Sunday 24 March 2002

As I made my way towards
the last remaining headstone,
I fell to my knees,
read the lines beneath the leaves,
and suddenly it seemed to me
I heard the words like singing in the trees:
Let your love shine on
for we are the stars in sky!
Let your love shine strong
until the day you fly ...
fly away.

Chris de Burgh: In a country churchyard.

Chained bird

I'm one lucky man. I live in a rich, peaceful country where most people prefer to get along with one another. I live in a time when we have so many opportunities, we could never live long enough to even sample them all. And for myself in particular, I inherited an intellect that was unusual for my generation - though the young ones today are an improved lot. And somehow - body, soul or spirit - I have a rare gift of living alone without loneliness, boredom or fear. I enjoy my own company without fearing others. I am so privileged.

And yet there are times when I feel like a man with his right hand severed, his right eye gauged out and his tongue cut off. There are times when I feel like a chained bird. For though I am lucky, I am not perfect.

***

I was sitting here listening to one of the songs by Chris de Burgh, and my mind noticed the picture that was painted in my mind. The colors, the textures, the shadows. And as my mind touched it, it ripped apart. It always does. My spirit can paint, perhaps my body can, but my soul cannot. It is sharp, analytical, channeling words and numbers. But it cannot handle pictures. I cannot clearly remember any picture unless I have seen it over and over again, such as a photo of my mother and father or my best friend. Only when the picture stands still like that can I eventually catch it. But the fleeting pictures of life as I live it, they disappear and do not come back. Like dreams of the night, they are gone, leaving only the story I tell myself about what I saw, leaving only the words. And even more so with the visions inside me. They die there, conceived of the bright burning spirit inside me but miscarried in my soul. Each one of them, countless numbers. And there is no prescription drug for that, nor a white-coated professional to help.

I can sing, sort of. You'd certainly recognize the melody if you know it. It's not that bad. But I can't sing along with anybody, or with a recording, or with music. Not even when I play the music myself. My hands can play some music, not well, not in any proportion to the music inside me, but enough that I should have been able to sing along with it. But even that I cannot do. It is as if my hands and my throat are controlled by different departments. Rival departments, at that, all too happy to sabotage one another. I sing a lot when I am alone, and I am alone a lot; but it is not really the song inside me. I've told my best friend (and you) that I would rather be able to sing with others than have sex with them. I still think so. But in fact I can neither. The same fierce independence that gives me my freedom, perhaps, keeps me from attuning to anything outside me. Very literally.

I guess it almost goes without saying, but I can't dance either. It's not just a question of not having attended a dance school or whatever. I have indeed have female assistance in trying to teach me basic dancing. I have a good memory, but again, I cannot attune. Of course, if you are drunk enough, you won't notice; but hanging out with severely drunk people is not my favorite pastime. And my chance to enjoy a dance game like DDR (Dance Dance Revolution) is equal to your average elderly arthritic with a peg leg.

The weird thing is that all these things (yeah, and making love too) are inside me, deep inside. But my spirit is completely surrounded by my soul, like the unborn child is surrounded by the womb, like the image is caught in the mirror and there is no other way out. And there's no scalpel to cut it free; nor can you open the mirror without shattering the image.

***

I consider myself a lucky man. Do not mistake this. It is the human condition, that you cannot excel in all areas. I am sure there are others in the same situation as I am. And there are those who are worse off. They vaguely glimpse connections, but cannot form them into chains of logic. They have stories inside them but cannot tell them. They know there must be some kind of spiritual reality, but they can never sense it, always wandering in dry, blind faith. They suppose there must be reason to the natural world, but it does not connect for them. They walk in a world of scattered facts, absurd, disjointed. Or they are unable to turn their focus inward, and so they are again and again overrun by their own feelings and thoughts and actions, with barely any warning.

Oh yes, I am a lucky man. But I still feel this lack, these impairments. And I sometimes wonder: Do others feel the same? Those who lack the artistic abilities, the way I do, do they feel the loss? Do those who are born blind, miss their sight? Do the stupid feel stupid? Sometimes it seems quite the contrary, but I am not so sure. I think the countless simple but absurd conspiracy theories show that people feel that there is a connection between things, but they are unable to figure it out. Isn't it really the same? We're facing a gap we cannot bridge, and yet there is something in us that keeps fluttering. Like a chained bird.