bell studies

in some ways, if you're a reader, it's strange to return to the hospital; and in other ways, if you're a writer, well... not strange in the slightest!  (role reversal has always been put forth by the experts as a viable psycho-spiritual strategy.)

"you were actually born here, sir?"
"I was."
"and tell me again when that was?"
"almost 29 years ago."
(pause)
"ok...let's see if you're still in the computer..."

I was at the front desk, and looked around quietly for a couple of minutes.  there was live accordion music coming from somewhere.  it was a funny juxtaposition with the heavy patient, doctor, nurse, support staff, and visitor traffic.  most of it pedestrian, but a few people in wheelchairs, naturally.  and not necessarily the most elderly ones of the bunch.

"could you spell your last name again for me?"
"m-i-s-t-i-n-a-l...and it's karl with a k..."
"and have you been here for anything since?"
"I'm afraid I have not."
(awkward pause)
"so what brings you here today, mr. mistinal?"
I paused for a couple of moments.  it was strange to be back here.  the following five words kept rolling around in my skull: what is going to happen? 

there were a few more formulaic questions which I'll pass over for now.  they led to some minor confusions but luckily we handled that confusion efficiently.  suffice it to say that in about 25 minutes I was seated in an office across the desk from dr. bell-warren, a psychiatrist, a smartly dressed woman in her upper fifties, I'm guessing.  stunning, really.  (maybe that's not the sort of thing you want or need to hear from an almost 29 year old homeless man, but oh well.  she just so happened to be very beautiful.  there's no real polite way of getting around that.)

"...so... mr. mistinal... here you are again... is this the first time we've met, by the way?"
"I believe it is, dr. bell-warren."
"well, with all due respect, karl- you've got a few... how shall I put this... a few funny beliefs."
"I know, dr. bell-warren-  that's partly why I came in today."
(pause)
"so tell me- how have things been going for you these past couple years?"
"fairly well."
"could you be more specific, karl?"
(pause)
"well, except for the fact that I keep losing my bearings,  I would s
"wait wait wait- what do you mean by 'losing your bearings'"?
"only in a geographical and biographical sense."
"meaning?"
"I'll forget what city I'm in or even which friend I'm visiting.  I'll forget my own name on occasion, too.  I have to keep it written down on this laminated card I carry around in my pocket."
"may I see it?"
"sure."

I produce the somewhat tattered card: my name, karl mistinal, printed neatly, and laminated with packing tape.

"so this is all you need to get back on track after forgetting?"
"no...not really. (pause)  I also carry a photo of myself with some family and friends."
"a group portrait of sorts?"
"that is correct, dr. bell-warren."
"may I see it?"
"of course."

I reach into my other pocket and pull out the photograph, look at it briefly, and hand it over the desk.  she takes it and studies it in silence for a couple of minutes.  this gives me a chance to look around the office a little more carefully.  lots of blank space.  a few plants.  a music playing device in the corner.  desk entirely clear except for a laptop and a thermos of something.

"so these are your... parents?" she asked, pointing to the 2 people on either side of me.
"yes."
"and the others?"
"friends and neighbors."
"and tell me again why you carry this?"
"sometimes I forget my identity."
"huh- that could be a problem, you realize.  have you ever talked to a doctor before about this?"
"no... that's why I came in today."
"why here?"
"I was born here."
"but what does that have to do with it?"
"not sure."
(awkward pause)
"what exactly do you want from us, karl?"

I jolted a little.

"is there somebody else in the room?" I ask quietly.

a bizarre look passed over her face.

"why no- what in god's name makes you say that?"

"oh... I'm sorry.  it's just that... well... you mentioned something about 'us' just now... I thought maybe there was an assistant or intern hovering around somewhere in the shadows..."

"no- it's just you and me, karl... and a couple of cacti... so... let me rephrase then: what exactly do you want from me, karl?"

I could tell from her tone of voice that this was the critical moment-

and yet I faltered.

(I probably should have put my concerns down in writing beforehand.)

a few more minutes pass by in silence.

