by Robin Greene
I breathe deeply, look around—first, into the parking lot, then to my left, into the road traffic, still heavy. I turn my gaze closer, near the bench—noticing a large beetle making its way across the sidewalk. The beetle’s thin little legs work in unison, creeping along to the asphalt lot. The back shell is iridescent green and black; the segmented, logical little body perfectly supports its action. I notice that the sidewalk is very roughly paved, and the bug struggles up the tiny concrete crevices, hills, valleys. A difficult path, a treacherous journey. Where is it going? And why? I think for a moment of putting the beetle on my hand to observe it better, but that seems too intrusive. So, I get down, onto my hands and knees, putting my Blizzard on the bench.
“Tell me something, little bug,” I say. “Tell me something I don’t know.” My face is close to the pavement now as I ask the beetle, “How do you find your way in this great big universe?”
Obviously, I’m insane. I startle myself with the realization. Thankfully, no one is around to observe a middle-age woman almost on her belly, watching a bug crawl outside of a Dairy Queen.
Quickly, I stand up, throwing out my half-eaten, half-melted Blizzard into a dumpster behind the cement-block half-wall at the end of the parking lot. I look back to see that my beetle has successfully crawled down the enormous curb, onto the asphalt, and is making its way to who knows where and for who knows what purpose. “Goodbye,” I call. “Good luck with all things.”
twenty-eight
According to the latest DSM, psychologists call the psychological condition wherein the person feels “spaced out” or disconnected from his or her environment “depersonalization disorder.”
People suffering with this disorder feel the world to be distorted, dream-like, and believe that reality itself is unreal, I remember from my own therapy sessions. I climb into Ruby, trying to think of where next to go. Certainly not home.
I drive out of the lot, head north, aiming for the Guardian Angel, a large thrift store supporting Alzheimer’s prevention. But even the traffic seems like an animated movie with too-bright colors, and I feel like the Dairy Queen beetle crawling across difficult terrain.
At a stoplight, I peer into the white Subaru Outback next to me, where a woman, probably my age, with big, dark sunglasses, puts on lipstick. She’s shifted her body from the driver’s seat over to the middle so that she can see herself in her rear-view mirror. The lipstick is bright red, and the woman’s hair is white-blonde, teased, hair-sprayed, in a sort of globe around her head so that it looks like a feathered hat.
The light changes to green, off we go. Her traffic lane moves faster than mine, and I try to watch her car as I did my bug. “Good luck with all things,” I tell her as her Subaru vanishes.
This planet is a wobbly place. Full of odd, disturbing motion. I need to keep my balance.
The turn into the thrift store is slightly elevated, then lowers into another strip mall where the store flanks one end. Fuquay-Varina has a couple of older strip malls and then some newer ones. Like Southern Florida, I think.
I lock Ruby and head into the store, which immediately overwhelms me with its stale smells, racks of color-coded clothing, and old furniture. But I find a section of rather neatly-stacked, well-organized books and walk over to them.
No one watches me, notices anything amiss. I’m a spy in my own life—hypervigilant. I think again of slicing my hand. I look at it, imagining what might happen if I were to do this. I move to the glassware section, but then think, “crazy, crazy, crazy” and quickly return to the books.
I pick up Charlotte Joko Beck’s Nothing Special, Living Zen, an unlikely find, walk to a nearby armchair to sit and read. The area is like a dirty little Barnes and Noble, with a rug and a few comfortable chairs where patrons can preview books they may buy.
Fate leads me to open the book to one of the many conversations, presented as interview transcripts between Beck and a student. I’ve read this book before, so I’m familiar with its format:
Student: Why does the pain go away when I space out?
Joko: Well, our [waking] dreams are powerful narcotics. That’s why we like them so much. Our dreams and fantasies are addictive, just like addictive substances.
Student: Isn’t there separation from reality involved if we feel pain?
Joko: Not if we totally feel it.
