Refresh My Soul

My posts here have been sparse (nonexistent) for a while, but that does not mean I overthink life any less. I recently achieved something momentous, a thing I have long stretched my hand towards, a tortuous and torturous thing that sucked the soul from my bones and left me a shuddering and formless mass of flesh that...

Wait. Breathe.

I am tired. When I say it has left me tired, you may say you understand. You may say that I worked hard, slept sporadically, and trekked over many hills. You would be right, but also wrong. I am tired, but not only of numbers and leaves and physical steps taken. It is borne from a deeply infectious tedium that I did not see spawning. It grew from the suppression of my peripheral view, from the suppression of my self.

My self is worn. My self has waited for my love and shed tears at my neglect. This is not to say that it was imprisoned, but I chose a circuitous valley path that was bordered by crags of ambition and paved with reticence. There was little it could have done, except claw its way up the jagged rock face and pick the flowers it found atop the hill. Occasionally, it would notice its torn fingers, hazy eyes or unkempt mind. Habitually, it would find respite in the melancholy amidst the flowers, not noticing the effect on my soul.

My soul is spent. My friend once said that my condition was a symptom of my persistent melancholia. I have learnt that melancholia is no safe lodging, for it was there that my soul was unceremoniously sucked from my bones, leaving me a shuddering and formless mass of flesh. It feels vacant and vacuous, as if the bit that remains is insufficient, as if the bones have gradually been liquefied in its absence.

I will refresh my soul. In spite of and owing to all of this, I am content with who I am. The soul and self that have suffered at my hands cannot heal or flourish with one day, experience, or achievement. I will refresh them through breath and patience. I will nourish them with reminders that I am okay, I am proud, and I have lived. I will not let the words of others or the voices in my head deflate my soul and self.

I will keep breathing.

Cracks in the Walls- Plug

My walls are cracked. I know I tend to speak figuratively, but I am being very literal.  There are cracks running along the walls of my home and they are troubling.  Staring at the intricate tributaries of these cracks one morning, my mind drifted toward what they represent in a universe of fractured souls.  Vices and misdeeds, betrayal and failure, hope and restoration.  Whatever our cracks represent and however we mend them, they exist in us all.  I thought of all that oozes from our individual fissures and what we use to plug them. For me, two things came to mind- compulsions and music.

Part 2- Plug

This blog is where some of my deepest, darkest thoughts come to roost.  Well, here and Annie Owl Eyes.  When those deep, dark thoughts begin to rumble and sway, bubble and boil, ooze from my cracks, I most often find solace in music.  I call it a "plug" because it does just that, temporarily stops the torrent.  Really, it is more like a tourniquet than a simple plug.  It does not merely prevent a slippery mess from forming beneath the fissure, but sustains precious pressure when my very soul begins erupting from the rips in the arteries of my psyche.  Writing and art have always allowed the flow.  They allow for their own catharsis, but sometimes I would rather hear of the troubles of another than consider my own.

My friends tell me I have an obsession with heartbreak and penance.  I will admit that there is a theme of sadness.  Below is an example of a short tourniquet playlist.  Some are old favourites, some are new, all have been on endless replay.  Where there is an artiste from whose collection I had difficulty picking, I have included the song that first got me interested in them.

Disclaimer:  There will be banjos.

Have at it:  Monkey Plug

Cracks in the Walls- Ooze

My walls are cracked.  I know I tend to speak figuratively, but I am being very literal.  There are cracks running along the walls of my home and they are troubling.  Staring at the intricate tributaries of these cracks one morning, my mind drifted toward what they represent in a universe of fractured souls.  Vices and misdeeds, betrayal and failure, hope and restoration.  Whatever our cracks represent and however we mend them, they exist in us all.  I thought of all that oozes from our individual fissures and what we use to plug them. For me, two things came to mind- compulsions and music.

Part 1- Compulsions

Have you ever been nervous before an exam? Have you ever been anxious before a life changing event? Have you ever felt this sort of distress because you didn't straighten your pen? My friends like to say I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.  I am hesitant to agree until I have been officially diagnosed, because OCD is a very serious ailment with often agonizing symptoms.  It is, as the name suggests, a disorder that instils in the sufferer a need to complete routine tasks (compulsions/rituals) to satisfy overwhelming fears or preoccupations (obsessions) [I've found tonnes of useful information on sites like IOCDF and ADAA].  Fail to complete the task, increase the obsession.  Try to avoid the obsession, increase the stress. Increase the stress, increase the compulsions.  It is a never ending cycle that is difficult to manage and even more difficult to overcome.  It is not, as people think, about 'germophobia' or being a neat freak.  Each case manifests itself differently, and it is the anxiety that sets it apart.  It is often said that another distinguishing feature is the awareness that the behaviour is irrational and that the fears have no basis in truth.  For those without this burden, that realization seems simple enough.  For those with it, it is that realization that is inconsequential.

