Freeze Frame

 
I don’t know what drew me here. Something mysterious. Maybe the specter of death? That breathing presence behind me? It doesn’t feel like anything that benign or cosmic. I think it’s the constant fear of being criticized. I can’t say “no hope, no fear” in my personal relationships. I’m always afraid I’m going to be accused of breaking some social rule.  Like in high school. Some rule I didn’t agree to. Some rule I didn’t even know about.

A friend pokes me with her sword from time to time, as if my amorphous mass of feelings and thoughts aren’t enough – or aren't inviolate. I’m always slightly horrified and guilty to be awakened from my beautiful slumber – that crucible or slurry of dreams and portents never far from my consciousness.

I wanted to write about this. And about missing my soulmate. Not him the person but him the presence – my lover in the ethers. Where is he now, and who is he now? Is he happy? Is he safe? I reach out with my timeless love and invincible care.

I leave a fingerprint just to mark my place, with an old sketch when I was creating affirmations to prod me into making art, like a frog being pushed by its fond parent to slide into the pond and kick. You don't know you can swim until you try. Now that my memoir is out in the world, I feel like that frog, slowly floating down while the fragments of lilies and minnows settle around me.

Aphantasia

 

The fog of colors has bright edges

In clearly delineated fragments of memory

Like friendly snapshots come to call.

 

In my early days they were paintings

Rivalling Rembrandt and Rousseau

Phantasmagorical dioramas.

 

I learned a new word today – aphantasia

For the loss of that clarity,

That magical realism.

 

Was it the head trauma

Of a shattered browbone

Or a desire to blanket the moments of disaster?

 

Did the cheekbone collude with the

Eye socket and ravaged jaw

To let those nerve endings die without rebirth?

 

It helps to have those bright fragments

Outlining the mysterious fog

And the occasional vivid dream.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Aphantasia is the inability or difficulty to voluntarily generate visual mental imagery. It can be caused by genetics, brain injury, neurological issues or psychological trauma in some cases. The image shown is my surrealistic painting of a woman in Mcleod Ganj, northern India.

Soul Person

Last night I dreamed I was a high school English teacher who'd seduced another middle-aged teacher, a brilliant artist named Lewis. We're alone in my empty classroom having an intimate conversation about books and art. He's totally my type. First of all, Black, but not too handsome. More James Baldwin than Idris.

Secondly, he's brilliant - caustic and witty with an underlying vulnerability that sends me. We're having our first kiss when there's a knock on the door, or rather a scraping noise.

Lewis pulls away. "What's that?"

I laugh. "Probably a cat." But I know it's probably a student so I get up and open the door.

It's Felix, one of the coolest kids in school - a senior. He's tall, looks multi-racial with a sculpted, quizzical face. He's also gay and has a prosthetic left arm from the elbow down. I don't know how he lost it.

Anyway, he comes in and says, "What month is it?"

"September."

"Oh, good. Another Virgo." (How does he know that?)

He has an extra fake hand with a cigarette attached to his prosthetic arm, and he pulls it to his lips and starts to smoke. The fingernails of the fake hand are painted white. Smoking is forbidden but no one has been bold enough to stop him, and I don't try.

I say, "Maybe it's rude of me to say, but the way you use your hand is so beautiful."

He laughs. "You know, most people are too scared to mention it. They can't process two things at the same time. They suddenly blurt out - 'Oh, you're a queer...'" 

I laugh, too.

Lewis has walked a distance away to give us some privacy because he really is special.

I tell Felix, "You know what? I'm a very loving person." I tip my head toward Lewis. "Just ask him ...

"But underneath, I think I'm cold. Really dispassionate."

Felix's eyes widen and his gaze intensifies. I close my eyes.

"I've never told anyone that before, but you're such a genius, I felt like I could tell you."

He says, "You're smiling."

My eyes are still closed to keep from crying. "I know."

I say, "You're a good writer now, but wait 'til you're 65. You're going to be a cynical fucking bastard, but you'll be an amazing writer. I wish I could be around."

He says, "You're my soul person."

"I know."

***

I actually wrote all this down the moment I woke up because it was so clear.