Short Circuits

by Dorien Grey

  * * *

  THE MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN

  Little epiphanies pop up unexpectedly, like the prize in a Cracker Jack box, and I always delight in them. I had occasion, a minute ago, to think of Frank Morgan’s line from The Wizard of Oz, when Dorothy, standing in the Great Hall of the palace of the wizard, pulls back the curtain to see a little man frantically working levers and pushing buttons: “Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.”

  And it suddenly occurred to me that Dorien is “the all-powerful Wizard of Oz,” and I am a flustered Frank Morgan. And that got me to thinking of how, even in childhood, things which went so smoothly for others as to not create so much as a ripple on the little pond of their self-confidence would be, for me, rather like dropping a bowling ball into a cup of tea.

  Those of you who’ve known me awhile have undoubtedly heard these stories, and to them I apologize for the repetition. But they do go to prove my point here, so I’ll repeat them yet again

  Children’s radio programs during World War II often offered “prizes” and incentives to buy the program’s sponsor’s products. Decoder rings were a popular prize, though I loathed rings even then and would never send off the required coupon from the sponsor’s product to get one.

  There was an air of mystery to these prizes, and they were supposedly the key to let you in on the program’s protagonist’s secrets and inner thoughts. You could, by drinking several gallons of some unappetizing liquid and thereby collecting enough coupons, receive Captain Midnight’s Decoder Badge. At the end of each program, the announcer would read off a coded message from Captain Midnight (or whoever), which only those with the decoder badge…Captain Midnight’s pals, as it were…could decipher. I sent off for a badge and stood by eagerly, pencil in hand, awaiting the first personal message from my buddy Captain Midnight to me. It said: “Drmpf Freqitlgm Smpretreb.” Excuse me? I’d written down every single letter or number or whatever it was the announcer read, and diligently did whatever the badge said to do. “Drmpf Frequtlgm Smpretreb.” My friend Jerry, who had also gotten the decoder badge the same day I did, had not one whit of trouble. “What did Captain Midnight say?” I demanded, feeling really hurt to have been left out of my hero’s confidence.

  “Drink Delicious Ovaltine,” Jerry replied. I threw the badge away.

  Another time I sent off for a Jack Armstrong Pedometer which fit on your belt and would tell you exactly how far you’d walked between two points. I got it and wore it proudly to school. When I checked how far I’d walked it said “3,246 miles.”

  Considering that none of the other kids ever seemed to have any problem at all with these wondrous devices, is it any wonder that I have occasionally tiptoed perilously close to the edge of paranoia?

  So that’s why I created Dorien. To be all powerful and all knowing, and to get messages from Captain Marvel saying: “I love you and want you to be my special friend forever.”

  * * *

  TO EACH A DORIEN

  I got my hair cut (long overdue) the other day, and decided that one reason why I wait so long between cuts is to avoid the ordeal of having to stare at the portrait of Dorian Gray in the mirror. My Dorien, bless his ever-protective heart, assured me that it is not a mirror, but a window into the next room, where my barber’s identical twin was working, with synchronized movements, on a much, much older and terribly unattractive customer.

  Each of us has our own way of coping with the world, and Dorien is, to a large extent, mine. I’m truly grateful to him for helping me bail out the leaky little boat of my life.

  Those whose boats ride high in the water, not constantly preoccupied with the little swells of annoyance and frustration that eternally threaten to swamp those with gunwales almost at the water line, may have little need for a Dorien to help with the bailing.

  I deeply admire those who simply live their lives and go about their business without the continual distraction of wondering why something is the way it is, or who can simply ignore the ignorance and stupidity of the world. Each of us possesses a degree of egocentrism to be used when occasionally wondering about our role in life, and help serve as ballast in stormy emotional seas. But some were given an excessive amount, so large as to be disruptive to normal functioning in the world. I am one of those. And for those like me, I strongly recommend a Dorien.

