"You look sick," says my mother.
"Gee, thanks," I reply. In a way, it's almost a relief to hear her say that. At least it's some validation that I'm NOT faking. And at least she didn't say anything like, "ew, keep away from me, I don't wanna get it!"
"No, I mean, you look skinny. You haven't been eating. And you have big dark circles under your eyes."
"I'm NOT that skinny," I gripe defensively. I'm always terribly defensive when anyone mentions my weight, or lack thereof. I always feel as though the next question will be, "Have you been starving yourself on purpose?" I glare at my mom a little. She glares back. "Wanna check the backs of my fingers for bite-marks?" I mumble bitchily.
"No. I know you better than that," she says. She DOES know me better than that. She knows I'd probably rather slice my nose off with a spoon than force myself to vomit. She also knows I fucking LOVE great quantities of cheeseburgers.
"And anyway, I'm not THAT skinny. I don't look like a terminal case of leukemia or anything."
"Almost," she argues gently. "You should come over and let us feed you."
My mom is so cool sometimes. She's never really 100% maternal, never really has been, and she's never been one of those "let's hang out and go to bars together" moms, but some nice combination of the two. She's gonna make a fabulous social worker.
Norman and I watched "Industrial Symphony No. 1."
Then, inspired, he showed me a video of modern dance performance he'd choreographed. First, he showed me some pieces by some other students, most of which looked like upscale high school show choir work, then his own pieces, which looked like...
Hm...
They made me think of Mike... Of watching Mike painting. The way he managed to retain some semblance of grace while throwing things around, stomping on a large piece of cardboard, whirling around with brushes and buckets of white stuff and purple stuff and blue stuff and little bits of trash and magazines-clippings. The way his hands used to move, and I used to watch in astonishment, as though I was witnessing his hands act as vessels for his entire brain. Mike astounded me. Mike's paintings, some of which were messy and strange and unexplainable, were absolutely beautiful -- far, far beyond what art classes teach you.
When I watched Mike paint, I realized I didn't really know him at all. This was both comforting and disheartening. After all, at the time, we were supposed to be dating, and we were supposed to love each other and all; at the time, it was comforting because I knew there was much I hadn't seen, much to explore before I really had to admit I didn't think I was passionately in love with him. Yet it was disheartening because sweet, ordinary, affectionate, adorable Mike was hard to reconcile with psycho-painter Mike with his brushes and his wildly messy scrawlings and smears. It was as though he was possessed. I didn't suppose that was anything I could really be a part of, with my carefully cut and pasted works.
Mike's paintings were beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. There was just so much I didn't understand...
I often get that feeling about Norman. It's been six or seven years now since I first set eyes on sweet, ordinary, affectionate Norman, smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee. Upon first glimpse, one can always tell he's a little weird -- something about his fashion sense, or lack thereof, gives it away. I could tell on our first date he was maybe more than a little weird, when he picked up his guitar...
Once, when Norman wasn't home -- and he doesn't know this, so shush -- I sneaked into his apartment and picked up a tape labelled "Master," popped it into his stereo, and lay on his futon, trying to imagine what kind of glorious things Norman keeps locked away in his head, and how they got there... It was a tape of some stuff Norman had composed and played, and I lay there simply astonished that such neat things could come from somebody so... human... So often, I've sat next to Norman at Lost Dog, humming along with some Cranberries CD and doodling in my notebook, while perhaps he was millions of miles away in some ancient Bohemian forest having picnics with nymphs and alligators and things.
Where do these things come from? How do you turn crazy little dreams into paintings and recordings? How do you make your soul so tangible? The day I listened to Norman's music all by myself, I had to fight to keep from crying. What a beautiful, beautiful, amazing person I have in my life. And how I wish I knew him... I felt the same way watching his video last night... Gahd, he never fails to surprise me. I think I could spend the rest of my life poking at him and trying to determine just what the hell he is and where the hell he came from, and I'd never really know...
Everyone, they say, is an artist. Not everyone has the capability of creating art.
Do I?
Hell yes.
Have I ever?
I'm not sure...
I lay in bed last night thinking about this. Thinking about times when I've been writing something and forgot to breathe for a minute or two, forgot everything but the words and the images... And I lay there, exhausted from the strain of having swept my house and taken the garbage out that day, and I realized I haven't been capable of that feeling is a very long time... I have been merely surviving, merely pushing myself to keep moving, keep breathing, keep my body stocked with nutrients... There is a world of difference between maintenance and creation, and I've been stagnant for weeks, maybe months. Creative thoughts have left me. My body cannot handle the strain of making things. I cannot afford to let energy out; it's needed within, to heal.
"Baby?" I address Norman. "I want to get better."
"I know," he says. "I want you to get better too. What are your symptoms?"
"I can't... really point to a place and say, 'this is where it hurts,'" I tell him. "I mean, it hurts right here a little..." I point to my left side. "...And a little in the glands under my tongue... But I feel like I'm just not quite as alive as usual."
He contemplates this, and pets my hair.
"Like, usually, I think I fill out maybe at least this much space in the world..." I place my hands on my face, sort of pinching at my cheeks lightly. "...But now, I feel like I only take up maybe this much space." I hold up my fingers to indicate a little box, maybe two inches by two inches. "And I don't really know where I am anymore."
He understands, I think. I think he's afraid to understand. I think we both know, in some... I don't know... probably race-memory or something, that this is death: the precursor to death is the shrinking of the spirit, the inability to externalize it, the inability to locate it... Illness. Very bad illness. The dreams of suffocation, and the visions of one's face hardening like cement, to keep one's spirit and senses from touching the outside world. The "Big Thing," Rilke called it. Norman must understand. But I think he fears it perhaps as much as I do. He asks: "What exactly IS mono?"
"It's a viral infection," I say, citing online medical websites. "It affects your immune system. I think it affects your blood. Something about white blood cells. It makes you very, very tired. It makes your spleen hurt." I try to recall the rest of the symptoms of mono, as dictated by the internet. Fevers, swollen glands, loss of appetite, nosebleeds...
I'm afraid again.
"Baby, do you believe in Eastern medicine and stuff?"
He says, "sure," and mumbles something about acupuncture and reflexology.
"I mean, the kind of thing where they mess around with the energies in your body and stuff, just by touching you?"
He mumbles some gripe about traditional Western medicine.
I think to myself about art again. I think to myself about energy. I recall in great detail the time in my life when I believed whole-heartedly in touch-healing, or whatever you want to call it. I think about trying to teach myself how to do it, and about practicing on my friends. I think about the time Peter came home from work with a fever, several years ago, and I sat next to him holding his hand and silently practicing the weird little healing techniques I'd read in books. I recall how Peter woke up, stood up, wandered into the kitchen for some lemonade, and declared that he felt better, and it must have just been stress. I, however, for some reason, was exhausted. I'm not sure what I did, really, if anything, but I know I couldn't do it now. I'm just busy keeping myself alive. Can't really let any of myself out of my body right now; sometimes even speaking is difficult, even forming the words is too exhausting. There's just not so much left of me... I've shrunk, I've been buried, I'm trapped in my own veins. I'm alive, I'm breathing, but that's all. I can feel the blandness in my eyes. I can feel that my fingers aren't willing to let me take up a pen and make something neat. I can hear a tiny little voice whispering "help me."
I just want to get better, dammit.
~Helena*