Ginnungagap
I spin and I spin and I spin, and I turn and I turn
and I turn, on this night. On this night I must write, write a memoir of
something tragic. That is what they want. A time during which I experienced a
range of emotions, an obstacle and my presumed victory over it, that is what I
must write. They want us to write about fear, ignorance, anger. This is what I
will write, this memoir. And when all is written I will have triumphed over my
barbaric inability to write, though I fear I might not triumph even if I had
eternity as my deadline.
I can’t think of anything, can’t write a word, but
I know that what I write must be different from anything I’ve written before
until now, so I spin. I do something I did as a child just for fun, but now I
want it to serve another function, like eating ice cream hoping to lose weight.
I begin to spin in the dinner room and stretch out my arms as I spin. I am
spinning to the left at a considerable speed now. Everything is a blur, except
for the images I decide to keep, the ones I focus on, my brother on the living
room couch, my papers on the blue leather sofa. I lower my arms and reduce my
speed, wanting to stop, but I can’t. My body continues to spin, very very
slowly, and then gain speed. I decide I’ll close my eyes as I spin. I feel the
movement. I do not see my brother watching TV in the living room or the clock
upon the wall. Now I just feel myself drift. After a moment I slow down, open
my eyes, and finally stop. I repeat this ritual in the other direction, to the
right now. When I finish I walk to the living room, dizzier than ever. I sit
where my brother sat. Gilmore Girls is on TV and I feel myself drifting,
out of myself, towards anything and everything, and feel myself lean towards my
knees, towards the floor. I can’t help it.
I feel that drifting movement when my tiredness
succumbs to sleep. I feel it when I’m riding the bus, when the air in the bus
is cold and I fall into sleep. Sometimes I also feel it in the classroom, and I
feel myself drift through time. Once, on the bus, with my book bag on my lap, I
buried my face into my arms in front of me and fell into that sleep, and I saw
the black space and thousands of white dots upon it, but the darkness was
vaster still. I began to see the dots interconnected by threads of light, and I
said to myself, “Cristian, you’re looking at the fabric of the universe. You’re
about to tear through the fabric of the universe,” and as I was saying that I
could see the center of my view fall in, as if something was pushing into the
fabric, until someone sat down next to me and I awoke. I immediately closed my
eyes to see the fabric of the universe, but all I saw was black space, so I
fell asleep.
I recover from that useless ritual and return to
the blue sofa where it all began. A tome of the World Book Encyclopedia awaits
for me there. M. I had been reading the article on “Mythology” to find
inspiration but found no such thing in the tales of Egypt . I now sit and take the book
in my hands to read the section about Norse mythology, which is what I always
intend to read when I read that particular article. There, I find the title of
my present work, this memoir. It’s perfect, I think. I have my title. All I
need now is the work itself.
I give up reading, uninspired, and go to my parents’
room and sit at the edge of their bed. I see myself in the vast mirror in front
of me. I look sick. My eyes are red. My mom enters the room for a while,
apparently to look for something, and then leaves. I lie down on my back and
look up into the metal lighting structure above me, trying to understand my
distorted reflection upon the mustard-colored metal. I begin to think about
people who’ve offended me, wonder if they knew what they were doing. Then I
think of their lack of empathy and come to believe that such people are
incapable of emotion, so they can‘t have empathy or appreciate good music or a
good book. I let the thought pass and turn left lie down sideways facing away
from the door towards the closed window to the east, my legs bent and reaching
up towards my body. Again my mom comes in. For a moment I wonder what she
thinks of my behavior. She leaves. I look at the alarm clock. The red digits
show 8:21. I wait. I have no thoughts, I think. I stare at the time. 8:23,
8:24, 8:25. I’m wasting my time. Any thoughts I’m having are incomprehensible
because they are of pain I do not feel. It is forced pain, imagined pain. Pain
I must write about to get some grade in a class. I decide I’ll go write a story
to get me in the mood. Up I go and I see that my eyes in the mirror are even
more red. Are there also tears? I don’t know. It’s too blurry to tell.
I return to the sofa and open the encyclopedia. By
chance I open the entry to “Mephistopheles” and decide I’ll incorporate it in
the story, but soon I find I’m getting nowhere and that this will not help my
memoir. My mom is asking me to look up a bus route, so I get up and go to the
computer. I open the Miami-Dade Transit website and open the Trip Planner page.
I type in the addresses, and the program tells me there is no way to get to our
destination. One of the possible reasons for this result is that the trip would
require an “unreasonable number of transfers” and I recall that my original
guess was at least four, if there even is a bus that goes past 152nd avenue .
After this failure I take out the garbage. I look at the sky and search for the
moon, but I can’t find her. There’s something about the night sky that gives me
peace. There’s something special about the air at night also, especially after
being inside the house for so long. I come back inside, wash my hands, and
decide I’ll go to sleep, finally. I ready my stuff for tomorrow. I check my
wallet. Through a transparent plastic screen I see a brown leaf. I go to sleep.