  Everything, of course, is in the mind, and to create a Dorien requires a bit of practice. It’s very much like one of those optical illusions one sees from time to time, like the classic black-and-white silhouette in which one sees either a vase (the white) or two faces facing each other (the black). One element is “Dorien,” the other is “you”…and it really doesn’t matter which is which.

  Dorien not only helps me cope with things, but is rather fun to have around. You can give to your Dorien whatever parts of “you” you wish. Roger, again, is largely my body, Dorien my mind. Roger pays the bills and moves about and goes grocery shopping and mans the oars of our little boat. Dorien is therefore totally free to do whatever strikes his fancy. He sits in the back of the boat and writes blogs and books.

  This division of responsibilities has proven very effective…for me. While I was dealing with my bout with cancer, it was Roger who underwent the radiation and the chemo while Dorien told him stories and kept assuring him that everything was going to be all right. And it was. I’m sure the outcome would have been the same had Dorien not been there, but I am glad he was. And then, as now, Dorien’s greatest contribution to my life is in never allowing me to take myself too seriously.

  The need for a Dorien is not so great for those who have another, separate human with whom they can share their life, but for those of us who do not, a Dorien can help to create a sense of balance. In my own case, whenever I do or say something totally stupid, something I immediately regret and curse myself for—which happens far too frequently—it’s Roger’s fault, and Dorien can look at it with a degree of objectivity Roger cannot. In such cases, when Roger is consumed with fury or frustration, Dorien is the voice of reason. And difficult as it may be for someone without a Dorien, it really works.

  If you don’t have a Dorien but need one, just open your mind. He’s there.

  * * *

  DREAMS AND DORIEN

  I suppose it’s not surprising that someone so disenchanted with reality as I would take such pleasure in dreams. And though I’d never thought of it until this moment, I suppose a strong case could be made for the idea that books are in effect their writers’ waking dreams.

  Dorien is to Roger what dreams are to reality. Neither Dorien nor dreams are constrained by the laws of physics, and I have delighted in that freedom all my life. I dream constantly, and vividly, and most often in color. I almost never have what I would consider to be a nightmare. The vast majority of my dreams range from interesting to fun to pure joy. I have dreamed entire original Broadway shows, complete with songs, choreography, and costumes. I have dreamed in linear thought, in freeform, and even, though it is impossible to describe, in boxes, weights, and reams of paper.

  Something like talent show hopefuls, most of my dreams just wander in, do whatever it is they came to do, and leave. I may or may not remember them, but I always know they were there.

  But then there are the very special dreams, and the variations-on-a-theme dreams. Two of my favorite theme dreams are of flying (one of the most common dreams) and of exploring houses. In the former, I on occasion soar high above the earth and over hills and valleys (I can close my eyes now and recall a couple of them quite clearly). But more commonly I am walking or running down a street and suddenly decide that I don’t want my feet to touch the ground…and they don’t. I’ll run, take a small jump, and then just coast above the sidewalk for very great distances. Another of this type of dream involves being in the upper balcony of a very large theater and deciding to fly, skimming along just below the ceiling. Or I’ll be in a stairwell high up in a building and will simply jump-float f
rom landing to landing, often grabbing a railing lintel to swing myself around to go down the next flight. Sometimes I’ll just float down the open stairwell from top to bottom.

  Overanalysing dreams tends to destroy their beauty, like taking the petals off a rose to try to see why it smells so good.

  Dreams are and should be first and foremost fun…sometimes euphoric. And the best dreams of all are those very rare ones in which, soaring among the clouds, looking down at the earth below, we know it is not a dream.

  The house dreams, which I delight in because their meaning is so clear it doesn’t require analyzing, always involve my going into a house I’ve never been in before, entering a room, and seeing another door which I did not expect to be there, which leads to yet another room or suites of rooms, or entire apartments, all with other doors.

  I know these rooms are my awareness of life, and life has endless doors and endless new rooms, and there is wonder in opening them.

