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Tales Of Pain And Wonder by Caitlin Kiernan (not exactly a review)
I've been haunting myself. For awhile now. Succumbing to a sleep of spectral visions. Meeting ghosts of years past.
It's been a trip, my life; my ghosts...
In part, a nostalgic surge began while reading Caitlin R. Kiernan's collection of short stories titled, appropriately and ironically, Tales Of Pain And Wonder.
The book's not to blame for my state. No. I am squarely to blame. Is this the fate of someone aging with a long-term degenerative disability -- to live in dreams and memories? The past and the now but never beyond?
Strange days. Each night bombarded with memories of who I've been, where I've been, what I've done. But what have I accomplished, truly? Yes, I've done things. Yes, I've tried things. I've even been somebody.
But who? Who, really? Is my existence my own invention? Are dreams the truth, and waking life an illusion created out of boredom? What is the past when we cease to be, when there's no one to keep the memories?
A particular story from Tales Of Pain And Wonder, Superheroes (published in 1997), plunged me back to that year (and those surrounding it):
Featured is a teen who feels older and wiser than his years, and rages that others see him for the immature and naïve kid he is. He becomes increasingly obsessed with the internet Usenet newsgroup alt.gothic, and determined to prove he's not a 'baby goth' (this being a term of derision for those who are new to the gothic scene yet think they know it all). He collects scraps of inside jokes and references used among the elder core of the newsgroup and pieces them together in what he feels is a deep and true mystery. The result, which could have easily been in his own mind, immediately brought the film The Company Of Wolves to mind: the scene with the old car in the mist, and the devil inside waiting.
This story effected me. It reminded me of 1996, and of my self-righteous attempts to 'save' nice baby goths from being toyed with by the less kind folk on alt.gothic. Not that my experience at alt.gothic was a negative one, perhaps because when I began frequenting the group in 1995 I was familiar with the music and it's accoutrements already. In effect I had bypassed the lowly baby goth stage and went strait to, well, on-line acceptance.
On-line acceptance is a funny thing. It's illusory, yet it inflates one's sense of self. It often holds deeper meaning than acceptance in the non-computer world, particularly to one who's world is words, who's imagination is strong.
The acceptance fed my lonely hunger for a time. I saw it as my duty to buffer the hazing directed at so many youngsters. I'm not sure where my savior complex kicked in; it's always been there. I've always tried and desired to be the Comforter, the Noble Protector, the Catalyst of Inspiration, even to my own detriment. This persona, this core of my being, is as undeniable as it is a mystery. Why have I always felt this way? Why, even at six years old, did I know this?
And so, after recalling my stint at alt.gothic, I touched briefly on memories of the IRC chat room I registered on Undernet, #goth. Not all was bad there, yet it's a time I'm embarrassed about--not solely for my naiveté, but for witnessing such inhumanity. Though a mere speck in the grand scheme of things, a microcosm of man's inhumanity to man, there proved too much for me to handle. Had it remained on-line, and not entered what we deem to be reality, maybe it wouldn't have wounded and scarred. I don't know. What's done is done.
Then, bliss. A gothic club opened four blocks from my apartment. I had a local pack. We went every week, and my world changed. Regular workouts of dancing for hours on end left me toned and in great shape. I danced without care, danced my freedom, danced until my hands bled from gripping and spinning my wheels. It reminded me of when I was sixteen, and danced at Rock Island in downtown Denver on their all ages alternative nights. People were attracted to me, and I made a host of new friends. Cyberwolf and I would dance until close and then jog through darkened city streets to the foothills. We trailed deer, raccoons, foxes, and skulking housecats. We moon-gazed. We star-gazed. I drank the night mountain air. That was not to know magic, that was to be magic.
And here I am in 2008. Life has changed dramatically. Depending on others for most every aspect of functioning allows the mind to roam into some very dark crevices. It's astounding that this is romanticized; it's not as if all hours are free of duty to read, write, and indulge in other tasks. No, there are interruptions, some unplanned, from aides and nurses several times a day. There is fatigue. There is an intense isolation, not only physically, but of the notion that you're unlike any other socially. There is the constant internal battle of negating the societal notion that you’re a burden and shouldn't be. It's exhausting.
