1. The Fish, Despair
The giant fish in the open tank beside the tables at the
infamous and eternal Malaysia Hotel – let’s call that fish Despair. Its long gray gleaming body, the vivid
prehistoric fin that surfaces now and then as it circles through the murky
water. Our fish, Despair. It is necessary to note and experience the
fish.
It is also necessary to note the dark water and the
glass. The potted fern, the sex
tourists, the Waikiki pancake, the faux
cave. It is necessary to be aware of all
of this, as well as the fish, Despair.
A black and white cat prowls the edges of the tank, it
strides from stone to stone. In addition
to the cat there is a delicate spider, lowering itself from the eaves.
2. Celery
This TV show is all about celery. All the pleasures and benefits of celery, and
celeriac as well. Celery, we are told, adds a delicate flavor to soups. When you buy celeriac you must make sure it
is intact with no visible cracks which spoils
the taste and would be a shame.
The show ends with the warning that, if you are allergic to
celery, your lips may swell or your throat become scratchy. If this is the case, you should discontinue
eating celery immediately. Thankfully,
such allergies are rare.
Imagine if this TV show inspired you to finally sit up, find
your keys, and venture out to the supermarket for the purpose of buying
celery. Imagine you made a soup with a
delicate taste – only to discover that your throat had become scratchy.
You might very well feel that life was against you, denying
you not only great loves and successes, but even small pleasures like celery.
You might very well give way to despair.
3. Fizz
The way it is sometimes apparent that people buy sickly
sweet caffeinated beverages simply because the sugar high will allow them to
get through the next eight minutes without succumbing to despair.
Because of my ever so slightly dramatic nature, I assume
disaster is imminent, when really it is entirely possible to get through four
or more decades this way, one soda after another, and never appear any worse
than mildly disappointed at the proceedings.
As if nothing else were wrong besides having diabetes.
4. Knife
The grandfather lost his hand to a threshing machine. The father lost use of his in a motorcycle
accident. By the time the son came along
it was tradition.
Anyway, he wouldn’t need it, would hardly feel it, said the
father and grandfather as they sharpened the knife. Because he was special, as they were
special. Special rules applied to him.
5. Options
My new friend explains that, contrary to what you may have
heard, prescription drugs really do
help. They are tremendously
helpful. They are so effective, in fact,
that it may or may not be not necessary to actually swallow them. For him it is enough just to look.
He likes to examine his barbiturate collection every day,
and especially at night before bed. It
is a first-rate collection, well-balanced and well-researched and he is
confident that he could use it to kill himself, any time he deemed necessary or
convenient.
Everyone thinks his new stability and good cheer are the
result of a change in scenery, a new love, a decent shrink, a yoga
regimen. When it is in fact the
prescription drugs that are so remarkably effective.
He never goes anywhere without a pile of condoms, someone
else’s credit card, and his barbiturate collection. He is cheerful, like any man who knows he has
options.
5. Nature
At Phuket Zoo the drugged tiger lies on its side beneath a
garlanded photo of the dull-eyed elderly king and a sign welcomes you to have
your picture taken for just 200 baht.
Or, if you prefer, there is Milo
the orangutan, her white flab showing through her thin orange fur like an old
woman who tints what little is left of her hair.
Monkeys, birds, seals and crocodiles pace the floor or lie
in the corners of cages that seem entirely rickety and unsound. But I realize that it is not necessary for a
cage to be impressive. It need only
hold.
It is essential that we not anthropomorphize animals or
intuit what they feel – because, if we did, their grief would be so
overwhelming that anyone with a quarter-teaspoonful of empathy would keel over
dead.
What is left waits in its concrete pit so that we can take a
picture with our phone to ornament the Internet. Here I
am, in Nature.
6. Red Ant
Large red ants all around me, tracing the edges of the
chair, veranda, or fallen leaf. This one
here is hurriedly circumambulating the round table where I sit. My psychiatrist in Chicago explained that certain repetitive
acts are self-comforting. Perhaps the red ant is feeling agitated. Sure looks that way. Maybe the red ant is saying to itself, “I’ll
get to the end of this sooner or later.”
7. Living
If anyone has the right, it’s her, in her wheelchair from
which bottles hang that fail to dull the pain.
But she does not despair. She
does not even complain. She explains
that now is when she is learning to live – when it is no longer a question of
winning a prize or enduring a pleasure.
When there is no consolation, compensation or purpose that will make it
all officially work out. This is how she
is learning to live, while dying.
It’s life, she says. Not a bank account. You don’t balance it.
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