Since Sunday afternoon, one of the most beautiful days I've known, I've felt very unconscious, a mixture of dizzy and tired and mildly nauseous, feelings tied together with a general sense of life out of focus; scattered. My thoughts, like the eyelashes on a resting man, are impossible to count; they flicker as though in dream; they are thick and mottled and overlap, heavy with sleep.
At the moment, I am at work, waiting for my classes to start. I've closed my eyes and have kept them shut these last ten minutes without paranoia of being caught asleep. I am the only teacher now; Miss Kim has quit, the second of two since I've been here (the third if you count the original secretary). I've been taking over extra classes and feel very uncomfortable in my present situation because as the only teacher, everything I do is under closer scrutiny, I'd imagine. I will not continue here next year. I don't know what I'll do, actually. I like teaching and being overseas but I need a vacation, something I'm not likely to get (though 10 days were promised in my contract) here at this place.
In any case, I often have mixed feelings here in
On the sad days, the weight I feel is bone-crushing. I sometimes think of the warning Dr. Paidra gave me about my pills—how sometimes they can make people depressed to the point of suicidal if the dosage is wrong. I never had the time for them to make any adjustments to my prescription before leaving the country, so who can say if I'm even supposed to be on Prozac anyway. I sometimes feel worse than I ever did without them. Other times, I feel emotionally the same as always, but physically just a little number. Walking around like a dream exiled to the waking world, I am unsure if anything is even real; I worry that the last five and a half months have been an elaborate hallucination, the by-product of a nervous breakdown or a coma-dream from a hospital room. Sometimes, I'll jolt awake in the middle of the night and look around my room, certain that I recognize the familiar shapes from my place on
Most of the dreams I have and consider to be the thoughts of my "present-day memory," pertain to childhood, when everything was more concrete, emotional. I've been taking sleeping pills every night now and so, when I do awake in the night, it's only for several seconds; my eyes are groggy and unclear; my eyelids are defective, unable to remain open—a missing spring, you see. When I "wake up" and wander numbly through the day, perhaps those are my hallucinations, or at least I feel less clear in these transparent hours that sometimes drag, like the feet of a bored child, shuffling along, unenthused about weekend visits with 'dad' or long nights with cruel babysitters.
Sometimes, in bed at night, I am struck with strange notions; I have been doing a lot of thinking waiting for pills to kick in, it seems. Last night, wide awake and restless, I sought out a blanket to drape over the lace curtain thumb-tacked in front of the window looking out into the hallway. The light was a bit too abrasive and I require pitch-black to fool my eyes into thinking they're closed. There was still a tiny sliver of light where the blanket stretched, unable to reach—I thought of it like a sort of porthole, a glimpse into the fog of my dreams (or waking life, whichever it is). There, in the near-black, it was quiet, almost strangely so; a primeval silence. For a full five minutes, I was a bit afraid that the elaborate dream-world I've built were about to implode; these silent moments were the final, eerie few before utter destruction—like how birds stop singing and animals disappear when a threat enters the forest. Finally, the perfect, terrifying soundlessness was broken by high-heel clicks in the hall, fading gradually as the owner of said feet made her way down the hall, trampling thorough my dream like she owned the place. That's the last thing I remember before I fell asleep.
I cannot quite remember my dreams, but I know I was in Bolton Centre yet again, which is somewhat irritating, as certain parts (not all, though) of those thirteen long years would be better off forgotten.
In a dream once, several years ago, I had a conversation about what I couldn't see, what wasn't there that is, and why it was missing. I remember asking whether there was anything but what could be seen or touched, or viscerally discerned. I don't think I was in any natural surroundings, unless "nothingness" qualifies as something, anything at all. Something (or nothing) told me there was nothing but what we see and hear, not in words though. I think it must have been my own mind, but within the dream, if that makes any sense. I woke up feeling very nauseous and proceeded with my day. Later, that same afternoon, I was reading a book about the Metaphysical poets and was struck with their concept of the "Body and Soul" and how there is a constant struggle or discourse between the two, even though they blend together like a sort of psychic/corporeal smoothie.
