As I sleep
As I sleep
I hear the creep of footsteps
Distant past, close at heart.
No shadows cast.
Something just ahead
Calls and calls again
The weight of my body
Holds me slack
My tongue knots
Screaming back
No consolation
From the gathering crowd
Familiar yet not.
Then
Silence.
I stare into the space above
Drowning
Light pushes me deeper
To waking.
Who am I to walk in such places?
Old faces, strange spaces.
To which there is no return.
GARY.
From the window adjacent to my drawing table I can watch the lizards doing what lizards do. I can’t imagine what it would be to be a lizard (not that I haven’t tried). What I do recognise is some sense of awareness; of me when I approach too closely, of other lizards who occupy a similar territory, of what is food and what is not, of temperature, of light, and of things I could not imagine. Each lizard seems to have a simple life. Eat, rest, drink, move, shelter, reproduce, fight and retreat. The territory is held by one dominant male. Garry (my name for him) is near ten years old. He has fathered many, eaten some, competed with ambitious males, fought off intruders, shows no affection to his offspring, shares nothing: he is as independent a specimen as I could imagine. And yes, I do imagine.
Garry demonstrates no emotional qualities. His feelings are limited to that which are necessary for his survival. His are the basic senses we all have: thermal, olfactory, taste, auditory, visual, pressure, proprioseptivity.
I don’t know whether Garry cares, loves, hates, feels loss, pleasure, even fear. In his typical non-descript pose he gives nothing away. Among his kind he is understood. Yet there seems to be a prescribed course of action predetermined or reactionary, standardised in evolution, aimed at survival.
I might attach some human feelings and emotions to him by his actions and circumstances but since I have no idea what’s going on in his brain I can only assume I am hypothercising.
Peculiarly enough, we do the same with other humans, cats, dogs, most furry animals, and a few odd creatures we might admire or keep as pets. Adopting another species as a human substitute is characteristically human. It’s more likely we are behaving more like the other species than they us. Have you seen the way people behave around their dogs? Ech! One might wonder who is in charge with pets and people.
All this watching and pondering as led me to request that I come back as a lizard. That should suit me nicely for my next round at living.
Not drowning, just waving.
In a dream, or a memory
Floating prone, in the ocean off the coast,
A familiar place, a rhythmic pace not lost.
The water balances my body midway
Between sinking and surviving.
To the left I can see the sand dunes rising
In unison with the incoming swell.
To the right, a line dividing air from water.
Below, I can feel the shifting tide
Sensing the sharks, waiting for a meal.
Above, the blue sky, home for drifting puffs of cloud
and a stray gull, squawking at nothing.
There’s a call from the shore.
“Are you drowning or waving?”
How thoughtful, how profound.
Neither. Just caught between sea and sky.
It’s the way it’s always been.
Where do I live? You ask? Why would you? Can’t you see from there?
I am here. Always here. Never fear. No favours asked. At last
I can tell you. The road has cast its path far enough. Just.
Then, from where I stand, where my feet did land from flight,
From fright, from cautious contemplation. Knowing only
What I know is true, some more of what is not, and less, for sure.
I can hear the gospels calling from the given and the fallen
Who claim to know what stands behind the doors and walls
Of this house. They are welcome. There are no rules to bare.
No potentate to stare down while I wake or sleep.
What is here is fare, not fear. What is worn is fixed
Without the perquisite of service due, respect and grace
Of those who patch and plough with blows from a blunt axe.
Here, where I live, the carpets feel the pace of treading mills
And grinding tills, showing threadbare to the floor beneath
A flake of paint floats on ponds of tears. Wretched smears
Of battle grime exposes bones and blood I fear is mine.
And to be sure I know I am home, the hinges creak and stick
Against the youthful glare of imagined times, all mine.
Oh, how such reflections bare the scars of learning,
Of yearning, of vacant pages in desperate ages, never sure
Of what to find, who to ask, walking blind before the mirrors
Of what is real, then holding still to its infinite uncertainty.
Now, I see the cracks and feel the sharpness of the ragged edges
And know they are mine and mine alone. For me to stare and share.
To value as the Kintsugi jar. Know not the gold that makes the mark
But all the damage done, the mistakes made, the battles lost.
The ground beneath is still intact and the vessel still holds blooded clots.
This has always been where I can be found. Right here, alone.
Living outwards from my home. Ruminating the grains of knowledge
Wondering, waiting, watching for that which I don’t understand.