I will admit that I can tick almost all the identifying boxes, more so when my stress increases.  This is one thing that oozes from my cracks.  My obsessions are many and my compulsions/rituals vary, but I can list the five that I most often deal with.

• Routine- Nothing to it.  Everyone has one or many.  My morning routine in particular is critical to my day and if my sequence is altered in any way, I worry until I get back home that absolutely everything will go awry.  There are phrases that must be repeated in sequence after particular thoughts and routines for connecting electronic devices.  I have routines for most things, though I cannot say which garners the least anxiety.
• Arrangement and symmetry- Symmetry is preferred, but if I cannot have symmetry I must have carefully controlled asymmetry.  Some things are to be in line with each other or aligned diagonally with a 60 degree angle to the bottom edge of the table.  Multiple circular objects must overlap by the same amount or not overlap at all.  This category is extensive, but not always neat.  Don't even get me started on the mess that a food plate conjures.  Runny sauce is my culinary enemy.  It has no business getting into my vegetables and it needs to learn manners.
• Numbers- Odd numbers.  Volume, vases, books on a shelf, pens in my bag, items in this list.  Even numbers have their place, but generally odd numbers.
• Outsiders' ink and handwriting- Most of us have a preferred ink colour.  Mine is black.  I've discarded entire notebooks because I thought it was a good idea to use another colour and utterly regretted my decision immediately. I'll allow blue and red, but it stops there.  However, there is no "I'll allow x or y" when it comes to handwriting.  Mine and mine alone. That said, a friend of mine has written valuable statistics advice in my research notebook...in green ink... All I see when I look at the pages is a tie-dye sea that I so badly want to pour down the drain.  Alas, I cannot.  So I will rip the pages from the book along with all those that bear the impression of his hand and keep them close.  That will be that.
• 'Equalizing'- This may be the one that makes me appear the craziest to onlookers who happen to catch me.  If I hit my hip against the edge of a table, I must touch the other side against it as well.  If I brush my left hand against the wall, I must do the same with my right.  As I type this now, my right middle finger strokes a key that I did not mean to touch and I must do the same on the left.  It has become second nature, so if I do not actively control it I may turn back to kick a step with my left foot because I stubbed my right toe when I passed the first time.  This goes beyond anxiety.  Not equalizing makes me feel, well, unequal.  I feel my body becoming asymmetrical.  I feel the foot that hit the step first getting heavier and the other shrinking and it must be stopped.

Of course, there are others.  I wash my hands at regular intervals and triple check everything from light switches to data analysis to conversation memories.  Whatever I have is quite mild.  Over the years, I have learnt to muffle my habits, but the obsessions persist.  At some point, you understand that what you have is getting in the way of your normal thought process and shaping the way you go about life.  At some point, you get frustrated that you are still thinking about that ant hill that roused a Mt. Etna of emotions.  That frustration overcomes you even while anxiety canvases your mind in a painful haze.

I often wonder whether to share these details, but I long ago crossed the line of over-sharing.  I remember when I had less control over my most serious compulsions, when they would rule me during the day and haunt me at night.  Those go beyond mere ink colour and sauce, but may be linked to something deeper and so will not be mentioned.  I think it is useful to notice what oozes from the cracks.  I think the ooze gives us a glimpse of the crack's source.  Colour, consistency, composition must all be studied for any glimmer of crud.  Though I have found that there are those who would rather nurture their crud than cleanse it.

Part 2 to follow...

Sometimes I feel...

For innumerable evils have compassed me about: mine iniquities have taken hold upon me, so that I am not able to look up; they are more than the hairs of mine head: therefore my heart faileth me.

Psalm 40:12

The biblical words of David are sombre.  He speaks of his destitute soul and ravenous enemies, his fear that God may hide His face despite this misery, and the trials he faces as religious man and king.  Ultimately, though, his songs surrender it all to God through his militant and unwavering faith.

There are many bodies walking past us everyday who are caught in just such a tragic cycle, but not always with props to keep them upright.  They may be drowning in an all encompassing sorrow, a sorrow that yanks them from the shore of contentment and rolls over them in waves of dejection.  Their pillows are encrusted with the salt of sleepless nights' tears.  There is no longer an ebb in their tears, but rather a constant trickle.  Anger stings their eyes and jabs their hearts.  A smile becomes taxing and a breath becomes thick, as thick as the viscous depths of sorrow.

