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Yesterday was one of those very frustrating days where absolutely every attempt to accomplish anything fails, flat-out. I completed a few half-errands, forgot a few more, and inadvertantly ruined a few things. So it goes. It came on top of a more generally irritating day, previously, and a whole summer of mounting consternation and disappointment. Not with anything in particular, but with a directionless and helpless, hopeless sort of ecumenical life-frustration. Or, self-frustration, as I of course am the subject of most of it, constantly disappointing myself with my self-defeating attitudes and habits.
Recently I've been feeling inexplicably agitated. It's almost physical, like an itch or irritation deep in my chest, behind the solar plexis, churning and twitching with no hope for relief. It could just be too much coffee, I suppose, but I am so tired all the time. And anyway, it feels more like I just ought to be doing something, anything, all the time, but I've no idea what I should do -- and I am so tired, all the time. And so I itch, and burn, and snap at people.
Last night, making dinner, this inner burning found an outward manifestation. Not wanting to take the responsibility for cooking, I made it my job to help out by doing the chopping and dicing. This was all well enough for the pineapples, apples, and kiwis, but when it came to chopping chillis for Daniel's Thai banana soup, it presented more of a problem. The spicy oils seeped into my already chafed and perforated fingertips and would not wash away. They clung on and burned, through prolonged and vigorous soapings, butterings, lotionings and icings. My hands were contaminated with fire, and I could not so much as lick a finger without pain. Wiping an eye was agony; I decided to do my best to simply not touch anything until time and sweat had worn the oils away.
When it comes down to it, that's really all you can do. I've been noticing the same with onions. Sometimes I'll chop as many as a dozen or so in a day, when I'm working, covering my fingers and palms in sticky, stinging fluid. The stickiness washes away easily enough, but the smell lingers on, seeping into the very fabric of the skin. In my mind, the onion juice is animated and bullyish, jostling its way over and in between the cells of the epidermis. Then it settles in and stays, forgotten, until I brush my fingers past my mouth or nose, and the odour blooms up, stark and pungeant. Smell, they say, is the sense closest to memory, and the whiff of red onions on my fingertips brings instant recall of the constant stress and drudgery that is the kitchen.
It isn't the onions themselves, of course. On my lover's hands, with his skin behind it, the scent of that same plant recalls a simple stir-fry, rice, and laughing dinner conversation. It isn't cause-and-effect; it's simply perception.
A recent article I read, about the inherent fallibility of memory, described how many people will fill in the gaps of their memories with little details, both physical and emotional, remarking that, contrary to popular belief, being full of gaps is the hallmark of an accurate memory. This is why many people remember their childhoods as being happier than they actually were. The article praised this nostalgia, asking, as though it were a rhetorical question, who wouldn't mind a bit of fiction for peace of mind?
Me, for one. The article did mention that the one group of people who typically don't display a tendency to form false memories are depressives. I find this weirdly reassuring, almost hopeful. Score one for the losing team. It's more than just a consolation prize, though, as it allows me to view depression in a whole new light. 'I have this disorder whereby I see and remember the world as it really is, and that makes me sad sometimes.' It is not so much a disease as a deep-seated teperament, and I've always been like this. A primary school teacher once asked me, with some exhasperation, if I'd rather be right or happy. Like the article, she meant it to be a rhetorical question, but to me the answer was obviously 'right'. I am imbued with a pervasive and abiding curiosity in everything, and I have a deep need to find out about the world around me, which of course requires accurate perception.
The more I study (and reject) analytic philosophy, the more I am certain that searching for objective truth is like chasing a rainbow, but still I can't quite give it up. And I wouldn't trade all the misery in the world for a pair of rose-coloured glasses.
Recently I've been feeling inexplicably agitated. It's almost physical, like an itch or irritation deep in my chest, behind the solar plexis, churning and twitching with no hope for relief. It could just be too much coffee, I suppose, but I am so tired all the time. And anyway, it feels more like I just ought to be doing something, anything, all the time, but I've no idea what I should do -- and I am so tired, all the time. And so I itch, and burn, and snap at people.
Last night, making dinner, this inner burning found an outward manifestation. Not wanting to take the responsibility for cooking, I made it my job to help out by doing the chopping and dicing. This was all well enough for the pineapples, apples, and kiwis, but when it came to chopping chillis for Daniel's Thai banana soup, it presented more of a problem. The spicy oils seeped into my already chafed and perforated fingertips and would not wash away. They clung on and burned, through prolonged and vigorous soapings, butterings, lotionings and icings. My hands were contaminated with fire, and I could not so much as lick a finger without pain. Wiping an eye was agony; I decided to do my best to simply not touch anything until time and sweat had worn the oils away.
When it comes down to it, that's really all you can do. I've been noticing the same with onions. Sometimes I'll chop as many as a dozen or so in a day, when I'm working, covering my fingers and palms in sticky, stinging fluid. The stickiness washes away easily enough, but the smell lingers on, seeping into the very fabric of the skin. In my mind, the onion juice is animated and bullyish, jostling its way over and in between the cells of the epidermis. Then it settles in and stays, forgotten, until I brush my fingers past my mouth or nose, and the odour blooms up, stark and pungeant. Smell, they say, is the sense closest to memory, and the whiff of red onions on my fingertips brings instant recall of the constant stress and drudgery that is the kitchen.
It isn't the onions themselves, of course. On my lover's hands, with his skin behind it, the scent of that same plant recalls a simple stir-fry, rice, and laughing dinner conversation. It isn't cause-and-effect; it's simply perception.
A recent article I read, about the inherent fallibility of memory, described how many people will fill in the gaps of their memories with little details, both physical and emotional, remarking that, contrary to popular belief, being full of gaps is the hallmark of an accurate memory. This is why many people remember their childhoods as being happier than they actually were. The article praised this nostalgia, asking, as though it were a rhetorical question, who wouldn't mind a bit of fiction for peace of mind?
Me, for one. The article did mention that the one group of people who typically don't display a tendency to form false memories are depressives. I find this weirdly reassuring, almost hopeful. Score one for the losing team. It's more than just a consolation prize, though, as it allows me to view depression in a whole new light. 'I have this disorder whereby I see and remember the world as it really is, and that makes me sad sometimes.' It is not so much a disease as a deep-seated teperament, and I've always been like this. A primary school teacher once asked me, with some exhasperation, if I'd rather be right or happy. Like the article, she meant it to be a rhetorical question, but to me the answer was obviously 'right'. I am imbued with a pervasive and abiding curiosity in everything, and I have a deep need to find out about the world around me, which of course requires accurate perception.
The more I study (and reject) analytic philosophy, the more I am certain that searching for objective truth is like chasing a rainbow, but still I can't quite give it up. And I wouldn't trade all the misery in the world for a pair of rose-coloured glasses.
