― Esmé Weijun Wang
I'm at the stage of my life where I'm on a journey which I suppose could be called a search for identity. Frankly, it scares the hell right out of me.
I don't like making decisions or entering a state of uncertainty. That's why I'm living in a condo apartment at the moment because I can't make up my mind where I want to live.
I know it's absurd—I'm a realtor for God's sake—you'd think I'd know where I ought to fit. But what I can do for others, I can't do for me.
Did I mention I'm also a writer? That's the problem―I'm a crazy mixed-up kid.
I'm sitting at my kitchen table this morning eating the same breakfast I've eaten all my life—a high fibre cereal, in this case, Fiber One, topped with a handful of either strawberries or raspberries, blueberries and pecans or walnuts drenched in a half cup of almond milk.
I also drink tea imported from Ireland—loose tea, Barry's Gold Blend, and heat the cup for a minute before letting the tea steep.
Nothing wrong with rituals—they're comforting and keep me grounded in reality—well, sort of. I mean, there's this problem with damp clothes that's been troubling me because I've been walking in the rain in my sleep.
Okay, I know I sound certifiable, but I'm really quite sane and don't understand how a dream can be so real it leaves trace evidence in the morning, like the blood on Lady Macbeth's hands that she can't seem to erase—Out, Out, damn'd spot!
Alright, I know I sound nuts, but the fact I'm concerned about a patent absurdity, should reassure you I have some sense.
People don't just dream of rain and wake up soaked, but then, I dream of her every night, and have nothing to show for that except occasional black circles under my eyes from lying awake afraid to sleep for fear I'll lose touch with the slight grasp I have on reality.
My intercom buzzer sounds and snaps me out of my reveries.
"You up? It's past ten."
It's Lucas Thatcher my best friend I've known since grade school.
"Yeah, I'm semi-conscious—c'mon up."
When I think I'm a little warped I compare myself with Lucas—the poor guy is really bent. He lost his wife in a car accident and just can't move past it. Everyone gives him free advice about moving on but I don't—I understand. He's stuck and in some ways so am I, so I can relate to his angst.
We're both liminal people caught in that ambiguous state of being in the middle of a rite of passage.
"Did you make coffee?" he asks when he comes in and knows I didn't but wants some and is too shy to ask.
"I was just about to brew a pot. Have a seat—it won't take long. Do you feel like toast?"
"Sure, toast is fine."
If I don't feed him, he won't eat. It breaks my heart but I give him his space. I don't know what else to do—I'm just here for him.
The guy's a computer genius but is just freelancing as a consultant because that's all he can manage right now.
"So, how are you doing now?" I ask him while buttering his toast.
"Getting by—might have to try a new tech firm—the staff at my current one are getting on my nerves."
"How's that?" I respond, handing him his coffee.
"Yesterday, the receptionist asked why I'm not dating."
"Aw Man, I'm sorry, Luc—what did you say?"
"I pulled out my cell and asked Siri if she'd marry me."
I shook my head and smiled.
He flipped open the cell and repeated the question and Siri responded in his wife's voice. My End User Licensing Agreement does not cover marriage.
I looked at him quizzically. "Is that Wren's voice?"
He nodded. "Figured a way to synthesize her voice from some old tapes. Now she's always with me."
God, he's resurrected his wife—how weird is that? But maybe not weirder than my walks in the rain with someone I've known forever except I can't see her face or remember her name.
Yeah, maybe not so weird, come to think of it. Maybe it comforts him like my ritual breakfast.
Yeah, could be we're both in progress toward some final state and seeking comfort along the way.
I know it sounds lame but it's all I've got at the moment.
We're both entangled in the cord of our own birth and we'll either strangle or come through it—either way, we have no choice. We're in transition.
Welcome to my disorientation.