The clairvoyance of the subconscious mind sometimes terrifies me, the degree of synapses kicking your conscious ass into action without your leave, invitation, or even awareness until you pay heed its cues. And when you check in with the message, it's not always necessarily what you want to hear. Under what category would it fall: a conceptual connection, mere coincidence, or a deeper assault of undesired, feared perspective?
For these past few weeks ~ thanks first to injury, then a damned cold ~ thought processes have been more frightfully scattered than ever, the mind a vacant cesspool of non-thought enmired with a kaleidoscopic tornado of Important Things I Need to Figure Out. A mass of sick-induced vagueness from lack of sleep renders cerebral activity nullified, tempered by the prevailing riff of a tune providing an overriding mental soundtrack by a known artist. But off which album? Which song? There is a message in there somewhere, I know it...
Giving up the ghost of trying to figure it all out on my own, I finally gave in to Rhapsody this morning and... ah. Got it. Oh, fuck... I got it.
A bit of background painted in the briefest strokes possible: the mother of a girlfriend has recently been stricken with bacterial meningitis and is in and out of hospital with messed up treatments and ensuing complications. She isn't doing too well, and my friend is falling apart. I comfort her, silently trying to forget Saint Cat's mother died of the very thing when SC was fourteen years old.
Though I found out just this past Thursday, the seventeen-year-old daughter of another sweet friend of mine ~ the very bohemian co-owner of our village used-bookstore/café/live music venue/caberet ~ was diagnosed with lymphoma on August 22nd. She's mercifully in remission now, with six to nine months left of chemo. They have no money to start with; how can they possibly pay her bills?
Last week, while chatting with the sweet parentals, my mother blithely let slip she's not certain if she'll be able to come down for an autumnal/winter visit because of her mounting number of appointments. "What appointments?" I asked in befuddlement, as it's my father who calls doctors' offices his secondary residence. "Oh, they've found something in my breast, but we're not going to worry about it too much right now. I was very anxious before, but just as I was driving to my third appointment the other day and upset since I've always been so careful about taking good care of my body, I felt God gently scold me, saying 'Hey, why are you worrying? Haven't I always taken care of you, no matter what the situation? I even give you the best parking spots... all the time!' And it's true; whenever I have to go grocery shopping or had to take your grandmas to all their different appointments, we never had to walk far at all. I felt this great peace and trust flood through my body. And do you know what's funny? Just as I arrived at the hospital, there was a free parking spot right in front of the non-emergency entrance, and I started laughing. So yeah, I didn't want to tell you because I knew you'd worry too much, and I'm trusting God for everything because there's no point otherwise."
So yes, she's right, but I still can't help but feel fluttery anxious about everything... and everyone.
After getting home from a fairly restoring and distracting class this morning where I was almost back to speed from my neck injury, I began working through Pedro the Lion/Dave Bazan albums on Rhapsody in attempts to source the mystery song whose riff and bridge have taken up such prominent residence in my head. Tired of shivering in that cold state between undress and post-workout bathe, I left it playing with the volume cranked as I stepped into the shower. That's when the song finally, finally came on, filtering from the office through the hall, bathroom, and cutting into the sluicing streams of hot water... and my heart sank once I recognized the chorus.
It had always been discomfitingly difficult to hear before, with Bazan singing thoughts you never wanted to think ~ much less voice, but here it was again now, a tenuous and subconscious link to situations current and unideal, painful and frightening, vast and uncontrollable.
After rediscovering the song and finding myself swirling deeper and deeper into a quagmire of depression and fear, I decided to switch my focus onto Tom Waits' newest album, currently available for pre-release listening off NPR. Before getting ensconced in my projects of the day, I put it on and looked up a few articles, knowing it wouldn't be all Mutant Berry Slurpees and butterflies, but a worthy and enlightening distraction just the same. Found some fantastic stories about his silently-collaborating wife, and then... this about the following song:
"Started with a line I read in the paper one day: 'He studied so hard it was as if he had a future.' It was about this kid who got blown up in a suicide bomb on a bus in Israel. They say God doesn't give you anything he knows you can't handle. Well, I don't know if I believe that."
Oh, fucking joy. Let's just light ourselves on fire for the grand finale of eternal despair, shall we? Or if not, some divine hope of joy and deliverance would be greatly appreciated here, Peoples. Brain, just humour me for once, please? Bazan and Waits, a double hit of doubt, pain, and the ruthless beauty of humanity and inability to rely on faith to smooth out the ruffles and take the edge off fear and suffering; Heavens to Betsy, what a rough and interesting little morning you were.
*sigh*
Nevertheless, considering my current emotional context and found materials of the day, I thought the intersections kind of funny. Not, obviously, in the "ha ha" kind of way. Coincidence? Subconscious direction? I don't know.
But I do refuse to lose optimism. And hope.
Despite this crushing anxiety.
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