I remember becoming very interested in the concept of the soul, sure that if I couldn't see it or control it as I might my body, it either didn't exist, was merely an optimistic invention on the part of ancient philosophers, or that it, figuring so elusively in the monstrous unknown, wasn't worth my time worrying over. Now that I've thought about it and have had a little time truly being on my own, I believe differently. I am not by any means a spiritual person—I still only feel faith in the physical, an old standby. Despite this, I understand what poets like Donne were trying to convey—that if there is a soul, it desires something entirely different form the body, the mound of shape-shifting, aging flesh that selfishly, greedily "needs," and generally triumphs over its more invisible counterpart.
The soul desires (or seems to) purity, forever in search of that sought for higher state, an alchemic refinement. In our minds, we think that to please the soul, we must make our bodies follow suit, and rid ourselves of the extraneous, superfluous weight that is dragging us down. But maybe these are the thoughts of a convoluted, obsessed mind that believes somehow, unsure of where the idea came from, that when the body is well, the soul is not. Contrarily, a healthy soul makes for a sick body, since the two together have essentially no business with each other, both pulling viciously away, one facing east, the other west, a lethal game of bi-polar tug and war that some would call unjustly matched. And, if to the victor goes not the spoils (for what is left?), then what?
I really shouldn't think about these kinds of things; I know it doesn't help. Sometimes I feel as if over-thinking has made my problems worse than they might have been otherwise. At the same time, despite the thoughts I have had these last few months, in addition to all the information I've managed to gather from books throughout the years, I still feel I do not know enough about the world, about people, and that frustrates me. What I'd like, more than anything is to "know" without doubt or second-guessing myself. Sometimes, I feel like all I need is an intellect, just a thought-producing entity devoid of a body. I'd be much less self-conscious at the very least.
I'd like very much to stop being in a daze and having to constantly shake myself aware, reminding myself that my surroundings are in fact real, or as real as my mind can make them. Maybe holding on to a warm arm as I manoeuvre through busy streets and past thousands of faces will help. It feels very solid to me at least, so I guess for now, I too will remain firm, sure of my existence, and won't vanish into the smoky atmosphere, a zillion tiny particles dissipating in as many different directions.
I've been re-reading the story of Psyche the past few days and perhaps the myth has inspired my recent thoughts. For those of you unfamiliar with the story, it takes place in the Pre-Christian world (some call it Barbarian) when sacrifice was common and Gods were not only real, but thirsty for both wine and blood.
The story starts like most fairy tales, "once upon a time" when the world was new and kings and queens had children in sets of three, seven or twelve—mythic numbers, you know. Psyche was born third, the youngest of two other daughters, and grew up to become the kindest and most beautiful princess that ever lived (go figure). She was so loved by her father's subjects that they honoured her above the city's principal goddess, believing that she possessed sacred powers to heal the sick and bring light to the darkness endemic of the age.
Like most goddesses, Talapal, who was the city's primary deity, was a diva, grew jealous and made life generally miserable for the kingdom until the king finally agreed to a human sacrifice, a gift for the "brute," a monster in the mountains. The only obvious choice for the sacrifice was Psyche of course, being the choicest daughter of the king. However, before the slaughter could occur, Telapal's son. Cupid (or Ialim, depending on who's telling the story and where) rescued her and made Psyche his wife.
Though Cupid was the most beautiful of gods, he refused to let Psyche see his face and only came to her in the dark. For many months, Psyche was happy; Cupid built her a beautiful palace in the woods and she had all she ever wanted or needed on the condition that she never ask to see his face or bring a lamp into their home.
One day, Psyche's sisters went to the mountain to search for her remains and to mourn her fate at the mount of the brute. Instead of finding her bones however, Psyche appeared before them in the forest looking slightly raggedy but nonetheless happy and healthy. She explained to them how she'd been made a wife to a mysterious god who she'd never seen and how she lived in the most gorgeous palace and wore the loveliest of clothing. Her sisters, of course, thought she was delusional, that she'd been driven mad after somehow managing to escape from the vicious monster. They wondered how she'd managed to survive the elements for so long by herself.
When Psyche brought them to her 'palace' the sisters were unmoved in their resolve to rescue their sister. To Psyche, her palace was brilliant and her robes of the finest silk. To her sisters however, Psyche pointed to nothing but trees and sky and wore only the simple dress, now dirty and ragged, in which she had been dressed for her sacrifice to the monster.
