My Neighbour – Philip Traylen

July 8, 2025

I am jealous that he forgets things, in the natural manner.
I am jealous of his masturbatory nous, that every time it feels different to him, another window opening.
I am jealous of his untroubled breathing; I can’t stand anyone with a centre, an inbuilt retreat.
I am jealous of his ability to dream in a clean, self-contained manner. His ability to, in the morning, make brief comments about his dream, which flirt with self-destruction (her blouse was just under yours in the pile. I could see it poking out), but in just the way she likes – his loving wife, I mean.
I am jealous of his disinterest in the politics of at least some earthly regions. He compensates for this by occasionally mentioning certain stars; the evening star, the morning star. In this way, he achieves a sophisticated wholeness without having an opinion about Dagestan (but mention Armenia and his face darkens — amazing!).
I am jealous of his catholic taste in films. He can find something to enjoy in anything, and yet he never scrapes the barrel. I feel like killing him some nights.
I am jealous of his relationship with her, but her relationship with him fills me with a terse pity. This pity in no sense undermines my jealousy on his account; they imply each other, but with a lightness which I find permanently surprising.
I pity her overly emphatic collection of seasonal clothing; I am jealous of his access to it, or at least the understated quips he makes its account.
I am jealous of his doglike face, which he has coupled with a cat-like gestural arsenal, so very knowingly.
I am jealous that for him the years simply add up, as you learn in elementary school.
I pity the sparseness of her face; it lacks the pinchedness that speaks proper self-respect.
I pity her him, I envy him her, let’s say. Even though it’s the same feeling; even I know that.
I am jealous of the pithiness of everyone else’s silence, which he depends on when he needs to. I am jealous of ‘depends on’ and ‘when he needs to.’
I am jealous of the aura of predetermination which they’re always leeching from, not being me.
I am jealous of his decision not to have children. It had a brash political resonance, a fatherly resonance, even, which makes it easily undone.
I am jealous of how its undoing hangs over them, having myself no promises left to break. A summer evening might do it, and they both know there are plenty left. They discuss it in the morning sometimes.
I am jealous of his work in the ‘climate business,’ quantifying the summer evenings which remain. One too many, I bet he jokes about that all the time. A local law bars me from cleaning the windows at his workplace.
I am jealous of his money; it means he can police his self-image with a freedom that’s almost libidinal, while mine simply leaks out into the air.
I am jealous of their ease in the morning, the sloping quality their conversations have, as if tracing the edges of some larger shape. Intercultural communication, or something.
I pity her interest in his garden; it has a walled quality which seems unnecessarily defiant. It has many interlocking elements, which means he can ignore her advice, force her to the debasement of soft encouragement.
Only in terms of garden aesthetics do I feel truly superior to him; here pity and jealousy meet.
Despite this, my destructive fantasies are almost all horticultural. Pissing in the roses, shitting in the tupils, fucking up the hydrangeas. They’d know it was me, but only in their hearts; not enough evidence to say it out loud.
The blue shade that pans down off the hills. The mind goes sharp in a curved place, you see.
The river, that does the crying for you.
The sky, that does the seeing for you.
The mountains, that touch the earth for you.
The birds, that linger in the arches for you.
The cats, that tip and sniff the bins for you.
The couple of stick-tied goats, that make the milk for you.