The leaf in my wallet came from the tree in front
of my house, and it was green. I was dialing Samantha on the cell phone when I
felt compelled to go outside into the night. I looked at the stars and saw our
tree, its leaves green under the light of the moon. I reached up towards a branch
with my right hand and pulled a leaf as Samantha answered. I spun to face the
house and gave her a short excuse. She had asked me that day if I wanted to go
bowling. I did, in a way, but had already decided to do something else. After a
short excuse I went back inside. Inside, I felt the leaf in my hand. It was so
green and beautiful. I didn’t know what to do with it, so I put it on the
desktop. In the morning, I admired the green leaf once more, its texture, its
shape, and then put it in my wallet.
I sleep. A dreamless sleep. No revelation. No
inspiration. The alarm sounds and I awake. I awake a second time when my
brother calls my name. In the mirror I think I see a ghost, a pale picture of
me with messy hair and red eyes. I shower and comb my hair nicely because I’ll
be doing some field work for an anthropology project. I’ll be asking strangers to
answer some questions, so I need to look presentable. My father takes me to the
FIU bus terminal, where I get on my bus and depart. At that time in the morning
it’s hard to keep awake. I begin to think of several things that might fit in
with my memoir, but all these thoughts disappear suddenly. I’m still asleep, I
think. I decide to just look out the window and absorb the beauty around me.
The sunrise, the sky, the tree-lined roads. Then I notice this young girl who
comes in and sits in one of the front seats. Her hair color reminds me of a
girl from high school. Who is she? She’s pretty, but not perfect. But what does
perfection matter, she is pretty! Does she know it? Does she look in the mirror
every morning only to look away, dissatisfied? I want to tell her, “You’re
really pretty, you know?” I have been glancing at all the beauty around me and
she’s part of it. I want her to know that she‘s pretty, in case she thinks
otherwise. But I don’t do anything. It’s just a thought. I don’t know how to
carry it out or if it makes any sense to walk from where I am to where she’s
sitting while the bus moves just to tell her that she’s pretty. How would she
react? I decide not to take it further, not even in my thoughts. But in my
thoughts I have already told her, so it’s fine. Sometimes I think I’ve lived a
thousand lives inside my head, but none are as absurd as this one, this life
where I get A’s and yet I don’t know what I’m doing, if I’m doing anything at
all by just showing up to class and listening to instructions and following
them. And yet I’ve lived all those other lives.
On the way to school I pass
two cemeteries. When I first began riding the bus I was entranced by the sight,
especially at sunrise when shadow and mist prevail over stone and flower. Now,
though, they provoke no feeling in me. They are merely landmarks. After the
second cemetery comes
If I take the 8 at 6:45, I’ll have the company of
two nuns. I notice that the women already on the bus always say hi to them,
though they never say hi to me. The other day the two were eating something out
of a bag. Trail mix, maybe. They offered the woman in front of me some, but
there was no offer for me. Maybe it’s because I never say hi to them. But that’s
fine. It’s fine because that morning, as the bus approached the cemetery, it
occurred to me to watch them and see their reaction. There was none. Of the
two, not one crossed herself. I wonder why.
Two days have
passed and I interview myself. I become Caronte and interview Cristian
Larrocha. I’m hoping this will help me with my memoir.
“Why can’t
you write?” Caronte asks.
“I think it’s because I’m depressed.”
“Any other reasons?”
“I’m also indecisive and take [too much] time
deciding what I’m going to write about.”
“Why so indecisive?” Caronte asks.
“I dunno,” I say, using one of my favorite
expressions. “Part of it I think comes from the fact that my parents have
always expected me to act like this leader that knows everything, and I know a
lot, but not everything. I’m just tired of being that person. I guess I’m
rebelling without being aware, without intending to be indecisive.”
“How can you not be aware of this? It’s one thing
to say ‘I’m not gonna do anything [because I don’t feel like it]’ and quite
another to claim that you’re indecisive as a result of some subconscious
rebellion, don’t you think?”
“Well, yeah. In a way I feel like I have chosen not
to decide anything, some[times] when I start to think about what to write, I
mean actually sit down and take time to think, my mind goes blank. How can that
be intentional? You know I don’t believe in that subconscious crap, but I don’t
know how to explain it.”
“So you blame your inability to write on your
indecisiveness?”
“No. I blame it on my mood. I don’t feel ready to
write. I feel uninspired, disconnected. I…am not ready to write.”
“Cristian, I know you better than most people and
it seems that you’re leaning towards a type of perfectionism that is dangerous.
What do you think?”
“I think perfectionism is dangerous when taken to
unrealistic expectations. But I know I can write something great, so when I see
that I don’t be productive I can’t write. Maybe that’s what it is.”