Though she refused to return home with her sisters, Psyche was finally convinced to accept an oil lap; her sisters felt that her husband must be a terrible man if he was too ashamed to even show her his face. Once Psyche saw him, they hoped, she would return to a state of sanity, her perfect illusion shattered. Psyche listened and though she had her apprehensions, lit the lamp to look upon her lover's face as he slept. Instead of an awful, ugly man, Psyche was horrified to realize that she had betrayed her husband, who had in fact, the most beautiful face she'd ever seen. Instantly, the walls of her palace came down around her; in the forest, to those who didn't realize what it really was, mountains would have been seen to crumble to dust, and trees fall to the earth like so many dominoes.
Psyche was sorry, but Cupid could no longer help her. By creating this palace—that some would say was all in her mind—he'd been protecting her from the cruel and jealous eyes of his mother, who was now free to torment her as she pleased.
As the story goes, Psyche was sent to wander the earth alone, an archetype similar to others before and after her, like the Wandering Jew or Coleridge's Ancient Mariner. In her lifetime, which would be difficult, the goddess would give her near impossible tasks to fulfil. When (and if) she ever completed them all successfully, she'd be allowed to be reunited with her husband and become a goddess (albeit a minor one), herself.
It's a sad story, I think, and really not very optimistic. Thinking about it, however, I believe I realize the point; about how we can create images in our minds to protect ourselves from what is really there, like building closet doors (no matter how ramshackle) to hold back the monsters that torment us at night. I think it's mostly about self-protection, propping ourselves up enough to protect ourselves from the general consensus' perception of reality. The problem however, is that if we somehow manage to live in our heads long enough to believe something 'true,' it becomes so much harder to eventually accept another person's perspective on the issue. We stubbornly grasp our biases, our truths, until our figurative knuckles pale, turn white.
Being forced to lift one finger at a time is a terrible process, typical of most tortures, but one I've come to realize I might have no choice but to succumb to eventually. The question is of course, is whether I'm willing to suffer more to become "better" in someone else's opinion. I don't know. I remain not entirely convinced that my walls are shaky, like on extremely hot days when everything takes on that wavy-lined, dreamy look. I am not denying that they are in fact walls, however. I am saying that they make me feel safer, like though I may wander in the real world, or in the one my mind fabricates, like Psyche, I'll always be protected as long as the walls stay up, entirely untouchable. They are very reliable obstructions, if I do say so myself. The only difference is, I have seen the face of my master, and it isn't pretty.
Who the architects of these walls are is hard to say, but there have been many contributors over the years. And I continue to lay the bricks—it's hard to stop a pattern once I've started; I am slightly obsessive. I've layered them thickly. They sometimes seem soundproof. The walls are rounded like a spiralling tower and as I lay them down, I keep moving in circles, my space to move becoming increasingly limited. I am an imperfect wall-builder, however. Without corners, my walls (or wall), has gaps in it. Like my apartment's hallway window, light shines through. It is bright and piercing and I can tell immediately when it's going to be a beautiful day when the sunshine lets me wake up warm. But, when my shoddy craftsmanship leaves me prone to the colder, crueller elements, I too become colder and crueller. I work harder to patch up the holes and though I save myself from freezing, I also black out the respite of those rare sunny days. If I continue, I guess I may just be alone in the dark, devoid of warm or cold, unable to be either happy or sad. Yes, my amazing wall will shelter me from everything.
Last weekend was very good. We went to Hong Dae again. We saw a punk show. It's getting to the point, I think, where it really doesn't matter where we go, as long as we go together. If the place is fun or interesting, it's just an added bonus. I am frightened sometimes by my comfort-level with this situation. I've never experienced anything quite like it. I find myself at a loss for words often with you, but that's okay; I don't scour my brain searching for boring things to talk about just to fill the void. Sometimes it's just nicer to lean into you and close my eyes and ignore the din of the subway car, the metal upon metal of the tracks, the foreign (to me) language I can't understand, and listen to you breathe underneath all the layers of winter clothing. And for a moment, my walls don't matter. I don't measure the light or the darkness, the happy or the sad. I don't think about laying bricks or how I might die if they come crashing down on top of me, I just let you hug me tighter and try to sync my breath with yours. That is all.
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