of these great minds, but as I look at him, I see someone else's ideas and I'm not sure if he fully understands them. "What are we going to do?" he asks the question with a sense of authority, as if the plight of the planet rests solely on his shoulders. In this bureaucratic society our only refuge from feeling small and insignificant is to imagine ourselves as a great thinker, a great artist, a movie star, a rock 'n' roll idol, or whatever, so as to give us a sense of having some kind of personal impact on the impersonal technological world.

    What are we going to do??? I'm a graduate student, who just graduated with a BA in psychology, yet feeling disillusioned with the dehumanizing aspects of psychological theories, whether they be behavioristic or "humanistic," and there I see my Greek friend, striking a chord within my heart.

    Is he a madman, a genius or a dreamer? Or is he a bullshitter who likes to impress others with idle conversation? Somehow it isn't really important. There seems to be a lot of enthusiasm, pulsing through his veins, which I find to be a rare quality amidst the cynicism and apathy of modern life. He is a lively conversationalist and he inspires me to learn more about the people he refers to, even though I suspect that his knowledge is superficial. But he demands respect from me and gets offended when I don't take him seriously.

    He told me that he is writing a Master's thesis on the nihilism of Nikos Kazantzakis and that I could not possibly understand what is meant by "nihilism" in literature without a thorough study of Nietzsche and Kazantzakis. But he will talk to me about it anyway. I have never seen anyone speak so enthusiastically about "nothing." Yet, as I observe him, I see my own struggle to find meaning. Maybe when I see someone openly declare a sense of emptiness, I recognize a need to discover a genuine purpose to my existence.

    He finishes his coffee and we part in one of our quarrels over what he sees as my tendency to look down upon the accomplishments of the great minds of the twentieth century, but looking at my friend, I find him intolerant and hard to be with. Perhaps there are great minds in this world, but they could probably use some humility and patience in dealing with the little minds.

    In his foreword to The Anti-Christ Nietzsche writes:

    I'm still a virgin at 24, going on 25, and it has been a source of frictions among me and my more sexually experienced friends. A virgin! What could I possibly know about women and relationships?! And why am I so afraid to "take a dive"?

    Andros says that "he has gotten sex out of his system." He explains that he lived on the Greek islands, where there was plenty of sex and no inhibitions. People would get drunk, smoke a joint and do it on a sandy beach by the sea. He used to
tell me a lot about the islands and the European girls who visited them. But now, he says, the islands are crowded with tourists
and there are less deserted places where one can experience a paradise of the senses. I listen to him with amazement as he
tells me of his long hair days and the discothèques. He is in New Haven now--a conservative Connecticut town--living with
an old-fashioned but ambitious American girlfriend, whom I will call Theresa. He is now preoccupied with financial and educational worries and plans to marry Theresa in the near future. He is no longer a playboy that he used to be, or so he says, and is committed to his work and the responsibilities of living with another person. He says that he needs Theresa to remind him to go to work and be serious and responsible.

    Andros has been living with Theresa for the last couple of years. They are planning to move to Greece together after they
get married and Andros completes his Master's thesis in history on Nikos Kazantzakis. They have been sharing an apartment together and Theresa has been taking care of most of the rent. Andros feels guilty about it and has frequent arguments with his girlfriend about money. His father sends him money from Greece, but not enough to cover his tuition and room and board. Andros doesn't have a green card (given to permanent residents) and cannot get a decent job in the U.S. without it. Moreover he wants to retain his Greek citizenship because he doesn't want to lose his right to his parents' property. That means that he will have to serve two years in the Greek army--a prospect that doesn't exactly appeal to him. Once in a while Andros would work for the local Greeks under the table to make some money and not to feel so guilty about his girlfriend's taking care of the rent, but he hates the jobs that he gets and leaves them after a while.

    So now he's trying to appear serious to his friends: some day he will be a history professor and all his efforts and all the efforts of his girlfriend will pay off. They will have a home in Greece, Andros will get a chair of history at some university and will write his great work that will shock the world. This couple--Andros and Theresa--reminds me a lot of my parents. My father is a professor of linguistics at Yale and my mother is his devoted wife, who sacrificed her own ambitions to serve my father. And they argue constantly over trivial matters, just like Andros and Theresa.

    I asked Andros once if he loves Theresa and he said that he is sacrificing everything for his work, having abandoned his passion for beautiful women to dedicate himself to more important goals: the arrows of Eros no longer touch his soul. He now wants a quiet and secure place where he can pursue his studies, and his girlfriend's quiet and supportive nature suits his needs. Unfortunately, his dreams of a peaceful life are shattered every time his girlfriend blows up at him when he goes out with his friends and leaves her by herself. Theresa constantly tests Andros' love for her by throwing temper tantrums, which often occur in front of his friends and make him very embarrassed socially. "Love is irrational," Andros tries to explain his girlfriend's behavior. One time she called the police when they had an argument in their apartment and they were both arrested for the breach of peace. Andros had to see his professor the following day, but Theresa refused to give him a ride (Andros often relies on her in many practical aspects of living), so he missed his appointment. He told his teacher that he spent a few hours in jail but that he could rest assured that Andros is not a criminal.