"tell me a little bit about your imagination, karl."

strange words to be hearing in a sterile office like that, but I appreciated her candor and asked for a few moments to reflect on several possible ways of answering her.

"wait- before you even go there- tell me first- how would you objectively define the word 'imagination'"?

"as in dictionary definition?"

"precisely."

strange words to be hearing come out of dr. bell-warren's mouth at this particular juncture, but my curiosity was piqued, to say the least, and again I asked for a few moments to come up with a semi-coherent response.

"ok- wait- before you answer that- just tell me one thing- is there anything in this universe that could be called, even metaphorically, 'a depository of truth'"?

"wow- now that I have no idea about whatsoever."

"just as I suspected... and yet, you carry your name card and group portrait around with you wherever you go- am I right?"

"you are right, dr. bell-warren... is that related to... what did you just call it?  a depository of truth"?

"not necessarily, karl- but there's something else that concerns me here- tell me if the following sentiment applies to you in any way, shape, or form-"

she pulled a small laminated card from her pocket and read aloud the following statement:

"in the years that followed, virginia woolf rejected the literature of fantasy, which for her had meant art as the mystical knowledge of everything, and turned to the minute description of the world as it is, still convinced that she was expressing the secret of life.  just as woolf herself was for a long time uncertain whether to make frenhofer into a seer or a madman, so her story continues to contain an ambiguity in which its deepest truth resides.  the artist's imagination is a world of potentialities that no particular work will succeed in fully realizing.  what we experience by living is another world, answering to other forms of order and disorder.  the layers of words that accumulate on the page, like the layers of colors on the canvas or layers of tones in a symphony, are yet another world, also infinite but slightly more easy to control and manipulate.  the link between the three orbits is the indefinable spoken of by woolf: or, rather, I would call it the undecidable, the paradox of an infinite whole that contains other infinite wholes. (and by the way, that's whole as in w-h-o-l-e)."

"gotcha."

she continued:

"a reader- and I am speaking of a reader of infinite mercy, like woolf- carries out operations that involve the infinity of her imagination or the infinity of the contingency that may be attempted, or both, by means of the infinity of linguistic possibilities contained within the classic phrase 'reading for pleasure', particularly at that singularly bizarre moment when it occurs to the reader that she might just one day attempt to write something classic herself.  as a creature of fantasy, virginia woolf tried to capture the world soul in a single symbol among the infinite number imaginable; but to do this she was forced to load the written word with such intensity that it would have ended by no longer referring to a world outside its own self, like the colors and lines in frenhofer's mobile.  when she reached this threshold, woolf stopped and changed her whole program: no longer intensive but extensive, in both reading, writing, and daydreaming."

(pause)

I falteringly tried to run back over the final few sentences:

"when she finally reached this threshold, woolf stopped and chan

"actually, it doesn't say 'finally', but it's not completely off the mark, either..."

"like a freudian slip?"

"oh karl, fuck freud, ok?  why don't we just let freud go off and fuck himself?"

"no problem."

"ok, then- there's a final question and then 2 potential solutions- it's on another card here."

she reaches into her other pocket and pulls out another laminated little card, and reads aloud:

"will the literature of the fantastic be possible in the twenty-first century, with the growing inflation of prefabricated images and wisdom traditions?  two paths seem to be open from now on.  one: we could endlessly recycle used images in relatively new contexts that subvert their quote 'original' meaning, either completely or partially.  or two: we could wipe the slate clean and start from scratch.  samuel beckett, for example, maurice blanchot, james hillman, lao tzu, and a handful of others have obtained the most extraordinary results by reducing visual and linguistic elements to an absolute minimum, as if in a world after the end of the world."

(pause)

"well, dr. bell-warren, I have always been very partial to beckett."

"just as I suspected...karl, I'm afraid that there is absolutely nothing I can do to help you out with your problem.  I'm sorry."

she stood up from her chair, came around the desk and extended her hand.

"but it was very nice meeting you and best of luck in the future."

with that she walked briskly out of the office and closed the door gently behind her.

alone in a strange room.

what is going to happen?