I buy the book for fifty-four cents, two quarters and four pennies, which I have in my wallet. I choose not to accept a bag and rather than continue to shop, I walk out to Ruby to read, though it’s stifling hot, and Ruby’s interior is even hotter, probably 115 degrees.
But there’s a Chinese take-out with a few scruffy looking tables inside, and I go there, thinking I’ll purchase a bottle of water and a couple of spring rolls. As I approach, however, the place looks unfriendly, with pink wallpaper peeling off one side wall, and an electric painting of a waterfall on the other wall. The painting’s black cord is plugged in, but the painting’s neon lights aren’t working.
Back in Ruby, I continue up 401 North toward Raleigh, hoping I’ll find a better place to rest, retreat, read, gather my thoughts. Then, in the distance, across the four lanes of traffic I see a Starbucks, set off in a free-standing building near Lowes, near another strip mall. I make the turn, and with book in hand, go in. The place is empty, but immediately comfortable, with low lights and delicious-looking pastries, cakes. I order a Skinny Mocha Latte Grande. I decide against food, in part because I’m still feeling the effects of the half-consumed Blizzard.
I’m finally resting, happy to have landed here, where the atmosphere feels safe, welcoming. There are photos of deserted and forlorn rural buildings on the wall, a local artist, no doubt. They’re very North Carolina—places I think I’ve seen, reminding me how far I’ve come from my New York City roots. I think of the word “roots” and come up with two ideas: roots are the places we return to because they ground us to our past, and roots are the places where families currently live, where we most belong.
New York offers me neither. It’s memory now. The last time I visited my old South Shelburne neighborhood so much had changed that I felt only distant connection. Now, of course, my original family lives in Florida.
My life can become memory if I let it. Then, a slip of paper falls from Nothing Special. On it are the typed words: Everything you think you are and everything you perceive are undivided. Tat Vam Asi—Thou are that.
I sit, read, and reread the words. The Mocha Latte is incredibly satisfying, and, like the words, is waking me up, offering energy.
I decide to travel up 401 and head to Raleigh, the art museum, which, I now believe, will feed my soul, help me to feel whole.
I’m turning off 401 North and onto I-40 West, accelerating as I accidentally cut off a Nissan pickup truck that must now fall behind me.
Traveling at 65, I know my exit is coming up in the next ten minutes. I can’t remember the number, but there’s a brown museum sign I know to watch for. I turn on the car radio, still tuned to an oldies station, rather than NPR, and leave it there to keep my spirits lifted. Soon I’m humming along to some bubble-gum pop song, the title of which I can’t recall, though I know some of the lyrics.
Raleigh is a suburban, sprawling, but manageable city. Nick and I come here often, though I can’t say I’m familiar with all the neighborhoods or really know my way around.
I travel awhile, further than I think I need to, then see the airport sign for RDU and remember the museum exit should be next or the else the one after that. As I think this, there’s the sign. I turn onto Blue Ridge Road, soon see the museum flags and turn into the parking lot.
Inside, I see that there’s a multi-media exhibition on “time” along with the regular collection, which I decide to look at first, to think about whether or not I want to pay for the exhibition; Nick and I saw it together earlier in the summer. I enjoyed it, and I’m already leaning toward seeing it again. The regular museum gallery is free.
In the open, well-l
it first gallery, I stand before a huge green sculptural piece of cast glass, made in sections. I’ve seen it before, but now I think about Will and what he’d say about the piece. I notice many cracks, and I wonder if Will would say these are good, bad, intentional, or accidental. Will could do a piece like this, if his kiln could fit such huge pieces. But who’d purchase it? A commercial interior designer for a building’s lobby? I make a mental note to ask Will about this work. In fact, I take out my phone, snap a photo, although as I look at it, I decide that the photo doesn’t do the piece justice.
