This is what they call Malaise: a story
Jan. 26th, 2005 10:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
caitri"This is What They Call Malaise"
It's the French way of talking about depression. Remember
that once upon a time it was called melancholy and it was
artistic. Of the medieval humours (humor with a u is very
arcane, or British, and sometimes even the same thing) this
was the kind that was not bile or blood but it was phlegm,
probably because of all the crying.
This is living in the basement. It is cold and dark and
smells of mold. This is not a real place but I can think
about the smell and it becomes real. The good part about
living in your head is how you can make pretend things real.
The bad part about living in your head is how you can make
pretend things real.
Pretended things are underrated. They can make things
easier to deal with. Do you remember the time when you made
up a boyfriend? You were twelve and his name was Rafe. You
never told anyone about him. In retrospect you picked the
name because it was the same as every third character in
the _Darkover_ novels. This made sense at twelve, though at
twenty-three you wonder how a pile of novels about telepathic
people on another planet could have made so much impact.
You always wanted to be telepathic though. That way
you could understand what people really thought and why you
always gave the wrong answers (not on the kind of tests you
write on though--those were usually correct and usually the
same source of trouble). You were sure understanding meant
something.
You still don't have the key to it though.
#
Remember the first time you got to talk philosophy with
someone? He told you about Wittgenstein's Notebooks. You have
yet to read them though you always meant to. Maybe that's the
key to love is not understanding.
Nietzche was something though. There was the myth of
the camel and Zarathrustra having to tell everyone God was
dead.
I did not think God was dead then. I do not remember
when I thought God was dead, or if I ever did. I remember
feeling God betrayed me when I asked him not to kill someone
and he did. Betrayal is an excellent argument for atheism,
more substantial than death.
Here are all the things more substantial than death:
a) betrayal
b) heartbreak
c) love
d) joy
e) green things
f) mold
Mold is more substantial than death because of the smell. Death
cannot kill smell, like memory.
#
Malaise is feeling numb. Bad things seem funny. Good things
don't mean much. You remember feeling and are amazed. It is
living in anaesthesia that has worn off just enough to let the
starting pain through.
The worst pain was when you had your wisdom teeth removed.
(Suddenly things are clear: maybe all the other mistakes date
from that moment when the needle was first put in your arm,
taped there, and you felt that sleepy twilight coming on. They
took your wisdom, or what would have been your wisdom if the
teeth had actually grown in rather than being stuck in your
flesh. All problems result from being stuck in flesh. Flesh
feels things.) Afterwards you could not feel yourself bleeding
or drooling and people would look at you and then wipe your
mouth. The napkins and tissues were white, then red. You
threw up blood and bile because you were carsick afterwards
because you hadn't had anything to eat. It was red and yellow
on the green: the flag of illness.
The new flag is that gray. It is the same color as phlegm,
spit and snot and tears. The body's salt and fluids. The clouds
are gray, the whole sky, the road, the snow and ground. You
feel gray. Gray is the color of your housecoat and that sweater
you got for Christmas. It clings to your figure, which is
gray. Sickliness is sexy which is both Parisian and Victorian.
Consumption is sexy to Victorians. The most romantic
thing in the world is to coughingly expire on a fainting couch
in your beloved's arms. Yes they had couches suitable for
fainting on.
The Victorians were a very convenient people.
Here are some things the Victorians came up with:
a) steam engines
b) porn
c) fainting couches
d) photography
e) mass production
E relates directly to A through D. B and D were often
connected, with C being particularly useful at times.
#
Sometimes you feel like you are trying too hard. Life
does not have to be a Doctorow novel. It may feel like it or
look like it. There is meaning in the text but only as much
as you give it. There is more subtext than text particularly
with regards to people you care too much about. Text as in
textile as in the cloth of wool that has been pulled over
your eyes which some call God or philosophy. When you
remove it you are not in a Keanu Reeves movie and equations
will not save you.
The cookie is made of flour and eggs and chocolate, not
text, and the spoon that stirred it was so real.
#
I have been told that my sexuality is sick. I did not
think so and neither did you. Why is everything about sex? Is
it because it has nothing to do with God or philosophy and
love is optional? Or is it just because of the squelchy noises
and the funny bits?
#
What if I wrote a story and said it was real? All the
difference is in "you" and "I." It is up to the editorial
process and marketing to determine whether a bound stack
of paper may appear between covers in Fiction or in Nonfiction.
Or in Science fiction.
All three are equally valid. True is false and bottom is
up with sufficient deconstructive illumination. Destructive
illumination is in pills (per Philip K Dick) and philosophical
illumination is in German, while illuminated pages belong to
monks. Everything is illuminated and it is all equally
subjective.
Koinos idios, koinos cosmos. Idios is subjective like
idiosyncratic and maybe even just plain idiot.