Within these bodies there are punished souls.  These souls may be plummeting into an inescapable pit, quickening as time ticks in their ears.  The walls of this pit are never smooth, but rather are jagged with the regrets, failings and betrayal of the past.  As they fall, these sharp edges rip into their foggy flesh, drawing streams of spiritual blood.  Each soul has been beaten and tormented by its own demons.  Higher consciousness is replaced by phantasmagoria.  Their angels seem, to them, to drift above the mouth of this pit, blithely watching as they careen further and further away from the light.  The innumerable imps of despair and acrimony screech at them, and are their only companions in this punishing plunge.

Not everyone has a lifeline when iniquity drags them into sorrow and punishment.  However, it is often only the belief and faith in something or someone higher than themselves that can save them.  The constant tears of the body can be dried by acknowledgement of one's blessings.  The fall of the soul can be buffered by the reality of a better future.  Clarity can defend against imps that block the help of angelic guardians.

Sometimes, one will feel like a motherless child a long ways from home, almost gone, defenseless against innumerable evils and iniquity.  In such times, a raft must be crafted to rescue the body from sorrow and a parachute to pull the soul out of punishing pits.  One must find a way back home.  Do not allow the mind to be overcome by darkness.  Escape the grasp of monsters that salivate at the scent of despair.

 ---
"How did I know that someday -- at college, in Europe, somewhere, anywhere -- the bell jar, with its stifling distortions, wouldn't descend again?"

- Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar
---

"Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child" - Sung by Paul Robeson

Chasing lizards

Is it ever too late for self discovery? Do you ever pass the point at which you can pause everything and go on a directionless hunt for this being you have entertained within yourself for your entire life? These days I think a lot about what I want to do with my life.  I see a path being laid out before me and I feel a visceral protest.  I wonder about the choices I have made and whether they were the best that they could have been.  I think of how long it has taken for me to reach the goals I have set for myself and I am overwhelmed.  Most distressing of all, I wonder who I am in all this 'profession + life building' talk and I realize that, while I have always had an answer, it may not have been completely true.

In many countries, students take a gap year after high school or even undergrad of university to do whatever tickles their fancy.  They are expected to use that time to do all sorts of useless or useful things with the goal of figuring out what they want to do for a living.  Those who do not take an official gap year may undertake such adventures during school, but the adventure is nevertheless undertaken.  I wholeheartedly believe in this idea of discovery through wild adventure, but is it ever too late to unearth it?

In six days, God willing, I will mark my 26th year on this earth.  I realize now that I could have taken such a leap of faith at some point, but I was seized by sheer terror.  I was not simply terrified of leaving my familiar place, but of leaving both familiarity and career path at once.  I was raised to believe that one must dedicate all to school and career and not deviate until the path was established.  After all, you cannot regain control of a train that has been derailed.  Now I know that my hyperactive brain may have turned that into a nightmare that it did not need to be.  Having deviated once (from medicine to bioclimatic research), I understand that some amount of deviation is okay and control can be regained.  Now I am being guided along another beautifully challenging path through a life in academia.  Which is what I want...right?

Here is where there is a gash in the tapestry.  Loving what you do does not always translate into wanting to do it non-stop to no end.  Now I want my gap adventure.  I want to drive across Australia in an old VW van, writing my novel and learning to surf while I chase lizards for a living.  Yes, I can breathe when I think of that.  I keep hearing that it's too late and that I should go straight from one step to the next.  I have heard that for my entire life.  My gut isn't buying it.

I don't think it is ever too late to do what moves you to your core.  I believe it is up to the individual to decide whether to take the risk dictated by the unique visceral protest.  The limitation of age in many things is a societal construct meant to keep things orderly and predictable.  That is fine, but does everything really need to be so predictable? Release your mind and try taking that adventure you've been dreaming of.  Chase those lizards.  What's the worst that could happen?

"Fly Away"- Lenny Kravitz

The song that goes through my head when I think of all this.  Revel in the great video quality of this 'oldie'.

Time Shot the Deputy

As Time passes, it uses a life as a sort of luxury shooting range with which it can do as it pleases.  It may cultivate lush gardens and manicured fields, with bees flitting from one flower to the other to sip the nectar of good health and disperse the pollen of prosperity.  For an added challenge, it may forgo these gardens and burrow beneath the earth, creating sink holes of imploding dreams and acrid springs of dejected tears.  Along the way, there will be plans erected by the owner of this life, and they will be ripe targets for bullets from the guns of Time.  When we fear that life may be ravaged, we will deploy our hopes as deputies to guard our fields, but they too can die.

