Note: I’ve been left alone with my thoughts a bit more recently, a situation that is not always healthy. What is to come is the product of a person who is plumbing the depths of his own mind without having first secured a guide rope to lead him back to where he started. Only the beginning is known. From there, who knows. If you think you’ve been properly warned, you may proceed.
A mobius strip is a simple representation of infinity. Once you start following its shape, you lose track of where you began for it curves back in on itself. Thus, there is no beginning or end, simply the repetition of what is contained in the loop.
And that’s why I can’t stop thinking about itching.
Let me pull back from the metaphysics and tell you how I first started driving myself loopy.
This weekend I volunteered to help clear up a bit of property owned by my grandparent’s church. It was a welcome break in routine. I finally learned how to work a weed eater, which was #128 on my all-time to-do list (between #127 – Visit and explore Mayan ruins because they were so much cooler than the Aztecs and #129 – Watch another Fellini movie, for after three years, I think I’m finally beginning to digest 8½).
It was good, honest, outdoor work. It reminded me of days past working for the Missouri Department of Conservation forestry division when I’d be sent out with a pole saw and a pair of clippers with the order to push back the tree line a dozen feet. Of course, those who remember other stories from those days, know that poison ivy often played an important part in those stories.
If you haven’t guessed it by now, my three-leaved fiendish enemy has reappeared.
My skin is crawling, though I know it isn’t that bad. I caught it quicker than usual and started coating myself in calamine lotion. I’m probably using more lotion than is probably necessary. The last time I had a serious ivy attack, I was put out for a week. Personal paranoia is probably what prompts me to smother every little twitch.
I am actually envying snakes and other reptiles who are able to shed their skin. Once or twice I’ve found myself twisting in bizarre, contorted moves, half-hoping I’ll be able to slide out from beneath my own hide.
In lieu of a major spontaneous mutation (which I have largely given up hope on after years of dreaming as a kid that I’d suddenly develop super powers despite the poor odds I’d be caught in a nuclear accident), I’ve turned to the bottle to drown my sorrows.
I wish they sold calamine lotion by the gallon jar (with a spray hose accessory), for that would have made life much simpler. As it is, I’m still laying it on pretty thick. Every little twinge, suspect bump, or area that hasn’t been deluged in under 20 minutes gets doused again. I’m making it look worse than it seems to make sure reality doesn’t get the chance to match my imagination. Of course, such a liberal application of lotion has altered my appearance slightly.
My impression of my reflection keeps changing depending on my immediate environment. After passing all the portraits of dogs in my grandparent’s house, I thought I looked like a speckled hound. Later, while I attended the Midwest Ministers’ Fellowship meeting, I have leprous visions (and whispered, “Unclean, unclean!” to no one in particular). Even later, as I added more smudges to my face, I thought I looked like Michael Keaton in “Beetle Juice,” especially when later applications inadvertently added a white streak to my hair.
Note: For some reason, I actually like the look of white streaks in my hair. Maybe I’m being over come by fumes, but I think a thin stripe (not so thick that it appears skunkish) cutting just off-center looks dashing. Of course, when you spend a bit of time in front of a mirror mugging at yourself (since it takes a while for the layers to dry and there’s not much you can do without spreading lotion everywhere), your imagination is apt to wander. With my pale visage, I also find myself also contorting myself to look like a zombie (with an emaciated/sucked in gut and oddly angled arms and head). Sometimes I find myself doing my old drum major exercises (4/4 time, now 2/4, and cue the drums…). If nothing else comes to mind, I’ll just freeze in a posed angle and play mannequin. No matter wh
There are worse fates, I know. I’m largely holding off the various psychosomatic symptoms that are pecking at me. As it is I’ve been reluctant to go out the last two days. I’ve also avoided family members as much as I could, for fear of brushing against them and passing on the itchy curse.
Just as I was starting to find a new routine, things get shaken up all over again. I’m trying really hard not to have find an emotional affiliation with the Elephant Man or the Hunchback of Notre Dame, though it’s tempting. Sometimes writers simply want to act out on of their own story lines. What is better than exploring the limitations of an exiled observer?
”See the ghost face, peering through the window at the cold, cruel lands that stretched beyond his view? It was not his world to possess, or even to explore. Only with his eyes could he traverse its roads, forests, and waterways. His kingdom was bordered and limited by the immediate walls encompassing him. He could not broach them any more than they could consciously choose expel him. So two remained in their places and the status quo was unchallenged. Only a powerful, revolutionary force from the outside world could seek to change what had become routine.
One could say that as the days past, it was less likely anyone would come to seek his ghastly company. But on the other hand, another could argue that the outsider’s arrival was closer than ever, though still unannounced. The two camps could verbally spar at these views for many changes of the season without either side gaining dominance over the other, but this was no matter to the prisoner. A living shade cares not for such things and is content to wait for whatever life will bring.
Only time will tell what he receive for offering such patience.
How much of that is literary symbolism and how much is a stark portrayal of reality as it truly exists? After all, some writers can’t be trusted to record the plain truth when caught up in a flight of fancy. However, even the most capricious pen may flow and capture life in amber and ink, a perfect representation of how things truly are.
Truth can be found in both fact and fiction; the trick is knowing where to look.
I’m personally looking forward to the day when I go outside and not be mistaken for a disgruntled albino, but that’s just me. I’m sure the truth you seek is much less petty, nor covered in calamine lotion, and be thankful for that.
As for me, I’m returning to the tower for douse before bed. I’ll leave a light on, for any who choose to reach out.
Caleb Michael said...
Thanks for your comment, I did Google “emotional freedom technique” and found it to be interesting. Unfortunately, I don’t think applying the technique would be wise in my case. Many of the pressure points I would need to tap (such as my collar bone, eyebrows, under my nose and eye, next to my eye, gamut point, and the spaces between my fingers) have already been touched by the rash. Tapping them would probably further iritate them and/or spread the ivy to other pressure points that are currently in the clear.
As it is, I’m digging the industrial strengh, alcohol based spray stuff that’s keeping me high as a kite. Seriously, I had to lie down this morning after applying it in a room with little ventilation. Spin city.
Thanks, though, for your words and best wishes. I aim to get past the ivy (and the after-burn associated with the cure) as soon as possible.
said...
Caleb Michael said...
No, I had a rash.
Now I have a drug dependency.
There's a difference.