Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Half Light

I fear that my hero of the day posts have had a chilling affect on my "normal" writing. Not that my normal writing is any good, but the few ideas I do manage to have, and not forget, are generally swallowed by the hero of the day post. Of course that is provided I am able to actually put those ideas down (so to speak) on the internet. The few non-hero posts that I have done this year are probably not easy to find. I understand that quality beat quantity, but I made my own bed with my hero project, and I have to finish it, even if that means drafting a fictional rabbit (or is he a hare?) as a hero of the day.

My "back up" therapist, Dr. Duvel, has encouraged me to bring those few non-heroic ideas out of the "half-light" where they are standing (or it is lurking?), and to see how they stand up to the harsh light of day. I tried to explain to the good doctor that there are both heroes, and non-heroic ideas in that half light waiting where we both stand. These ideas (both types) are just waiting there hoping that I can keep it together long enough to give them their due. They have yet to realize all the external issues I face just to get myself through the day. Of course, my issues are no greater than the ones facing any of the rest of us, but I seem to be singularly ill adapted to deal with those issues. This inability to deal with just the simple things of life is quite an obstacle to trying to accomplish anything more than just going to get the mail.

It is in that half light that I see myself, and my ideas as they are, half-formed, half-baked, and half coherent. They are there one minute, and then poof they are gone (like Keyser Soze), and if I am not paying strict attention, I am left wondering if they ever happened. Sometimes I wonder if "I" ever happened, and that causes a whole new kind of crisis. It is those moments when I cannot get to sleep that many of these ideas, and all of their complications come pounding on my intellectual door (normally there is a "no one at home sign on my intellectual door), but here they come nonetheless. They appear, seem to be perfect, then fade away into the dark, and all I am left with is an ghost, a vapor, and a disappearing trail that I cannot follow in order to retrieve them, and write them down.

Perhaps if I can keep the good doctor focused long enough, and have him peruse this blog post, he might realize that for some ideas there just isn't any hope. After all, a lot of things, places, or people look a lot better in the half-light. This is the siren call of Dr. Duvel, he tells you that you need to talk, sits down, and smiles politely, and asks you to talk. Then you realize it has all gone pear shaped, usually the first hint is the look of horror spreading slowly over the good doctor's face. Next thing you realize you are just hoping to get to a good stopping point, praying his phone rings, or his secretary comes in and needs him for something, anything to deflect his attention away from you. Because you don't want to be here, sitting on his couch (or is it a stool), wondering if you did say that horrible, horrible thing out loud.

Then you start praying for the half-light, that half-light that you, yourself can disappear into, and hope that maybe all this thinking will get you somewhere (it won't but you hold on to that hope like a sailor clings to a plank of a shipwreck). You realize that all these sessions with him usually end the same way, you just throw money at him, and hope that his notes get burnt up in some timely fire. You drift away from that convenient lamppost, and head spinning, stagger away down that deserted street, and hope that tomorrow is a better day.

Your only hope is the deep sleep that is awaiting you if you ever manage to make it home, and you really need to make it home because tomorrow, while it might not be better, or better lit, will still throw at you all those little day to day tasks that you are so horribly bad at performing. And those tasks, those day to day, mundane items need to be attended to, and someone has decided that, for some ungodly reason, you are the person that is best suited to perform them. Little do they know the terror that idea inspires, and all you can do is slap a smile on your face, and do the best you can. Even if it isn't good enough, the best you can do is sometimes just enough to get you through the day, and into the half-light that follows.

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