Neurasthenia

profile | calendar view | friends | LiveJournal ]

[ 11-25-03 | 2:00 AM ]
Around 5 AM, when I had yet to fall asleep, I looked back at the previous five or so hours, pinning them up and examining their stratigraphy. I reviewed the hour I spent thinking about topic A, the emergency sirens, the throbbing phase my strained knee went through, my theory about topic B, the cold front that swept through, the extra dose of pills washed down with tap water drunk from the nearest available vessel, the apocryphal shriek, the sweltering heat, the change in atmosphere when I switched from "woodland stream" to "white noise," the half-hour I really thought I was falling asleep, the temperate period, and a hypothetical conversation on topic C. I used to fall asleep to the sound of the fan, but in winter I need the heater, which only provides noise intermittently, so I bought the $15 sound machine. White noise doesn't really work when it invites you to discern patterns; ideally it would be generated at random and not looped. The "woodland stream," "summer night," and "crashing waves" are unnatural for the same reason. Then the heater grinding to life startles me out of every promising reverie. I can't set it up to maintain a moderate temperature through the night; it richochets between the two poles. I sweat and then the sweat freezes on my body. It occurred to me that I could make a more productive use of the hours, but I was too tired to actually get up.
1 comment|[ post a comment ]

[ 9-24-03 | 11:24 PM ]
This morning I had a trilogy of dreams:

1. I bought a ticket for an indoor, upscale fun fair, held in a series of vast white rooms we traveled through on an open monorail. My car was also occupied by a man and his wife, a pinched blonde who repeatedly reminded him that this event was sponsored by both Saks and Neiman Marcus. We stopped by a food kiosk where I tried to request pepperoni pizza from the proprietor, a bearded sixtysomething. He refused each time I passed, on grounds that I'd already had a slice. I shouldn't have bothered arguing; pizza always tastes like solid bile in dreams.

2. Bill Murray made a movie about a man driving across the country who has to stop and repair his tires every few minutes. The tires on his car consisted of rubber rolls like tape, in a medium blue. When the outer layer was shredded to the breaking point, he'd remove it and crank another forward. Seeing this movie reminded me to take my own car into the dealership to have the tires checked.

3. My apartment was paneled in dark wood. I tried on a wedding dress I'd bought earlier that day at the Gap, on sale for $308. A visitor asked why; I explained that I might marry my boyfriend at some point in the next few weeks. The visitor left. The dress hung in simple lines, with no billows foaming out of gathers. I took the dress off and looked inside at the navy blue tags, which informed me the dress was 60% cotton and 40% nylon. That explained the wrinkles. Another tag listed all of the sizes in which the dress was available, with measurements. Mine was a size 6. Just then, a friend with curly hair entered. I showed her the dress, and she reported, in an imperious tone, that she'd been browsing the $8,000 bargain rack at the local plus-size boutique for her own wedding dress. She had actually set a date and sent out invitations. Then she left, and after I'd put the dress back on, another friend stopped by. He joked that I would marry my boyfriend (British, a redhead I saw from the photo on my mantel) just to keep him in the country, and pointed out that the dress was too short for me. Upon looking down, I noticed for the first time that it only hung to mid-calf on me instead of to the ankle. I resolved to return it to the Gap.
2 comments|[ post a comment ]

[ 9-4-03 | 3:20 AM ]
This morning I dreamed that I was back in graduate school for the fall, making friends with students in other fields over coffee. We were assembling interdisciplinary projects when a guy of Indian descent (who looked like someone I knew in middle school all grown up) asked if anyone wanted a free copy of The Economist. Everyone laughed at the in-joke, whatever it was.

Yesterday was the day after Labor Day, so I'm in an autumnal mood; it's time to buy books and plaid wool skirts and go back to school
2 comments|[ post a comment ]

[ 8-24-03 | 5:55 PM ]
1. Yesterday morning someone asked me a question and I responded that, "I expect so." This answer was unacceptable; the man had never heard anyone phrase it that way before, and wondered where I was from. He wandered away muttering it to himself; it was that much of a novelty. I suppose I may have picked up some stilted constructions from my reading, and as a loner, I don't practice enough conversation to smooth them over. I've also been told recently that my use of perhaps is an affectation, but I swear I'm not revising my thoughts.