Caronte has given me a hint
to solving my problem. He tagged me as a perfectionist. I go on Wikipedia to
find some information on this psychological term. The author of the article
says that perfectionism “can take the form of procrastination when it is used
to postpone tasks (“I can’t start my project until I know the ‘right’ way to do
it.”)” (“Perfectionism”). I follow a link on the bottom of the page and find
myself in the BBC News website, reading an article on perfectionism. A list
gives me the “TEN TOP SIGNS YOUR A PERFECTIONIST”. I show some of them,
including the last one, “you noticed the error in the title of this list”. I
find myself in the article where My mind now turns to the past. When I came to this country I realized I did not know as much English as I thought. I needed to learn. I couldn’t relate to the English-speakers who were here, and after some time I could not relate to those I left behind. I feel like I became disconnected from everyone, especially at the beginning. I never asked people to help me with my homework, and since I am the oldest of my siblings, they were able to get help from me. I learned English and became very apt at working and studying on my own, such that I can read a textbook and learn without listening to someone teach. That was the great schism. People around me keep talking about getting together to study, but I never get anything out of such gatherings. I always end up teaching. Another disconnection between myself and those around me, I think. Someone invites me to a party and I say no, because I have a responsibility to meet. After that, it seems, I am never again considered for another fiesta. I’ve seen it happen time and time again. But my rejection of their invitation is also ridiculous. I’ve alienated myself into a world of tales and stories and in writing the perfect story. I feel like I’ve lost touch with the real world, but that I am also losing touch with this other world I have created. I feel devoid of emotion sometimes. Sometimes I feel overwhelmed. But I think I don’t really feel any of this, but rather, I think that I am in between the two, trying to decide which approach to take, which is the right one, and then I see the moon or a tree or a flower or a person on the street, and I become passive, a passive observer.
I still remember the ocean at night.
I imagine Salinas and Carlos reading this and I imagine
them saying this clearly shows signs of depression you should see the school
therapist and I say it won’t work because I don’t believe it will do any good ‘cuz
I have no faith her or him, that’s it!, I’ve lost faith, faith in humanity,
faith in god, and how does a person live when he believes tomorrow will be the
better day? I now begin to think that my expectations of the world and the
people around me might have led me to feel depressed, disappointed, and that
this in turn led me to reject the imperfect world. I’ve stopped trusting
imperfect people and have isolated myself. I am also confused as to who I am,
whether it is the person I think that I am or what people think of me. I am
caught in between all these things, and even then I wonder if my image of
myself is not based on someone else’s unrealistic expectations, a distorted
reflection upon yellow metal.
This Monday morning I saw Muriel in Jenny’s office.
She was sitting in a chair in front of her desk, but Jenny wasn’t there. Muri
looked like the reflection I saw in the mirror, the lifeless ghost with the red
eyes. Something obviously happened to her. I can’t think of what to do, so I
kiss her cheek and put my hand on her shoulder, and leave. I can’t remember
where I went, only that I had no idea what I was doing. I wish I could have
done something else. Two days later I check my e-mail and find a message from
Jennifer meant for all of us. It’s entitled “Update on Muriel Zarate”. I read
that her brother died on Monday and that she had to go back to Argentina .
Tomorrow Jenny will bring cards for us to sign which she will FedEx to her on
Friday.
Thursday afternoon Jenny tells a group of us what
happened in detail. Muriel’s brother had a brain tumor. On Saturday, he went
into a coma, after he got an aneurism. On Monday he left this world because the
world could not hold on to him. Muri’s mother asked her to come to Argentina . Her
brother was fourteen.
Today I finish my memoir. It is done. Today, once
again, the nuns sit near me and I look at one of them as we pass the cemetery.
She looks and then returns to her original position, rubbing her hands together
and crossing her arms because the bus is so cold. Today I get off the bus and
step on the remains of chicken wings that were left on the corner of 8th
and 27th and I remember the man that went into Sunshine Donuts
yesterday, waiting for his coffee, and his smell of sweat and dirt and his
wrinkled clothes and his messy hair. Today I think of Muri and the card I
signed for her yesterday, and of the many cats and animals that die in this
city, and I come to the conclusion that life’s not perfect. I think of the many
times this has stopped me from acting and realize that I only finished this
memoir by acting, by writing. If I had kept on thinking I would never have finished.
It can be better, yes, but for now it will suffice. Writer’s block is broken by
writing, and a life of death is broken by movement. I should move, write, love,
feel, act. But now I feel that I will leave myself on these sheets and will
only move as you turn the page. I will return to a life of immobility, to a
state in between all states. In other words, I will return to a life of death.
BIBLIOGRAPHY AND WORKS CITED
Interview of Cristian Larrocha by Caronte. 19 April 2007.Jackson, Melissa. “Why perfect is not always best”. BBC News. 19 June 2006. 19 April,
2007. <http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/health/3815479.stm>
Larrocha, Cristian. “Untitled Essay”. 12 January 2004.“Perfectionism”. Wikipedia. 19 April 2007.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Perfectionism_(psychology)
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