  But the single most significant dream of my entire life was dreamed when I was probably around 7 years old. I see now that it is quite closely related to my house-and-door dreams.

  Again, I have only to close my eyes and I can see every detail. I am in what I somehow know to be some sort of basement, standing in the center of an endlessly long aisle flanked on both sides by an unbroken surface of control panels with buttons and switches, levers and knobs and dials that stretched as far as I could see and disappeared in darkness. And I knew that every switch and knob and dial had a specific purpose and that in that huge room was unlimited power.

  And as I was standing there, there appeared in the darkness at the very limit of my line of vision, a grey light which glided slowly up the aisle toward me. I was fascinated, but not frightened. As it got closer, I could make out that it was the transparent, grey ghost of a woman with a very large hat and clothes from the early 1900s. And I knew that this was my grandmother Annabelle Fearn, who had died in the flu epidemic of 1918 and who I of course had never met.

  And at the instant that I recognized her, I also realized I would never know what the buttons and knobs and dials and levers and switches on the control panels actually did, and that I would never be able to find out.

  And that single dream has proven to be the story of my life.

  * * *

  TEETER-TOTTER

  Life is a lot like a teeter-totter—balance is always strived for and seldom if ever achieved. We are all constantly going through the ups and downs of happiness and misery, between success and failure, and too often slamming our rear-ends on the ground. Getting both ends of the board level is one of those forever-elusive goals of which life is, in fact, made. And once balance is achieved, either in life or on the teeter-totter, it never lasts long.

  All my life I have sought—largely unsuccessfully, of course—to find a balance between my totally unrealistic egotism and my excessive self-loathing. It’s a theme touched on constantly in these blogs. (I am not content to merely beat a dead horse; I insist on pureeing it.) My egotism makes me demand far more of myself than I or any human being could ever possibly deliver, but that doesn’t stop me from demanding it. And my inability to meet those demands—or even come within walking distance of them—fuels the self-loathing which truly frightens me at times. (And I suppose that having so said, I should add a disclaimer that I have never for one second, even in my darkest moments, ever considered depriving myself of life; the very concept is anathema to me. I am far too grateful for the gift of life, however rough it may be at any given time, to willingly give it up.)

  I think, yet again, that I am so utterly fascinated with life that my frustration often stems from weighing everything there is to see and learn and do against what I have seen, or learned, or done or will be likely to do. I see life as a vast candy store, and myself a little kid shoveling candy into my mouth with both fists until I look like a chipmunk with both cheeks bulging. And then I get angry because I want it ALL and my mouth simply cannot hold any more.

  I’ve often noted that every toddler thinks of himself as being the center of the universe. Life soon dissuades most of that notion, but I fear it has never totally succeeded with me. Even today, battered and shop-worn and often thinking of myself as being in the “Free! Help Yourself” bin at a rummage sale, I am consumed with the wonder of life. I am quintessentially aware that since the instant time began, through all the time involved in the birth and life and death of stars and galaxies, and onward through the rest of eternity, I am the only “me” there ever has been or ever will be. (Of course, so are you: but it’s still a mind-boggling thought.) How could I not think I am special?

  And since I am so very special in that aspect, why shouldn’t I be equally special when it comes to everything/anything else? But I am not, and I cannot—well, let’s make that absolutely refuse to—accept that fact. (We won’t go anywhere near the subject of my tenuous relationship with reality here.)

  Balance is often achieved through accommodation, through a system somewhat similar to the way submarines and lighter than air craft use ballast; getting rid of some excess weight here, or moving/adding it there. I fear I’m not all that good at accommodations. I want what I want without having to give up any of what I already have. Hardly practical or logical, but fully realizing that fact does not materially change things.