2. Last night I spent a couple hours updating my resume. I divided my current responsibilities into four categories, each of which breaks down into further detail; the total number of bulleted points comes to 22. This may seem excessive, but the descriptions have been reduced to their lowest common denominators, and can't be condensed further without disappearing altogether. Without even consulting an official list, I think I've managed to incorporate quite a few of the action verbs suggested for resumes. In fact, the following appear in the latest draft's treatment of my current position: manage, research, write, assemble, collaborate, gather, institute, deliver, maintain, update, produce, reconcile, compose, generate, prepare, oversee, coordinate, serve, write, edit, plan, execute, manage, contribute, assist, negotiate, secure, maintain, respond, represent, contribute, answer, orient, guide. Those in bold refer to the main headings; it is of course possible that, due to my increasingly obvious immaturity, many of these verbs will soon be downgraded to help or assist or follow. It's also unfortunate I can't cite many quantitative improvements made during my tenure. The other difficulty is in reducing all of my contact information, education, experience, and skills to a single page. Then, of course, the document will sit and gather dust. I am not exactly popular with the networking set. (I picture other people my age, networking boisterously into the night.)

3. This morning I went down to the laundry room and was about to load a washer when a man rushed over to warn me that, "I was going to use that one too," not ruefully, but with irritation. He hadn't put any clothes or detergent in yet, and had not even set his basket on top. Because all the machines are operated via a panel set into the opposite wall, he had not stuck quarters into slots to mark his territory. Yet apparently it was boorish of me not to have inquired of everyone in the room, near and far, whether any had an eye on washer 10. I keep failing to remember that other peoples' needs trump mine ever time; I'm a two of clubs or something. So I slunk away to washer 18. Of course if the reverse occurred, if someone beat me to a machine, I would simply change course. That is my fundamental flaw; if I could muscle my way around the laundry room, I could have my pick of jobs. I know it's pathetic to accord such importance to a minor encounter, but I have so few conversations out loud.

4. Sleep is my preferred state. I would like to sleep on a professional basis: this is what I would tell someone, if I were honest, when answering the question of where I see myself fin five years. Or I could aspire to the position of stay-at-home mom, because it wouldn't be intellectually taxing until the kid(s) reached high school and needed help with differential calculus or quantum physics. After dropping him, her, or them off at school in the morning, I could go back to sleep. At night I'd stay up writing. I wouldn't be ridiculed every single day. Or I might take courses to prepare for announcing the winning lottery numbers on the evening news; I already know my numbers, at least up to 100. Afterward, every night, I'd wipe my brow and my colleagues, the anchors, would congratulate me during the commercials: "good job!"
2 comments|[ post a comment ]

[ 8-21-03 | 2:32 AM ]
The word that comes to mind most frequently is slight, despite the emblems and/or verbal endorsements of not one, but three awardmaking bodies emblazoned on the front cover. All that distinguishes it from a run-of-the-mill espionage thriller are the poetic descriptions, primarily of spatial relations, the author distributes at uniform intervals, perhaps three to a chapter. These make me sit up and take notice; they're so conspicuous I could keep a running list of quotations and condense them into a poem. Otherwise, the characters are types I know well and don't care to prolong acquiantance with, and the conclusions drawn by the omniscient but unidentified first-person narrator are cribbed from mass market pop psychology bestsellers. I've become acclimated to far denser prose, and I expect to learn something, which might be unreasonable of me. When periods of inactivity in terms of plot stretch over several pages and overlap with sections of particularly shallow commentary, I drift away. I don't mind so much a weak plot, but there are other satisfying means of creating suspense, as when another author on my shelves extends the opening halves of really original analogies (but not in so many words), training the reader to ache for completion over several chapters, for the yoking of two seemingly unrelated concepts or disciplines. I don't care whether these characters live or die if they fail to cogitate in the interval. I'm not sure this is a book I want on my shelf; I don't think I can stand behind it. (I don't remember what is acceptable to say about a novel, and in what terms one ought to couch it.) Bah.