I move to some contemporary paintings, huge canvases, also appropriate only as museum pieces or for commercial settings. A man with a headful of dreadlocks stands beside me. His hair is mostly gray, and I think he’s about my age, so as I try to figure this out, I begin to take sideway glances at him. He sees me, smiles—a lovely, honest smile, and I notice that he’s wearing cool dark purple wire-frame glasses. I imagine he’s an academic; he’s carrying a leather portfolio, and there’s something familiar about his demeanor. I return his smile, then walk to the next painting.
We’re in the gallery room alone together, so as I move away, we’re still connected, feel each other’s presence. I think of saying something to him, and in my head try out: “Lovely day for the museum,” or “I enjoy contemporary art in large spaces like this,” or “Have you seen the exhibition on ‘time’? I’m thinking of going,” but all these things strike me as ridiculous, embarrassing, so I say nothing. My heart pounds; my body temperature rises.
Feeling stupid, as if the stranger could hear my thoughts, I walk slowly from the room. My face must be beet-red as I was about to make a fool of myself. I feel ashamed now and decide to head to the bathroom to be alone, to splash water on my face, get a grip.
Which I do, though the relief is temporary. I’m close to some edge, and in a moment of carelessness, I will step over it as Anna did. I wash my face, then stand in front of the large full-body mirror. I’m alone, so I run a brush through my hair, take off my glasses, clean them with my tee-shirt, put them on, and decide to risk looking at myself.
Okay, I think, I’m going to say aloud what I see. Be brutally honest, objective. If I can’t manage the honesty, well, that’s one problem identified. If I can manage the honesty but look a mess, well, that’s another problem identified, but one I can tackle. Yes, I’m old, but there’s still time for correction, improvement. Like writing a book, I can revise.
So here goes. My hair has turned white, a sort of blonde white, unlike the steel gray that dark hair often turns. I could dye it, which I used to do, but the color didn’t take well, and I never liked the result. Friends have told me to dye my hair—my kids have, too—so maybe I should reconsider. I look at the short billowing cap my hair has become and think that perhaps they’re all right. The white hair ages me. On the other hand, philosophically, I’m against the idea. My age is my age; I should own it.
Face? A disappointment. I see the girl I was, but my face sags, especially on the left side. In my forties, I had eye problems, and over the years, that side of my face suffered, perhaps from all the squinting. I could wear makeup. Again, it’s a philosophical issue for me—I’m against this notion. The issue is political as well. But over the last five years I started wearing concealer—I love the word—under my eyes, across my nose when it’s reddish, over a tiny mole… and do I look better? My neck is time-worn, face wrinkled. Not that such a small bit of makeup helps in the slightest.
Body—not really overweight, but not good. I’m dressed today, as I am most days, in baggy pants, a black camisole, and an oversized, cotton-spandex button-down over-shirt. I look gender neutral—which, I’m coming to realize is my default position.
“Look at yourself, Rachel,” I say. “You’re a mess. A big, old mess.”
It’s true. I look like some past-her-prime hippie chick who refuses to live in the contemporary world. My appearance suggests that I’m attached to who I was. I feel a watery burning in my eyes. Then anger. At myself. At who I can’t become.
A young mom with a toddler in tow comes into the bathroom. I move to the sink to wash my hands as if I’ve just come out of a stall.
“I’m hungry, Mommy,” the little girl says. She is mixed-race and has a head full of springy, dark, curly hair. She wears a yellow-striped sundress, a little white cardigan, orange sandals with a tiger’s face on the foam front.
“We’ll get something soon.” The mom’s voice is gentle, lilting, and I detect an accent of some kind. She’s in the stall with the little girl, so the conversation becomes muffled.
I walk out to the Rodin sculpture garden, where it’s wicked hot, find a bench, sit down. I’m almost enjoying the powerful heat, knowing that I can return to the cool interior when it becomes unbearable. There is a three-figure bronze sculpture there, and my bench is directly in front of the reflecting pond, with its lily pads and lovely dark waters.
