20 Jul

There are days when the opposite of dampness and cold enter the bone marrow and settle in like an equally cancerous parasite–a lethal cousin to the winter animal which burrows yearly and torments me; eating at stem cells and lymph systems. I can actually feel the summer malaise devouring the granulocytes, monocytes, and lymphocytes. This is why I don’t need to ingest hallucinogenics. This is why they’ve always tried to fix me. Only there is no fix. There is only sedation and lobotomy and no thanks to that; I’ll endure my own burden, lucid as I may be.

The solid weight of being. The unbearable lightness of it. And most of the time I’m trapped in between the additive substantiality and tonnage of both states. People always say when they meet me: you’re so nice, so normal; you’re everything I thought you might be, despite your writing; despite the maelstrom which swirls inside. They’re right and they’re wrong. First impressions are false and obtuse, especially if doled out by a good actor. No one truly knows anyone.

John Donne always comes to mind when I traverse these momentary bridges connecting ethereal nothingness to the solidity of immortality and history. He is so cheery and full of hope in his meditation on mankind and interconnectedness, and I wonder if he did not singlehandedly and unknowingly spur on the onslaught of self-help tools with which we are bombarded in our present, modren lives; affirming his controlling images of the Island and the Bell. I often blame him for injecting a bit too much sunshine into existence. Donne was a Jacobian poet and preacher, and my suspicion of both faculties runs deep and push me toward siding with that solitary, beautiful, arboreal cat: the Jaguar.

In the end, I’ve found there is no fix. I can cover it up momentarily with gin and ideas, but I always fear a loss of perspective and lucidity; a slip of my grip on clairvoyance. This is why I never write when I’m drunk. Which severely limits my time for scribing, true, but at least I retain my presumed capacity for edifying the truth directly and instantaneously.

Or so I perceive.


13 Responses to “Malaise”

  1. Anonymous 20/07/2007 at 1:13 PM #

    This is so beautiful and eloquent. A meditation on a meditation. Or an analysis of rage within an orderly system. Great entry.

  2. Anonymous 20/07/2007 at 1:23 PM #

    Oh and you’re so self deprecating right there at the end, made me laugh. You are a smartie essayist mister. You don’t need to flex your language muscles for us. We want more short stories. Haha.

  3. Lx 20/07/2007 at 1:30 PM #

    I can’t produce short stories daily, what with all the chaos going on right now. And I’m not trying to be a smart-ass essayist; I don’t think I’ll compete with the likes of Orwell or Hitchens or Chomsky, thank you. It’s just a blah-Friday entry.

  4. slyboots2 20/07/2007 at 4:23 PM #

    Ah, but it’s Summertime, and the living is easy. Catfish are something something, and blah blah blah…

    I want to hear more about that clairvoyance. Because I betcha it’s creepy, and involves some kind of Sixth Sense dramatics. Or vampires. And vampires are cool as shit, no?

    And what really is the truth, anyway? Doesn’t it change from moment to moment?

  5. Lx 20/07/2007 at 4:28 PM #

    Not only is it fluid, but it’s subjective, and perhaps elusive, too. In any case, trying to write with beer goggles is no good for me. Nor is, of course, trying to pick up women with them. But the latter has never really been part of my M.O. I wow’em with my ability to down half gallon of Tanqueray and still be able to recite Shakespearean sonnets. Of course, that’s also gotten me plenty of beatings from musclehead jocks who often accuse me of being too effeminate to drink in the same establishment as them. Hence, the mace/pepper spray in my pocket.

  6. Anonymous 20/07/2007 at 4:51 PM #

    yer so funny. and sly makes me laff.
    love you and your writing, yoda does.

  7. Lx 20/07/2007 at 5:25 PM #

    call Ripley’s.
    this is rarer than a Nessie sighting.
    1. stay away from free pad thai.
    2. your jugs are too expensive.
    3. i am in dire need of black cloves.
    4. i love skype.
    5. don’t get run over by the drink cart.
    6. “i feel MUCH better now.” (text)

    the end?

  8. yoda 20/07/2007 at 5:41 PM #

    oh dear. a little re-ordering is required. #6 should probably follow #1. the end. mhm.

  9. slyboots2 20/07/2007 at 5:51 PM #

    Ahem. I must ask that you leave my jugs out of it. As they are taken, sir. Ahem. And you don’t know HOW expensive they really are. Ask The Boy. Poor dear.

    heh heh heh- I cracks meself up again!

  10. Lx 20/07/2007 at 5:54 PM #

    i will bet you Canadian jugs are more expensive than American jugs.
    i could not find white jugs anywhere in Toronto.

  11. Anonymous 20/07/2007 at 6:25 PM #

    You’re such a racist.

  12. Lx 20/07/2007 at 6:32 PM #

    Sir, I will have you know I do not take lightly to such libelous claims. I am certainly not a racist. I got the red jugs, instead. Although I would have preferred the white, since they are so much better refrigerated on a warm, summer day.

  13. Janete 23/07/2007 at 2:03 PM #

    lol lx
    good answer.
    the subtlety of language..You most certainly are not a racist. Obviously anonymous has not read your previous entries.

    I agree with you, I could never write inebriated. It would cloud my writing, my meaning. I think it would easily become an alcoholic ramble!

    I know what you mean about the duality of character,people perceiving you in such a light, both right and wrong. Some think that just because I am a doctor there is nothing else to me. You know, married the profession and all.

    I don’t disclose to many that I write or that I indulge to a completely different world. And when I do people are quite quick to dismiss me. As if it is not something serious on my part. How little do they know me… But I suppose the actor puts up a good cover and chooses who to let in.

    I shout– Medicine is an art! Not sure they believe me. But who cares. I get to write an honest line.

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