Prior commitments: the other day I got out of bed around midnight to jot something down on a post-it note. This format does not require a commitment. There is no snowy field of blank space demanding to be trampled. Instead of writing novels or poems, I'm going to make the phrase my unit of production. What I recorded was, "small square windows dispense the sunlight in metered tablets," which I don't actually remember happening. The windows may have been reinforced with wire grids to prevent smashing by fists or faces, but they were neither small nor square. No matter; small square windows are plausible, and my memory is faulty. Anyway, then the squares would distend to rhombi on the floor, because in there, everything's warped away from the good and true line. That shouldn't be explained, though. Then I returned to the previous notes, in my head without checking the hard copy. It's been that long in the drafting. Maybe by the time I reach 50 I'll have enough lines to being moving them around. At first, that night, I thought anyone could check a map and complain that the sites are not actually separated by "a mile's concrete jaunt." You'd drive, more likely. You'd have to be insane to walk. Then I remembered that anyplace is within a mile from something else; I get stuck sometimes. Then I thought of "metered doses of sunlight," but it's a little too overt to compare the sunlight, the apportioned bits of the outside, natural world, to the other, just as carefully measured, items being doled out to inmates? Besides, "metered doses" is lifted straight from a Flonase insert. The intense source of the light is blocked; they only experience it in diluted form. In a single-floor hospital, the fence is so high no one inside can see over; there's no context made available. Would a horizon intimidate people who can't even get out of bed in the morning, much less traverse the stars? Would it encourage grandiose (manic) plans? Then there are all the bits that are too pedestrian and, let's face it, too colorful and nonthreatening for my purposes, to mention. Jerry Springer, fashion magazines, cigarettes, and half-frozen half-pints of orange juice really never alleviated the disorientation.

Previously, they shouted a person, the person who later has nothing better to do than stare at the sunlight hitting the carpet, onto a gurney. (You, one, me? I like one because it's impersonal, but using me and following up with a lot of blase observations about events that would otherwise seem traumatic is a habit of mine.) As the ambulance spins around the axis of an inhabited peninsula, a scenic reel whips past through the back window. The paramedic does not see this, or shouldn't; he should be looking down at you. You, of course, don't see anything. You are passed out. (You, again.)

Just enumerating facets doesn't make something whole; the edge is where interesting things happen, where things disappear. You learn in elementary geometry that there is no such thing as an edge, or at least that was the conclusion I came to, an oversimplification. A line is just imaginary; it has no width.
1 comment|[ post a comment ]

[ 8-15-03 | 12:59 AM ]
I got home at midnight and I have set my alarm for five AM. There's really nothing else to say about that, is there, though there was supposed to be a lot to say today. I planned to work on a piece I've been writing, well, had been writing, tonight. I penciled it in, dammit. Tuesday I left work the earliest I have all week, at six or so. I know this is all I write about these days, but I feel I have to make a mark somewhere about it. I'm so tired. I want to take a week's vacation just to sleep. Today I didn't eat--I didn't have time to remember--so I just drank six cups of coffee, which leaves me, now, mentally sluggish but jittery just under the skin.
1 comment|[ post a comment ]

[ 8-3-03 | 12:54 AM ]
Saturday means:

doing 3 loads of laundry (whites, darks, sheets)
washing the delicates by hand
paying the rent and parking
running the dishwasher
mopping the kitchen
mopping the bathroom
rubbing the gummy shoe sole residue off the floors
reorganizing the closets
cleaning the sinks
scrubbing the toilet
scrubbing the bathtub
polishing the mirrors
polishing the glass table
vacuuming the apartment
picking up everything the vacuum won't
dusting every surface
taking out the trash and recycling
cleaning the trash cans
finding an ATM that works
picking up prescriptions
walking for 5 minutes, running for 20, walking for 5
doing 50 stomach crunches
eating an apple
spending 5 hours (so far) on reports and charts for work (help)
1 comment|[ post a comment ]

[ 7-22-03 | 6:14 PM ]
I should never have gone inside. It was a beautiful day. It still is. If I had a place to go, I would go there.

I could have called in sick today, with the headache. I could have gotten off the train this morning and kept on walking, and no one would have blamed me.

I need to say some things, but I'm afraid if I start now I'll regret it later. I'll have to slink back and censor myself retroactively, pretending I never whined at all. No, that wasn't me.

