A love story of brains
The manner in which my brain best receives information is visual, not auditory. My constitutional learning style thus compounded with a storied history of verbal barraging results in what my mama calls “auditory overload,” wherein my frontal lobe is overwhelmed, frightened and so collapses and my brain reverts abruptly to reliance on my limbic system. Quick, unconscious fight-or-flight reflexes take over and I either run away from the disturbing situation at hand physically or mentally. So the next time you see me in a pique, this is what’s happening inside my brain: A hyperactive, freedom-seeking fugue state in a desperate lunge for safety and solitude, and peace.
Now imagine that the events described below are the dreamy workings of a terrifying, moonlight-covered, make-believe netherworld that would occur in my brain if I were a sufferer of dissociative amnesia:
Waking from disturbing dreams of former lovers holding hands, I frivoled away the remainder of day watching Ying Yang Twins videos and other such diversions that oughtn’t be disclosed. I thereafter betook myself at the hour of 4 to a hollow underground housing hordes of poets, serious folk who fancied themselves, I gathered, the holders of the words they whored the most: truth, love, soul, cocaine. I hate poetry, I said to myself angrily. With its sober-minded poetasters and their emphatic curses and shameful methods of metastasizing my preferred communicative medium into crap. I then regarded my partner in poetry-watching crime read his sentimental leaflets, which were quieter and steadier than I’d imagined. I was impressed, but then he is the most famous poet in Canada. When I pathetically spluttered out my own, they said of me, ‘Our first formalist poet’ and I cowered, opportunely. Afterward, I was driven by Canadians from Sheridan Square where I once saw Philip Seymour Hoffman carting a baby carriage to the home of Brienne in an unsolicited go for merriment. There, we ate old grapes, pre-made guacamole and cream-heavy cake as she asked me questions I didn’t know how to properly answer and I imparted tales of shameful Pandora stations and slideshows of those to whom I am on account of my wishfulness indebted. I disliked my dress, though it had done me so well in times foregoing. Brienne and I weighed our options and I was enamored of her relations with her fellows, for they seemed egalitarian and without affectation. There is a whole arena of human interaction with which I am not often engaged and to which I would most like to be united. We took a perfectly-timed bus to the West Village where a pretty tavern was bollixed by sporty Midwestern dullards and dearth of space to move. We then departed for a beer garden on the darned LES to meet Brienne’s gaggle (a beer garden I’d visited in Summer 2005. I remember I wore a powder pink leotard and pants that do not afford an amenity of aspect, or so I, in retrospect, decry). They were just then departing North for a vastly overpriced karaoke bar in the East Village. Among the revelers was a wildly animated Jew who humped everyone, but behaved in a manner that reminded me of that proposed theory of autism by Simon Baron-Cohen. At karaoke, I disported internally and was pleased to witness a mockery of protocol, a wildly abbreviated utilization of masculine force and was ambivalently guilty over unspoken codes of ownership and was unsure of what constituted appropriate behavior in assembly such as this. The tenor of the surprisingly late-going karaoke evening was communal, giggly and healthful. I was unused to these kinds of congregations and wanted very much to sing When the Last Time by Clipse. But my entreaties were not importunate, so I sleepily, darned-near contentedly, swam in a lulling, karaoke-induced sea of acquiescence. It was the first time in a long time I came home at 5 AM without having acted in poor conduct. A small victory for a jobless girl of impaired mobility.