Where I can chose to know or let it glow in its own light.
What aches me is the giving in, resolving to a noisy din of others
Who claim to know who made this home, that which it has become.
For some the answers are it’s all. Then comes the failure of the fall.
To repair, the angst of despair, the need to be forgiven for what they are.
Mistake me not. My dwelling is as close to the worms caste
As I am to any other. And treasure just the same. For it is here
That everything exists that I own. There is nothing broken here
That cannot be repaired by me alone, reaching within, then holding On to others while repair is done. All that remains is the stoic’s bow.
To know, as anyone need know. Which question to ask: not last, First.
The sceptic knows one lifeline thoughts are built upon.
We are reasoning mammals, the builders kit on which
We all build our home. Any visitor who claims to know more than that
Never to know the beauty of finding the cellar filled with unwavering doubt.
You have found me. At last. Drink well from the doubters cup, drink up.
Feel the freedom it provides, no longer answering to the stalkers deride.
Even in the darkest hour, when distances are not within my power
There is the memoirs of others in other places, still there, staring,
Baring witness to my presence in their dominion. Tasting
The tang of their lives, fragments of what they chose to hide.
Walking the path of many lives, hearing the cries of welcome.
I view the garden of their home and smell the roses just the same
Then feed on the culture of what they are. Designed by nature
No less, nothing greater. Home to the odours in the heat of day
Reminding me of what I was; no longer in that home. Growing
From the soils of spoils and boast, lost in the remote suburban fame.
Fair game for others, wealth for stone banks, suits of destine.
Epicurean delights. Not mine. Someone else’s Devine.
So, next when you ask. “Are you at home?” Know well
I am always here. Straightening the frames, polishing the bell
Shining the shelves, sorting the books, sweep and cook
Listening, sipping on the pleasures I find, in words of mine and others
Fluffing the covers, making teas for me and others, view
The world from open windows, wondering which way
The wind blows. Counting friends on one hand, holding out
The other so I can understand what comes. It is the sum
Of all things. From nothing to nothing comes a small glimpse
Of something we call real. Our home, for a while.
Welcome. I am home.
The pathway to sanity has been long and arduous. Here I was thinking I was normal. Tension and anxiety were simply a part of everyday life. Not so, it seems. There are expectations set by those around us we are obliged to note, admire, aspire towards, achieve and bequeath to those that we also surround. In its simplest form, these aspirations include good health, social contact and mental stability. As Kishan puts it: Physiology, Psychology, Sociology; the guides to good health. Those who advocate this persona usually have a strong jaw, lots of hair, have a connection with their god and drive a very expensive car. Oh, yes. They are more than likely from California, USA. Personally, I prefer the Moscow mafia.
How often have you greeted someone with “how are you?” Or simply put: ‘are you OK?’ A response in regard to the physical and physiological well being is expected, even if it will only be of consideration if the answer is: “I’ve been poorly” or some such refinement. Even the standard response of “I’m OK “ gets a peculiar look of disbelief and a questioning: “Really? You look like shit”.
No one is really OK.
And you haven’t even mentioned your mental state, which is probably considering murder at this point. That’s a no-go area in any conversation. Loonies, psychos, anyone suffering from any sort of -pathy, druggos, and the rest of the mental cases are not the sort of person others feel comfortable talking to.
This will lead to a warranted conversation relating to recent illnesses, operations, medication, healing and lingering. Some exchange and debate will follow, and often includes the comparative intensity of pain, possible cures, alternative medication and the name of a better doctor.
“I think you should see a psychiatrist, ” he added as he looked at his watch, fiddled with his pen and gave me that look he might give his teenage daughter when she asks for some cash or a sleepover with her boyfriend.
Finding a shrink in Darwin is akin to finding an extra finger on my left hand. Nevertheless, I did find one within walking distance of home. How convenient, I thought. Perhaps she does house calls.
I called the number.
“How much? That much? What about for an old pensioner? Fuck, lady. That’s more than I’d pay for a weekend away with the woman of choice. I’ll dwell on it,” and I hung up, as hard as one can on a mobile phone. I mumbled to myself for a few minutes, rang back, apologised for my manner and booked an hour somewhere into next month. Chances are I’ll have topped myself before then and will avoid the pain of the psychiatrist's bill, all $1500 of it.
She better be good or I’ll bleed all over her carpet or throw myself in front of her white Mercedes.