Yet I feel the need to type, or maybe I just need something to do with my hands. This has been an unpleasant day. People are ugly. The environment is toxic. I need to ask if I'm overreacting. I need people to shade in the context behind these figures.
1 comment|[ post a comment ]

[ 7-16-03 | 9:23 AM ]
My alarm went off at 7. I slapped it off and fell asleep. I was invited to a party out in the suburbs, so I drove out on an expressway, alongside a narrow river, and watched the forest turn into a neighborhood of concrete painted white and then embellished with tiny mosaic tiles and sequins. There were no lawns, just extensions of the concrete patios belonging to each house. Colors I identified as Mediterranean were popular--some outer walls were painted with diamonds that alternated bright blue with deep orange, reminding me of a jester's hat. Most of the enormous houses bristled with turrets, tiny additions, and moats, all of concrete. I thought the moats looked cheap, like small-town swimming pools; some negligent homeowners had allowed the sun to bleach the paints to pastels.

Every house appeared to be hosting a party. I went inside; some twentysomethings had hired help to throw a party while one guy's parents were abroad. All of them had grown up in this wealthy enclave. One room, tiled on all six sides, held an enormous pile of live octopi, each pink and about 4 inches long. We were given tiny steel tongs to pick them out; biting off the heads killed them and stopped the writhing in your mouth. The young host joked about his father, a seafood magnate of renown, exploiting the local miniature octopi farmers. One short girl, capped with shiny black hair, lamented her parents prestigious address; it detracted from her street cred in the art world. I suggested she lease an apartment in the city to use as a mailing address; she could still live in her parents colorful concrete home in the middle of the woods.

Then I flashed back to an apartment building I'd toured earlier in the day. The reception area was housed in an atrium paneled in smoky glass, supported by thick black cylindrical beams. This building was so luxurious, residents could reserve seats on American Airlines and check in at terminals right in the apartment building. Their baggage was whisked away to the airport without any effort on their parts; they followed later via limousine. The one bedroom apartments started at $3,275 a month, which I could not afford.

The diamond motif reminded me, after I woke, of a series of stories I wrote in third grade concerning a girl named Tiffany. Blond and blue-eyed, she was everything I wasn't. Her ancestors were British and Scottish, an ethnic background that classmates could understand. With an IQ of 200, she effortlessly earned 100s on every assignment. Every girl envied her, and every boy had a crush on her. Her wardrobe was inspired by that of the Greek diplomat's daughter in my class: colorful layers of Benetton. Tiffany rarely saw or thought of her parents; a kindly governess cared for her, in conjunction with a butler, cook, chauffeur, and gardener. Her hobby, her obsession, was one I considered appropriate for such a cultured girl; she collected Pierrot dolls. I was once given one, and promptly ruined it even after being told of its value and origins; someone brought it back for me from a trip. Tiffany, of course, broke nothing. Her dolls lined the closet shelves in neat silken rows.
4 comments|[ post a comment ]

[ 7-6-03 | 11:05 PM ]
I forgot to include my goals for reading and writing and the procurement of a husband. I should solicit input from all constituents: current, lapsed, potential. But I'm bored with the format. There really are people who set personal goals and reach them, noting their progress at intervals. I've given myself outs by specifying only vague quotas to be filled along the way. I'm not insisting that I weigh myself or anything.

It's safe to use the treadmill around 9 PM, when the only others present are losers like me, i.e., those without ropy muscles twining around orange-brown calves. This is one area in my life, unlike work, where I can push myself too hard, too long, and too fast. I'm happy to feel pain that's not centered in the head, that is symptomatic of neither migraine nor infection. My legs feel as if they're only very loosely strapped to my torso at the hips.

Afterwards, I bend over and put my hands flat on the floor just in front of my feet, without bending my legs. It's not really a stretch for me, but there's no place else to go.

* * *

The most important thing to remember when walking in heels is to stand up straight. Do not try to compensate for the elevation with exaggerated thrusts or swaying. Try not to think of the shoes at all, or you'll look coltish and tentative. Take long, confident strides.

* * *

I was going to write about the person who hit on me, but the whole episode was so distasteful, I'm glad it happened over the phone this time, and that I had an excuse to steer the conversation back toward the professional arena. I wanted to saw open my skull and swish some rubbing alcohol around in there. I was going to elaborate on "the creepiest men," but it's just plain sad that someone could be needy enough to think. . .

* * *

You're supposed to let go of things you can't control, he says. Meaning, I say, one resigns oneself to being a cog, and comforts oneself with the warmth generated by the friction of nearby gears.

* * *

The most chilling nightmares are about incompetence and forgetfulness, not falling or drowning, and the threat comes from within.
[ post a comment ]

[ you are viewing: most recent entries ]
[ go into the past ]