The bronze figures are in movement, bending, somehow relating to each other, but yet the cast bronze is so heavy that there’s a palpable tension. Also, a tension between dark and light—the dark of the bronze, the light of the air, the afternoon sky—its white heat, a dissipating energy contributing to the piece’s movement. It’s shocking to see such strength in form, yet such suggestion of light. My eyes fill again. And I’m getting very hot.
I walk over to the museum’s other building, to the “time” exhibition and pay the $12 admission. Entering, I’m drawn to a display of time-lapse photography of a tree through an entire year. The video loop takes four minutes to cycle through the seasons.
I sit on the bench, facing the tree. I’m not sure what kind it is because the projection is mostly abstract. It’s not a maple…maybe a willow oak, judging by the leaves, but the shape of tree isn’t typical for a willow oak, unless the tree is young…then again, I’m not sure.
The woman and her young daughter whom I saw in the bathroom enter the room. The little girl climbs up on the bench next to me, wiggling around, totally disinterested in the display. The mom, cross-armed, looks at the tree. “Beautiful,” she says.
“Yes,” I say, “death and renewal.” I look at her. She’s in her thirties, I’d guess, with long dark hair pulled into a single braid, and medium skin, almost olive. Mediterranean. She wears a tight neon orange tee-shirt and tight jeans.
“Mommy, look, look,” we hear, turning to see the little girl in the next gallery space, an open area, where she dances in a circle of projected light. “I’m coming,” the woman calls, nodding, smiling at me, walking toward her daughter.
Left alone, I remember that downstairs from the Museum of Modern Art in New York—the old one, before the museum was renovated—there was a room with a screen of projected, moving light. It must have been near the subway station because trains could be heard through the walls. There were maybe four long benches in rows in front of the screen, like a little theater, and people would come in to watch the random colors and the shapes the colors assumed—sometimes melting into one another or blotting as if they’d been spilled.
Watching the tree, then the patterns of light from a similar bench now, I’m carried back to MoMA. The tree before me is not just a tree; it’s a time machine—its changing seasons taking me across decades and miles.
I’m fifteen. Henry, my boyfriend, and I have taken psilocybin on the Long Island Railroad, as we approached the city. A stupid thing to do, yes, but what did we know?
That day in particular, I’d spent a few hours in front of the screen, mesmerized by the colors and shapes choreographed to the train noise. I imagined that time stood still here and that if I stayed I’d never grow old. I wore sneakers, and one was untied. I remember thinking that if I tied my shoe, my life would change, that time would begin again. But as long as the lace dangled, I was safe. I sat like that until Henry, who’d been upstairs in other galleries, came down to get me.
“I can’t move,” I whispered to him as he took a seat next to me on the wooden bench
. The little theater was empty, and we sat alone together.
“Yes, you can, my little swallow, my little bird. We can fly.” Henry whispered, his voice coy, playful.
“My shoe,” I said. “If I tie it, I’ll grow old.”
“Yes,” Henry said. “And if you don’t tie it, you’ll grow old. And possibly trip on the stairs.” He smiled at me.
A second later, I got the pun and laughed.
“What will happen if I tie your shoe?” Henry elbowed me gently.
“I don’t know. I never know.” The colors on the screen turned darker, in tune with my suddenly sad mood.
Henry got down on his knees in front of me and tied my shoe. “Nothing will happen to you, ever. You’ll stay just as you are. So will I. We’re perfect.” Henry looked up at me, grinned. In the next minute, we were kissing passionately, still alone in the room.
Memories. Everyone has them. I dismiss the well of strong emotions bubbling up again, wanting to spill out at every turn.
Can I, or anyone, avoid the past? I rise from the bench, walk a few feet, but find myself tired, aching, and return, sit, try to clear my head. But now I hear Eliot, lines I inadvertently memorized from “Burnt Norton,” the first poem in Four Quartets. I whisper them aloud:
“Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.”
The tree changes from winter barrenness to a full-leafed summer display, before bright and varied leaves appear, turn brown, fall. In another minute, the buds grow, leaves appear, opening back to summer.
I take a plastic pack of tissues from my black shoulder bag and bow my head.
