Posted by: M.C. | 3 February 2011

Disappeared

I am becoming, I think, invisible, transparent, translucent. Light penetrates, passes, through, leaving me unseen. Again. It is the malady of my childhood which I thought I had made go away in my youth, but keeps recurring. Let me tell you what I mean: I have in my head this store of touchstones: films and songs and writers and politicians and artists and actors and events and bits of language from books and poems, connections linked by neural pathways leaping over the chasms that traverse my brain. I built them (without thinking) out of the flotsam of clashing parents and sad boorish siblings and a social universe that had a congenital aversion to my skin tone. All of the elements of this social universe considered me either a nuisance or altogether irrelevant, not worth the exertion of contemplating me long enough to dismiss me. But as I grew I wove my fabric of irrelevancies and coincidences and insights into a cloak that rendered me solid somehow. I wove it mainly from my words and I learned to spin and shape the words and toss them into the sky into patterns (quilts to constellations) that others could observe, and through them, me. But I have always feared that this ability was useless—not to me, but to others. They might marvel at it (for a while) admire its intricacy (for a while) find it curious or quaint (for a while, even a long while). And now I feel its visibility fading. I see a story in the paper about a character actor I grew up watching who has died; a songwriter passes away; an author ends his life. A ripple, and then they are gone. The absence carves a hole in my existence, but others seem not to notice. I reference an event that shook me to my core, or lifted me into ecstasy, but no one remembers anymore. And when I try to pull someone into this very tactile universe, I only feel more adrift. Nothing I say resonates, as if I had recorded a monologue on a record (vinyl, shiny, black usually) playing at the wrong speed; sluggish syllables mashed together into unintelligibility. I reach for another solid, conscious soul to share what must sound like comedy or grief or madness, but they whizz by, slicing along in contemporary time. So I let my words dribble into silence. It is a tortuous thing to try to stand still in order to be seen, plus it doesn’t work. I try to pinch myself into these nano timeframes. I try to leave alone that roar of my history that always resides in the back of brain, but it only cramps me into a caricature angry in his loneliness. No one wants to look at anger (especially slow motion, standing still, mouthing nothing) so I begin to fade. Soon, I have disappeared myself, and even those closest cannot find me. I need a stable wormhole, some device that spans time and space to reach from universe to universe, from my tapestries of memory to the virtual, amnesiac moments I inhabit now. ButEveryoneAndEverythingFlyBy. And I am invisible. And I am lost.

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