By the time the appointment came around, I was feeling ok. Should I cancel? Under advisement from Christine and Kishan (he’s Buddhist, Sinhalese, Type A, doctor/mate/confidant I pay to talk to) I appeared in the waiting room of doctor Caroline, carrying as intense a look as I could muster. Not much point turning up full of good spirit and positivity. She’d have nothing to do for all that cash I was parting with.
We passed the first 40 minutes establishing who I was and what I had done. I did think it might be worth spending more time since interest in myself exceeds that of anyone else. I was aware of the meter ticking. I talked quickly, refrained from elaborating, kept the jokes and sarcasm to a minimum, and declined from telling her how to do her job. She wrote frantically, only stopping to attain continuity with the story of my life. Try packing your entire existence into 40 minutes. I was beginning to realise that 71 years had passed without more than a ripple.
I was also beginning to realise where all this was heading. I could predict her next question. I knew answers well in advance of the question. I began to feel like the inquisitor of my own existence. How bored she must be, listening to this. No drama to speak of, no pitfalls, no abuse, no trauma. Just me and whatever I decided to tell her, became ‘me’. I could be whomever I want and she wouldn’t have known one way or the other, which is probably what I wanted. I was losing the plot and she was gaining one, albeit a false and misleading one.
But who are we beyond what we tell others we are? We have many personas. Each is chosen carefully for the audience. I am the child for my great-granddaughter, the understanding grandfather to my grandchildren, the philosopher to my blog readers, the antagonist to the ignorant, the carer to Christine, the dog hater to the neighbourhood, the man who talks to strangers. Yet I am none of these. I become what I need to be in the presence of others so I might survive. I live a lie.
I tell her this; the doctor with the white Mercedes. She looks me squarely in both eyes, smiles honestly and says the magic words: “We all do that.”
All of a sudden the cost of consultation seems worth it.
“Then who am I,” I ask.
“You are the person who does all these things.”
How simple. How profound. How natural. It fits. It always has. What I do, what we all do is what we are. There is nothing to search for. There’s no guiding light or script or road. We are on it already. What we chose to do is what we are. If we seek the truth and not see what we do as the truth then we miss the whole point of existence. Only humans trouble themselves so much over such things. The ant crossing my computer like a daredevil on a tight rope is not bothered by the thought of falling or the idea of being talked about. It is what it is: an ant. We are only marginally removed from the nature of the ant in as much as we have a few more chemicals which determine our physiology.
“Our time is up,” the doctor with the white Mercedes informs me. How close to the truth she is. I chose not to share any of these thoughts with her, of course. She’s the psychiatrist after all and would only deem me suitable for incarceration or stronger medication. Or charge me more.
“So what do you think, doc? Any hope for me?”
“I’m advising your doctor to increase your Efelaxine to 225mg/day and you could look at a course of therapy with a psychologist.”
“Do psychologists charge as much as you?”
There is no reaction.
“Did you consider the alternate option of having me incarcerated?”
Still no reaction.
“Is there anything you can tell me I don’t know already?”
“Mm.”
There’s that sound again. She’s looking for a way of getting me back so she can have her way with me.
“At the moment, I’m inclined to conclude you have Bipolar tendencies that might get worse unless treated.
“Is that like a magnet or a water molecule?”
She looks at me with a puzzled grin.
“It’s ....”
“I know what it is. I’m the one with the weird brain, remember”.
Since I wasn’t getting a laugh from this audience I decided to take my leave after emptying my credit overdraft into her purse. My first thought on reaching sunlight was to enrol in a post-grad degree in psychiatry and psychology. This is not a good sign. One of the characteristics of those suffering from bipolar disorder is to believe they can do everything themselves and to become obsessed with knowing all things.
Here we go again.
I am somewhat relieved from my experience with the psychiatrist who drives a white Mercedes. Firstly, I have less money in the bank. What a relief, I think to myself. No extravagance for me this week. In addition, I’m convinced that normality is a figment of the imagination of many. Like bad behaviour, I just need a slap on the ear and get over it. This seems reasonable and conclusive but I find that genes, chemicals and a sagging posture fight against every move I make; or don’t make. Knowing what is good for me isn’t a solution. It’s like having a bus ticket to Geelong and not wanting to go there. Who would?
I’m not sure I want to be cured. Or normal. Or sane. Or human. Or that which others want or expect of me.
As I sleep As I sleep I hear the creep of footsteps Distant past, close at heart. No shadows cast. Something just ahead Calls and call...