Essentially, we all change.  Our plans, feelings, needs and idiosyncrasies are not static.  It is interesting to look back at life and see just how things have been shaped by this dynamism.  Do you like the same foods? Do you have the same dream car/girl/house? Is your career going the way you planned? Is it even the career you planned to have? How far along in life did you think you would be at this age? The person you have become is a conglomerate of experiences and emotions that do not always cooperate, but must coexist.  Do you ever check to see if they are at each other's throats?

As I have aged, it seems that the complexities and priorities of my life have shifted.  I am now both minimalist and hoarder, obsessive and compulsive, enlightened and confused.  While some beliefs and plans have only been transformed, others have fallen victim to the target practice of Time.  An infatuation with the '67 Ford Mustang Shelby GT500 has been usurped by curiosity driving me to see new places (though I'd still like a Mustang fastback à la Eleanor).  Whether a consequence of independent communication or Babel, the artifice of language (whether English, Spanish or Swahili) now puzzles me.  My career path has also veered sharply off the course I had foreseen.  I now imagine a life of writing and art and wonder if I would ever be able to make such a transition successfully.  I no longer see love, material possessions, reputation or life's general path as the rigid structures they once were, but as living entities that breathe and grow just as I do.

I suppose it is normal for maturity to transform man, but can there be any benefit if man takes no notice of the efforts of maturity? Have our former plans and hopes perished in vain if we have learnt nothing from their demise? Life and Time have taught me to filter the burdens that bombard me, and to lighten the load I once carried with me daily.  I have been forced to search for the exit to many a tunnel, or to dig one where none existed.  I understand that, no matter what I face, it could always be worse.  Still, there are things that overwhelm me.  Time will tell how my maturity allows me to handle them.

'Eleanor' from Gone in 60 Seconds

Oh, how I lusted.

When Brambles Shred Feathers

Lately I have got to thinking about how we are perceived by those we love or interact with.  When our words barrel from our tongues or we fumble through our actions, how do our motives come across? Do we always show what we mean? And, if what we show are brambles when we truly feel feathers, are we justified?

I recently watched the 2011 French drama "Chicken with Plums" ("Poulet aux Prunes") about a renowned violinist who loses all taste for music when his violin is broken and so decides to die.  Nasser Ali, the violinist, begins the story searching for any violin that can make a sound as beautiful as the one he has lost, but all are found lacking and his heart is irreparably broken.  He spends the next eight days laying in bed contemplating his life, denying the pleas of his family, and awaiting his end.  Throughout the story, the true importance of the instrument is brought to light and the full measure of the chasm that has formed in his heart and being is revealed as insurmountable.  One realizes that, at some point, his brokenness will surely claim him.

The women in this story, though, are my main focus for this topic.  Nasser Ali lays his heart bare.  He loves his music and hates the wife his mother forced him to marry, Faringuisse.  Faringuisse is a temperamental math teacher whose every word to him is a shrill tirade about his poor parenting or poor husbanding or just poor act of being human.  Her rage leads her to do the unforgivable, to break the instrument dearest to him.  Behind this harsh exterior, Nasser Ali is unaware of the timid woman who has loved him since childhood and just wants a fraction of the affection he shows to his music.  She spends a lifetime cursing him, but his last few days begging for his forgiveness.  However, he has always loved Iran, a beautiful and mild mannered woman whose father refused to let him marry her in his youth.  He sees Iran walking with her young grandson on his quest for a replacement violin and she denies remembering him, plunging him into despair.  What he does not see is that, when she knows she is beyond his view, she crumbles against a wall and all the tears she has shed for him over the years are renewed.  She is reminded of all the nights that she had listened to the tune of his violin over the radio and had wept doubly- at the beauty of his music and for the love she had lost.  Neither woman can bring herself to reveal her truth, one out of fear and the other out of necessity.  I wonder if the pain they cause him is validated because they love him.

This story reminds me of two things in particular.  Firstly, a melancholic predisposition is not only metaphorically heavy, but physically so as well.  It bears down on one's mind and soul until they crack open, allowing it to grip the body in its vise.  Secondly,  with all our complexities, we often enter into these dichotomous liaisons with others.  They may be romantic, professional or friendly, but they are almost always destructive.  Any two-fold interaction allowing for motives to be buried beneath contrary actions or words will inexorably tumble into quicksand.  I suppose it is quicksand that we all must encounter at some time or other, but is it worthwhile for those we interact with to be suffocated when we mean to cushion them? 

In the song "Landfill", Daughter asks her "torturous" love to throw her in a landfill, push her out to sea or leave her to freeze in the snow and simply walk away.  She both wants and hates this torturous love, but can no longer withstand it.  Maybe severance is the only solution when the brambles begin to shred the feathers.

"Landfill"- Daughter