This idiot is sleepy now.
Good night.
It's the French way of talking about depression. Remember
that once upon a time it was called melancholy and it was
artistic. Of the medieval humours (humor with a u is very
arcane, or British, and sometimes even the same thing) this
was the kind that was not bile or blood but it was phlegm,
probably because of all the crying.
This is living in the basement. It is cold and dark and
smells of mold. This is not a real place but I can think
about the smell and it becomes real. The good part about
living in your head is how you can make pretend things real.
The bad part about living in your head is how you can make
pretend things real.
Pretended things are underrated. They can make things
easier to deal with. Do you remember the time when you made
up a boyfriend? You were twelve and his name was Rafe. You
never told anyone about him. In retrospect you picked the
name because it was the same as every third character in
the _Darkover_ novels. This made sense at twelve, though at
twenty-three you wonder how a pile of novels about telepathic
people on another planet could have made so much impact.
You always wanted to be telepathic though. That way
you could understand what people really thought and why you
always gave the wrong answers (not on the kind of tests you
write on though--those were usually correct and usually the
same source of trouble). You were sure understanding meant
something.
You still don't have the key to it though.
#
Remember the first time you got to talk philosophy with
someone? He told you about Wittgenstein's Notebooks. You have
yet to read them though you always meant to. Maybe that's the
key to love is not understanding.
Nietzche was something though. There was the myth of
the camel and Zarathrustra having to tell everyone God was
dead.
I did not think God was dead then. I do not remember
when I thought God was dead, or if I ever did. I remember
feeling God betrayed me when I asked him not to kill someone
and he did. Betrayal is an excellent argument for atheism,
more substantial than death.
Here are all the things more substantial than death:
a) betrayal
b) heartbreak
c) love
d) joy
e) green things
f) mold
Mold is more substantial than death because of the smell. Death
cannot kill smell, like memory.
#
Malaise is feeling numb. Bad things seem funny. Good things
don't mean much. You remember feeling and are amazed. It is
living in anaesthesia that has worn off just enough to let the
starting pain through.
The worst pain was when you had your wisdom teeth removed.
(Suddenly things are clear: maybe all the other mistakes date
from that moment when the needle was first put in your arm,
taped there, and you felt that sleepy twilight coming on. They
took your wisdom, or what would have been your wisdom if the
teeth had actually grown in rather than being stuck in your
flesh. All problems result from being stuck in flesh. Flesh
feels things.) Afterwards you could not feel yourself bleeding
or drooling and people would look at you and then wipe your
mouth. The napkins and tissues were white, then red. You
threw up blood and bile because you were carsick afterwards
because you hadn't had anything to eat. It was red and yellow
on the green: the flag of illness.
The new flag is that gray. It is the same color as phlegm,
spit and snot and tears. The body's salt and fluids. The clouds
are gray, the whole sky, the road, the snow and ground. You
feel gray. Gray is the color of your housecoat and that sweater
you got for Christmas. It clings to your figure, which is
gray. Sickliness is sexy which is both Parisian and Victorian.
Consumption is sexy to Victorians. The most romantic
thing in the world is to coughingly expire on a fainting couch
in your beloved's arms. Yes they had couches suitable for
fainting on.
The Victorians were a very convenient people.
Here are some things the Victorians came up with:
a) steam engines
b) porn
c) fainting couches
d) photography
e) mass production
E relates directly to A through D. B and D were often
connected, with C being particularly useful at times.
#
Sometimes you feel like you are trying too hard. Life
does not have to be a Doctorow novel. It may feel like it or
look like it. There is meaning in the text but only as much
as you give it. There is more subtext than text particularly
with regards to people you care too much about. Text as in
textile as in the cloth of wool that has been pulled over
your eyes which some call God or philosophy. When you
remove it you are not in a Keanu Reeves movie and equations
will not save you.
The cookie is made of flour and eggs and chocolate, not
text, and the spoon that stirred it was so real.
#
I have been told that my sexuality is sick. I did not
think so and neither did you. Why is everything about sex? Is
it because it has nothing to do with God or philosophy and
love is optional? Or is it just because of the squelchy noises
and the funny bits?
#
What if I wrote a story and said it was real? All the
difference is in "you" and "I." It is up to the editorial
process and marketing to determine whether a bound stack
of paper may appear between covers in Fiction or in Nonfiction.
Or in Science fiction.
All three are equally valid. True is false and bottom is
up with sufficient deconstructive illumination. Destructive
illumination is in pills (per Philip K Dick) and philosophical
illumination is in German, while illuminated pages belong to
monks. Everything is illuminated and it is all equally
subjective.
Koinos idios, koinos cosmos. Idios is subjective like
idiosyncratic and maybe even just plain idiot.
This idiot is sleepy now.
Good night.