Is it, after all, true?
Much to ponder.
It's been a trip, my life; my ghosts...
In part, a nostalgic surge began while reading Caitlin R. Kiernan's collection of short stories titled, appropriately and ironically, Tales Of Pain And Wonder.
The book's not to blame for my state. No. I am squarely to blame. Is this the fate of someone aging with a long-term degenerative disability -- to live in dreams and memories? The past and the now but never beyond?
Strange days. Each night bombarded with memories of who I've been, where I've been, what I've done. But what have I accomplished, truly? Yes, I've done things. Yes, I've tried things. I've even been somebody.
But who? Who, really? Is my existence my own invention? Are dreams the truth, and waking life an illusion created out of boredom? What is the past when we cease to be, when there's no one to keep the memories?
A particular story from Tales Of Pain And Wonder, Superheroes (published in 1997), plunged me back to that year (and those surrounding it):
Featured is a teen who feels older and wiser than his years, and rages that others see him for the immature and naïve kid he is. He becomes increasingly obsessed with the internet Usenet newsgroup alt.gothic, and determined to prove he's not a 'baby goth' (this being a term of derision for those who are new to the gothic scene yet think they know it all). He collects scraps of inside jokes and references used among the elder core of the newsgroup and pieces them together in what he feels is a deep and true mystery. The result, which could have easily been in his own mind, immediately brought the film The Company Of Wolves to mind: the scene with the old car in the mist, and the devil inside waiting.
This story effected me. It reminded me of 1996, and of my self-righteous attempts to 'save' nice baby goths from being toyed with by the less kind folk on alt.gothic. Not that my experience at alt.gothic was a negative one, perhaps because when I began frequenting the group in 1995 I was familiar with the music and it's accoutrements already. In effect I had bypassed the lowly baby goth stage and went strait to, well, on-line acceptance.
On-line acceptance is a funny thing. It's illusory, yet it inflates one's sense of self. It often holds deeper meaning than acceptance in the non-computer world, particularly to one who's world is words, who's imagination is strong.
The acceptance fed my lonely hunger for a time. I saw it as my duty to buffer the hazing directed at so many youngsters. I'm not sure where my savior complex kicked in; it's always been there. I've always tried and desired to be the Comforter, the Noble Protector, the Catalyst of Inspiration, even to my own detriment. This persona, this core of my being, is as undeniable as it is a mystery. Why have I always felt this way? Why, even at six years old, did I know this?
And so, after recalling my stint at alt.gothic, I touched briefly on memories of the IRC chat room I registered on Undernet, #goth. Not all was bad there, yet it's a time I'm embarrassed about--not solely for my naiveté, but for witnessing such inhumanity. Though a mere speck in the grand scheme of things, a microcosm of man's inhumanity to man, there proved too much for me to handle. Had it remained on-line, and not entered what we deem to be reality, maybe it wouldn't have wounded and scarred. I don't know. What's done is done.
Then, bliss. A gothic club opened four blocks from my apartment. I had a local pack. We went every week, and my world changed. Regular workouts of dancing for hours on end left me toned and in great shape. I danced without care, danced my freedom, danced until my hands bled from gripping and spinning my wheels. It reminded me of when I was sixteen, and danced at Rock Island in downtown Denver on their all ages alternative nights. People were attracted to me, and I made a host of new friends. Cyberwolf and I would dance until close and then jog through darkened city streets to the foothills. We trailed deer, raccoons, foxes, and skulking housecats. We moon-gazed. We star-gazed. I drank the night mountain air. That was not to know magic, that was to be magic.
And here I am in 2008. Life has changed dramatically. Depending on others for most every aspect of functioning allows the mind to roam into some very dark crevices. It's astounding that this is romanticized; it's not as if all hours are free of duty to read, write, and indulge in other tasks. No, there are interruptions, some unplanned, from aides and nurses several times a day. There is fatigue. There is an intense isolation, not only physically, but of the notion that you're unlike any other socially. There is the constant internal battle of negating the societal notion that you’re a burden and shouldn't be. It's exhausting.
Is it, after all, true?
Much to ponder.