Notes from Within

A rather long note spilling forth offerings, thank yous and goodbyes amidst the season’s turning point

George Frederic Watts, The Minotaur, oil on canvas, 1885

Everything exists many times … but there are two things in the world that apparently exist but once—on high, the intricate sun, and below, Asterion. Perhaps I have created the stars and the sun and this huge house, and no longer remember it.

—Jorge Luis Borges, The House of Asterion¹

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Dear Reader,

Today I would like to share a few things with you and talk about an old project of mine, one I started five years ago. On a time scale, does that number feel light or heavy to you? Before answering, you may ask how I can pick up something I left gathering dust in the back of my head and make it relevant to my present self. You may also ask why it took me so long to start over.

Well, the third question betrays my answer to the first one. Let me put it this way: five years felt like five tons on my back. Now, bear with me as I skip the second question and head straight to the third one.

Starting over means you were, in the first place, taking a break of sorts, or a pause, or you were in a stasis. Whatever word you opt for, it signifies a temporary state. A break that spans so many years no longer justifies its meaning. Rather, it becomes a standstill. It is ridiculously easy to find yourself in such a position. You live, and then something comes up. You do what you think is best for you at the given moment. You move on, but the next thing takes you by surprise. You do what you know is the worst option for you, but you do it anyway for a thousand reasons that make you—us all—compromise. You justify your choice, making up all kinds of excuses, and you promise yourself next time will be different. But next time, your act doesn’t deviate from the previous script. You may be on a different stage, yet your repertoire is all the same.

It goes on like this every time, as you are entangled in a pattern that leaves room for no improvisation. There is no novelty here, nothing new to pull you out from the path you carved. The road you know too well by now is a cul-de-sac leading invariably to a halt, where you stand at a loss. You look at your tracks imprinted in the dirt. They can trace your way back out of it, but you’re numb—you almost feel safe in your discomfort—and you’re too scared of whatever lurks out there. So you stay put, and you let go of everything.

You find no meaning. There is no meaning, really. One doesn’t need to go on a treasure hunt to unearth hidden meanings. Life just is. The only meaning is life itself. But you don’t see that. You can’t see past your misery. You wallow in the mud your mind has become. You are stuck in there with thoughts. Wicked things, your thoughts are, their voice as dubious as their origin. They certainly feel like an inside thing, but you can never be sure. Even books can’t console you any longer. You shuffle their pages, and the words pass you by. They become fleeting clouds that rush upon you and leave you longing for the rain that never comes.

“Why seek dated clouds? Why save a letter, take a snapshot, write a memoir, carve a tombstone?”²

What’s the point? You wonder. But no answer escapes your lips. Ashamed to admit you no longer find any point in any of it, and feeling indignant at once because of your shame, you stop asking. You stop caring. And you become something like a zombie, not the movie-kind that runs wild in search of prey, not the coffee-craving zombie that Iggy Pop played in Jarmusch’s film. No, zombie is the wrong word. Zombies have a driving force—you don’t. You operate; you’re an automaton. You wake up, go to work, come home, sleep, don’t dream, and wake up again, day after day, on autopilot.

Until the system inevitably starts crashing, in a slow yet steady beat that soon builds up to a deafening rattle, you can’t ignore it anymore as your body, consistent in its function, keeps sending signals telling you there’s something wrong with it—with you. But you fail to see the underlying cause of this total malfunction. You see only the various symptoms popping up, one after the other, and you spend a year visiting all kinds of doctors in a futile attempt to fix all that has gone awry.

And then a day comes when—no longer able to hold yourself together—you break down and cry. You cry, and you wail until there are no tears left inside, until there’s nothing else to do but lie there all dried up. And from that lowest of levels, as you stare at your scattered pieces, a certain feeling surges, something you can’t quite admit is there, a tenderness for that broken self of yours, a love you dare not name, not yet, but strong enough to get you up on your feet.

So you set out to pick up every inch of yourself that has fallen apart. But that, dear reader, well, that takes time.

It takes us back also to the second question.

Notes from Within was one of my early attempts to present myself to the world through my work. It was a photography/writing project I embarked on with great zest. At the very beginning of it, I boldly submitted it for a professional review. The feedback I got was praising and encouraging. It was exactly what I needed at the time to push me forward, to shove me gently down the path I was on. What did I do? Nothing. I shied away—the little coward within myself taking the lead. I turned my back on the project, on myself, on life.

I didn’t know back then that there was a term for such behaviour. Nowadays, I think of it more as a scapegoat on which I pin my inability so as not to feel bad about myself. You see? I’m still hooked on it. For better or for worse, I am aware of it.

I was fully aware of my recurring misstep down that road while conversing with a girl I met at a concert a few months ago. Talking with strangers is not my forte, but she radiated with joy and her smile made it easier for me. “What do you do?” she asked me.

“I … am a graphic designer … I write … mostly poetry … I also … do photography,” I said.

“You’re an artist,” she exclaimed, her smile broader.

“Everyone seems to think so,” I ventured. “Except me.”

Her words rose above the surrounding noise, loud and clear: “Ah, The Impostor!”

“The stranger, the person you meet casually, might be a god in disguise.”³

She saw right through me. But she did more than that. She told me exactly what I needed to hear that night. She was a deus ex machina, delivering a message I was finally ready to accept. “Let it all out,” she said. “Whether you feel like an artist or not is irrelevant. Go and do your thing. The world awaits you.” I hugged her. We laughed in each other’s arms. And then she walked away. I lost her in the crowd. Her name was Nama.

I have kept this project in the dark for too long. I need to set it free. Maybe it’s too late for it to evolve into something. Who knows? Maybe it will lead me to unexpected new things. Maybe it has already served its purpose. Nevertheless, I owe this part of myself a place in the sun. I held onto my darkness for so long. On this Winter Solstice, I let it go. May the longest night of the year engulf it and cleanse it with her cold breath. On this night, dear reader, as I am about to take the next step towards lighter days, I stand before you, insecure and vulnerable, and in my best effort to be nobody-but-myself,⁴ I thank you. For I know you’re somewhere out there.

Nama, wherever you are, thank you once more.

Thank you, unknown editor for not accepting my submission. Your rejection that came the other day makes me want to write more, to write better. It’s an effort worth doing. Thank you

Ramona Grigg

for pointing this out.

Thank you,

Summer Brennan

for your Essay Camp and for handing me the ‘Five Things’ discipline. I may not show up in the chat, but I write every day.

Thank you,

Jeannine Ouellette

for your Story Challenge and your encouraging feedback. Little Red Riding Hood is taking me to another level.

It feels good-weird that I embarked on this course right after I finished reading Erica Berry’s Wolfish. Thank you,

Katherine May

for introducing me to that brilliant book and for your books as well, those I keep returning to.

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My last post of the year—Notes from Within—will land in your mailbox next week. Until then, whether you celebrate or just lie low waiting for the festive mood to subside, take care of yourself.

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1. Collected Fictions, Jorge Luis Borges, Penguin Books, 1998, translated by Andrew Hurley

2. For the Time Being, Annie Dillard, Vintage Books, 1999

3. Little Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Penguin Clothbound Classics edition, 2021, translated by T. V. F. Cuffe

4. To be nobody-but-yourself—in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else—means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting. / From “A Poet’s Advice to Students”, A Miscellany, Revised, E.E. Cummings, First Liveright Edition, 2018