    I often wonder why they stay together. "Theresa is a romantic," Andros explains, "and I have a weakness for romantic types because they have a tendency to be suicidal." I don't really know if Andros ever experienced love, but his swinging days are over now and he no longer counts on his good looks to get him through life. He spends a lot of time in the apartment, has a beer belly, smokes, drinks coffee, has a constant craving for marijuana, and goes out occasionally with his male friends or with his girlfriend. He attaches a particular importance to his male friends because "only men can discuss serious philosophical issues." When a woman enters the "company," she immediately becomes the center of attention (that is, if she is attractive) and all the men in the group want to have sex with her. Andros doesn't regard women's lib too highly and I even heard him declare in one of his drunken episodes: "To know woman you must smell her pussy!" As much as he would like to deny it, he's definitely a male chauvinist who regards women as sexy playthings. As I observe him lately, he is a bit of a neurotic, plagued by various psychosomatic problems and obsessive worries perhaps attributable to the stresses of living with Theresa and his financial problems. He is also very much preoccupied with making a good impression on his professors. His happy-go-lucky nature has been colored by a somewhat somber and meticulous air, embracing nihilistic ideas without the awareness of all the negativity and pessimism that they imply.

                                                                                * * * * *

    O Andros! A foreigner with a Greek accent. I, too, still feel like a foreigner, having come to America from the Soviet Union at the age of 13. Perhaps we are all wanderers and strangers, searching for a sense of belonging in this world. What are we going to do, Andros?! What are we going to do?? Your voice pierces me like the chill of the wind in November. I, too, write in the hope that I may get published some day. I, too, worry about finances and suffer from hemorrhoids, constipation, muscle spasms, and nervous tension. I have trouble sleeping and my chest is itchy. I'm nearsighted, with dandruff, and I'm beginning to lose my hair. I have spent forty days in a mental institution, depressed by the monotony and the drudgery of living. The doctors thought I was crazy--"psychotic," as they put it--but I'm just overly sensitive with a powerful imagination. I, too, think of Death and its dark faces.

    O Andros! I have fallen in love with many women and some have rejected me. I have wept through the sleepless nights and have written a lot of poetry--some good, some bad--but I tried to show them how I feel and I feel terrible. And the women! What could I offer them but a few lines of poetry to express my affection and loneliness? I don't have a car, Andros, and cars, for the most part, make me uneasy. I've lived in Moscow since my childhood and never had to rely on cars to get me places. And poetry! What do they care about poetry? American university are packed with business and computer science majors. The foreign language departments are weeping, and philosophy and English majors are flipping burgers at McDonald's and Burger King.

    What are we going to do, Andros??? How are we going to put an end to this madness?! I'm out of work and I don't have money for school, and romance has turned into a one-night stand. I'm a virgin. But do I have to screw my brains out to appreciate the beauty of a kiss, of a flower, of a sunset, of a woman?!! Where is love??? Where is beauty, my friend?! We live in a world of fear and suspicion. People are afraid of each other as if they are out to infect one another with the AIDS virus.

    I don't read the papers and I don't watch the news and I'm not crazy about being bombarded by another rape and murder, another hostage crisis, another AIDS victim, another violation of human rights in Central America, another nuclear disaster, and what not. Human tragedy has become entertainment and big business for the condom industry. And I'm sick of the New Age movement and all those phony Hollywood stars with toothpaste smiles on their faces, boasting about their past lives. What are we going to do?? What are we going to do???

                                                                                * * * * *

    My thoughts are interrupted as my friend Fred enters the house. He is an ex-mental patient but he prefers not to advertise it. He sits on a couch with a gloomy look on his. Fred is younger than me but he's gone through hell and he also want to write.

    "You look like shit," he says, "you've been talking to Andros, haven't you?" I nod in agreement. My friend looks tired from working all day at the bookstore. And I? I live un suburbia with my parents, trying to make an appearance of doing something important with my life. I look at Fred, who also lives at his parents' home, and recognize a familiar melody. "Schicksal!"**  I say, as my fatalistic friend nods in agreement. "We are all just pawns of some immutable fate and we cannot fight it."

    Fate has been a favorite over the beer topic with Fred. "So when are you going to get laid?" he asks.

    I don't have to answer this question, for we both realize that we just want to get drunk. His eyes light up when I mention the latest poem by Dylan Thomas that I've read.

    The night covers the suburbia with a phlegm-like film and we leave my parents' house like two apparitions in the land of the dead. "Let's go see your Korean buddy Kenny," Fred says. "He is always good for a few laughs."

    "Yep," I say with a sardonic smile on my face. "Kenny is always full of life and vigor. I think he's going into airborne training this summer. I guess Uncle Sam has been good to him."

    Fred mentions a girl at the store, whom he would like to make it with, as we head for Kenny's house. There is a full moon out tonight and she is looking at me with her sad eyes, as if asking: "What are we going to do? What are we going to do??"

    Suburbia. Suburbia. Suburbia. This summer, this place, this night I stand trembling at the horror of the question...

WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO?

                                                                                                                         June 30, 1987
                                                                                                                   --Alexander Shaumyan
____
* Nietzsche, F. Twilight of the Idols and The Anti-Christ.  translated, with an introduction and commentary, by R.J. Hollingdale.  New York: Penguin Books, 1982, p. 114
**German: "destiny."