A Memory Musing

Let me tell you of a place in my mind.

It is Huntington Beach, or at least it is of one that I have pulled from memory. The sand is hot because it is midday and, unlike most places in my mind, the sky is very sunny. I step onto the sand with no shoes on. It does not burn. There are a lot of thick callouses on my feet. I am seven-years-old, and I walk barefoot almost any chance I get. Even the broken glass underneath the sand does not bother me, they just dent my scaly feet. It is 1989 in the middle of July. There is a lot of broken glass these days. This is the Orange County that I remember. This is the Orange County that I will recall should I tell you that I lived there.

The sun sets as soon as I have both feet in the sand. There is a fire burning in a fire pit. I do not know if there were fire pits in 1989. I do not remember any. So, I submit this paragraph as imagination - an ideal. I walk to the fire pit. The heat from the fire begins to sting and broken glass still pokes at my feet. The fire itself is bright. It is all that I can see in this darkness. I am short at seven-years-old, the fire is as tall as my shoulders. There is a murmur behind the fire. They are the mixed voices of my family: parents, their siblings, my siblings, cousins, and their friends. Their sounds fill the quiet like an unseen wind ensemble. Only the fire snaps its resistance to the music.

This next part is also imagination. I reach the fire and sit next to it. I still can not see my family behind the fire. I do not know if they can see me. They do not speak to me. I do not bother to talk. My face grows hot from the fire. I close my eyes as I lean toward the fire. I feel all the dirt and salt and sand burn off my face. Warmth enters my lungs and bleeds into the rest of my body. I am coated by heat, surrounded by voices I can not hear, darkness I can not see, and glass shards I can not feel. My thoughts are gone. The only presence is the fire - its smoke holds a taint of sweetness from the burned wood.

Quotes - E.B. White

I've been on a non-fiction kick lately so I pored through The Art of the Personal Essay: An Anthology from the Classical Era to the Present, compiled by Phillip Lopate.

Here are a few words pulled from E.B. White's wonderful essay, The Ring of Time:

For the writers among us (or maybe for anyone, really)

It has been ambitious and plucky of me to attempt to describe what is indescribable, and I have failed, as I knew I would. But I have discharged my duty to society; and besides, a writer, like an acrobat, must occasionally try a stunt that is too much for him.

For everyone

The only sense that is common, in the long run, is the sense of change - and we all instinctively avoid it, and object to the passage of time, and would rather have none of it.

I've glossed over a lot of the essay, especially regarding the African-American Civil Rights Movement (which has, apparently, been left out of some of the reproductions found online).  Overall, the essay is masterfully written, and well worth reading in its entirety.

Oh, and "plucky" is a word that needs to grow into regular usage. Who's with me?

Huh? What?!

If you’re observant enough, you can catch me staring at the ceiling, or a blank computer screen, or my fingernails, or the wall. If so, you’ve just caught me while I was lost in my mind. Ask me what I was doing, and I’d have a heck of a time trying to tell you.

Fact is, I was gone: from the room, from my senses, and from the moment.

Much of what brings this on eludes me. I’ve tried to think it through, to see where my absentmindedness came from, but I end up in the same place, and with my face pointed in the same direction: toward the ceiling, toward the blank computer screen, toward my fingernails…

While I can’t recall much from my thoughts of the problem, my bookshelf contains evidence of my search. “Dissociation” and “Stress” are words on some of the spines of my books. From what I gleaned by reading, my inattentiveness is how I cope with stress, a mechanism I used to survive some traumatic event as a kid.

Now, I haven’t seen a professional in a while so I’m not diagnosing myself, but this is something I want to explore a bit.

So, I’ve been affected by trauma. It’s something that I try not to admit because I’m afraid I’d use it to get pity, and I hate it when I do that. But, I’ll make that claim for the sake of this topic. I guess the trauma involves my sister's, Joan's, declining health, or the witnessing of it. It’s a topic that I have touched on before, so I won’t go through much of it now. I don’t feel like talking about it anyway.

Even thinking on it for a minute, I can see how I moved myself inward, trying to ignore the partially garbled words of her decayed speech, and successfully ignoring her when her speech turned into garbled moans. It was easier to stare at the wall and pretend that it emitted a white noise, coating all of my senses, drawing me away from the reality of her condition. At the few moments when I'm aware and I hear her gargle her spit, I cringe. It's a reaction that I can’t help.

Perhaps it’s my awkward way of mourning for what she’s lost. I'd like to think so, at least.

I don’t think that this trauma is the sole cause for my loopy mind. I haven’t ruled out the lack of sleep, poor diet, the Internet, and that awful commute on the 91 freeway as culprits or co-conspirators. Also, there’s only so much I can glean from this introspection before I start navel gazing.

And if you see me do that, be kind and poke me on the shoulder. Thanks!