  But on thinking it over (as writing these blogs often makes me do), I realized I actually have found something of a tenuous balance on life’s teeter-totter despite myself. Every teeter-totter has two seats, one at each end, and in effectively dividing myself into Dorien and Roger, my life has two parts. The real-world Roger, who must deal as best he can with the infinite frustrations and anger of daily life, and Dorien, who is largely able to ignore the wars Roger fights every day, and simply gets on with writing of worlds in which evil and cruelty exist only, as the scripts of plays often call it, as “voices off.” Dorien’s life is far less stressful, and while Roger must still constantly struggle for balance, it gives him comfort to know that he can use Dorien as emotional ballast to keep the teeter-totter a little more level.

  * * *

  LOSING ROGER

  It occurred to me this morning in the shower that ever since I created Dorien, he has been increasingly taking over our shared life to the point where I am occasionally but frankly concerned that Roger will be totally lost and forgotten. Because the bulk of my life is spent in writing in one form or another, it’s the Dorien side which takes up the majority of my time and attention, and the Roger side seems increasingly relegated to breathing, eating, sleeping, and performing those utterly mundane details that make up reality. I am not a little concerned that Roger’s individuality is being lost to Dorien’s.

  I suppose it’s only natural. Dorien, after all can do and be anything or go anywhere he chooses. It’s easy for him to ignore reality because he never has to deal with it.

  I know, I know, Roger is Dorien as much as Dorien is Roger. Roger came first and has been around a lot longer. But far more people know Dorien’s name than Roger’s. In the early stages of our dual relationship, I preferred to keep the Roger part of me suppressed, partly as a matter of self-protection. I wrote my first few books while living in the Great North Woods, the land of beer-drinking, deer-hunting Packer fans locked in a time somewhere around 1950. To be known (as I eventually was despite my efforts to keep a very low profile) as a writer of books with fags and perverts in them inevitably provided those who were trapped in an area of few jobs and little hope for improvement a badly needed sense of absolute superiority over them uppity queers. Luckily it never went beyond the occasional terribly clever phone call from local teens. (“Hi, Roger. It’s your old buddy Jack...Jack Meoff!” Snickers and dial tone.)

  At any rate, with Dorien’s emergence, Roger began slipping into the background, and I must admit my own complicity. The more freedoms Dorien enjoyed, the more I identified with him, sometimes at Roger’s expense.

  It’s confusing
for people not to know whether to refer to me as Roger or Dorien. To those I knew before Dorien came along, of course, I remain Roger. But for those who know me through my books, blogs, and other writing, very few...if they even know my duality...call me Roger, and I see little point in adding to the confusion.

  I honestly don’t know of anyone else in this same position, though I have no doubt there are many.

  And, speaking honestly, as I really always try to do, the fact is that Roger is not the person I would have him be. As you may have noted in these blogs, I frequently grow furious with myself for my seemingly endless shortcomings—which makes it easier for me to look to Dorien for those things that Roger lacks. Dorien is far more patient, far more thoughtful, far more able to express himself than Roger. Dorien can eat anything he wants and go anywhere he wants and do anything he wants and sleep with anyone he wants. Roger cannot.

  I honestly doubt I will ever reach the point where my self-delusions will become a real issue for either me or the outside world. I don’t think I’ll start hearing Dorien’s voice in my head, telling me to do things Roger would never consider. So while I fully admit to being delusional, it is a benign delusion from which I can and do take a great deal of comfort and strange pleasure.

  As the Roger part of me grows older and less able to do all those physical things I once could do, I find new reasons to turn more and more to Dorien. I’m rather like a passenger on the Titanic running up the slanting decks to keep ahead of the advancing water.

  But I know all of this is just my Roger side giving into my tendency toward melodrama. Neither Roger nor Dorien is in any real danger of disappearing. The division between us is...like Dorien himself...far more imagined than real. But I do feel there is some justification for my concern that I am in effect neglecting my Roger side. I really must concentrate on fully appreciating that everything I love about Dorien began with and stems from Roger, and despite my notorious penchant for self-deprecation, I have to remind myself of the one rule I have successfully observed throughout my life: never, ever take myself too seriously. It’s a good rule to live by.