The last few days have been particularly difficult– no, everyone is fine, and no one especially close to me has caught the cold-formerly-known-as-rona. It’s a funk unlike any I’ve experienced; still very functional, still able to reciprocate vapid smiles at passersby, still quite capable of making cogent decisions as they pertain to work, or negotiating traffic, or parenting, or even (occasionally) making good diet choices in the wake of burgeoning weight gain due to the sloth-like apathy that comes with repeated bouts of sedentary quarantining.
No, it dawned on me what I’m perceiving: I feel like I’m three feet behind myself, watching myself go through my day with a vantage point that is delayed by about a second. It’s not quite that delightful out-of-body experience featured in movies about angels and Marvel movies about mystic arts. It’s a sensation of being knocked out of myself, but still very much aware of every pinch, every giggle, every deep, cleansing sigh, and every four letter word uttered under my breath while driving through this lovely town of excellent motorists. Whatever it is, it ain’t fun.
In fact, it kind of sucks. Short of this being the onset of significant mental illness (jury’s out…), my self-diagnosis is still in development. But I’m assuming it’s a cross-wire somewhere in the neocortex, not far from the part of my brain that makes me associate colors with people, numbers and letters; an acute visuospatial disorder related to being unable to control assorted aspects of my existence.
It’s a funny thing, following yourself around all day. Discerning your own actions in third person, regarding your whole paradigm, your entire worldview, from about three feet away. Disassociated and mildly-despaired, sure… but it also allows for a healthy dose of benevolent apathy. It’s not “me,” so it’s not “my problem.”
Logic, it seems, does not connect to feeling, however. Bittersweet things, longing for past moments and alternative futures, achy breaky heart (or achy breaky pelvis, juggler’s despair…) those things still hurt.
Yeah Mildred, I suppose that *does* sounds like the beginnings of schizophrenia. But for a guy (he/him) who has dwelled in times out of time and the spaces between spaces for so long, it’s really not that much of a stretch.
I assume I’ll eventually catch back up to myself. After all, I am getting older and slower; presumably easier to catch. But in the meantime, I guess I’ll just hang back, bring up the rear for a spell, and try to make sense of things I can’t change.
El Gigante Picante del Monte 