If Only I Could

The days I hate the most are when I hear my sister, Joan, cry from her room. Depending on how urgently she needs something, or how much pain she is in, her cries range from whimpers to loud groans. It's the only way she can communicate, having lost her speech to encephalitis (so I've been told) back when she was about nine or ten years old.

What bothers me about those days is the feeling of helplessness. It's been a long and frustrating path of deterioration for her: she lost her ability to walk about seven years back, and her ability to swallow food two years back (this event, in particular, I can write volumes on... when I'm ready). I spent most of my adolescence caring for her. Both of my parents worked at the time. When I came home from school, I waited for her bus; led her to the bathroom, back when she could walk; fed her, back when she could eat; and sat with her in front of the TV. Then I stopped, either because I was too busy or I was tired of the responsibility. Between then and now, I've forgotten how to care for her. It wouldn't matter anyway; given her current state, I wouldn't know what to do for her.

Guilt sets in too. I made the decision to stop, or so I remember. If I was busy, then I stopped because I preferred my own activities over my sister. If I was sick of caring for her, then I placed my need to stop over her needs. Either way, the guilt is persistent and hard to shake off. And it gets worse as she regresses.

What used to keep me sane when I heard or saw Joan was a sense of entitlement. I traded in most of my teen years, so I saw it fair to break away from my responsibilities to her. I earned my right to be guilt-free, I thought. I learned since that this freedom isn't attained that easily or, more likely, at all. I've been sad since she became ill, and will probably be sad even after she's gone. So I live, knowing that I don't have a choice. To move forward knowing that I have little control is the closest I can ever get to freedom, or sanity.

I hope Joan knows this too. There are only a few things she concerns herself with: she's in pain and she groans to let us know; though her strength has faded a bit, she still likes to smile and laugh (especially when she watches "I Love Lucy"); and she continues to see each day, as long as she's here. At least, I hope so. If she worries about her condition, I don't know if I can deal with it.

[Update]
Now with audio!

Up Late

Anxiety has gotten the better of me again, so I'm awake when I really want and need sleep.

What am I so worked up about? A lot, it so happens. I wish I have the energy to explain it all, and I hope to do so in the future. Part of why I mention this now is so I can remind myself to elaborate.

However, I will say this: every time something different happens, beyond the space of my room, my mind obsesses over it. When I start a new book, I lose sleep. When I meet a new friend, I can't rest. When I try a new sleep schedule (for, you know, like a job), I might as well forget about it because I'll never pass out.

In the end, I am left with a feeling that I can't put down.

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Cheesy Crackers: More Free, More Me

Less Focus, For Now. I'll figure out a structure and style that works for me, eventually. Preferably one that isn't wordy, but isn't forced either.

If any of that makes any sense. Which brings me to this:

Coming Soon[er or later]: A Blog Post In Which I Am Satisfied With Its Coherency

A Milestone

Last night, I bought books off of Half.com and Amazon Marketplace, via Cheapesttextbooks.com.

I worry that they will rip me off and I won't see my money or my books. Still, I can check off "Saving Ridiculous Amounts of Money Through Unknown, Online Sellers" from my list. I am now aware of one more piece of the Internet; one step closer to knowing what my peers, most surely, have already known for years.

I feel it is my duty to catch up. I can't lag too far behind the times - older people need me.

In my mind, embarrassment has a value and is created with each post I make here. And, in my mind, its value can degrade over time.

In this case, I like to hide for a few months until the embarrassment dissipates. Then I'll post something else - that gives me a new reason to hide again.

I can also bury the value through consistent posting. You know, that whole law of diminishing returns deal. People will get so used to my weirdness and idiocy that they'll take it as something normal.

Maybe I'll try the latter this time.

Just Short

Perhaps, like my stature, my ability to communicate is rather short.

I think big when I go through my day. I think about, especially when I was younger, cool situations that I could be in, like I was in a TV show. And there has been more than one instance when I came to some kind of philosophical thought that was worth a good essay or two. But in the end, all I'm willing to put down is a summary of my thoughts, messily packed in a few sentences.

I don't even know if I'm making any sense at this moment, and I've kept myself from acting because of it. Am I afraid? Am I confused? Maybe a little bit of both. I've been so used to having other people tell me what to do that I freeze in place when I want to command myself.

Does any of this make sense? Probably not, but I suppose I shouldn't care.

In publishing this, do I look like a fool? Should I care if I do?

Again, I suppose I shouldn't, but this goes against my feelings.

Late Night Musing

Note the singular.

I'm sitting around - on a computer, in UCR, after 1AM.

This is a quick post since I haven't had the time to reflect... What I can say right now is that I feel a bit of nostalgia, regret, and confusion as I walk through the campus. Now, why do you think that is?