Inversions

Deluded Delusions

My delusions have delusions and those delusions have delusions

I remember a line from Brazil, the movie: “My complications are having complications.” And the image that went along with the line, that botched facelift, said it all. Brilliant movie, that.

I have actually met people who didn’t like that film. All I could do was shake my head: What’s there not to like? Well, I just don’t. Oh, well, live and let live, huh?

Delusions sometimes seem to proliferate exponentially. I guess one good example would be imagined conversations, one of those that arrive and begin unbidden, and all you can do is hold on to the skirt tail and listen in as best you can. And then you find yourself worked up about it, something you said (or, to be more accurate: something the conversation said) that was vehemently denied or flatly ridiculed and now you’re seriously pissed off and you’re bringing into the fray what you actually meant to say that last time you spoke to so and so but didn’t think of until much later and soon this conversation is verging on a screaming match: all in your head of course — if ever these little chats reach your lips and escape into air people as a rule pronounce you crazy.

But this internal version is not crazy, this is just a normal, run-of-the-mill delusion. There is no actual conversation going on, still, it has the power to stir up emotions and raise your blood pressure. Pretty impressive for a delusion, wouldn’t you say?

Suspicions are another family of delusions that can take off and sprout young’uns as if there were no tomorrow. Something’s gone missing. Gone for a while now. Something dear to you, something she knew was dear to you but always resented. So, it’s perfectly clear: she threw it out. Dumped it in the trash the same morning they picked it up so I wouldn’t have a chance to find it (I was off at work, as usual, that morning). Yeah, I never said she wasn’t clever. But why would she hate me that much? She knew I loved that thing, knew it. Bet ya her mom, whom she listens to way too much, didn’t like it either, probably suggested or encouraged that she dump the “vile thing” while I was at work.

And off we go. You might not return “to your senses” (meaning the here and now) for a good ten minutes — during which you’ve been to hell and back about that missing whatever and your insidious wife and her even more insidious mother.

Only to find it in the backseat of your car that every afternoon, and now you remember, yes, yes, of course, you were supposed to take it in and have it appraised. This does not mean your wife and mother-in-law are not insidious, of course. They are, beyond a shadow.

So say my delusions.

Havelock Ellis once said, “Dreams are real as long as they last. Can we say more of life?” I read that a long time ago, but it still strikes me as both relevant and astute.

And, surely, dreams are delusions — wrought from finer material than the nearest shopping mall or backyard, right?

And my dreams tend to proliferate just like deluded delusions deluding away and a good clip.

In a recurring, yes, I should say nightmare, I find myself in a cult — in an easy to enter, virtually impossible to exit brother and sisterhood of dark and unquestioned trust, beliefs, and loyalty. It’s a closed universe that redefines ethics and puts a dark spin on good and bad. Good is what is good for the group, no matter who or what else it might damage or harm. Bad is what is bad for the group, no matter who or what else it might benefit. And the group itself is defined as its leader — the infallible, always, always, always-right leader. We live to serve him. We offer our lives to serve him (at least in theory — I never saw it being put to the ultimate test).

In real life (that coarser delusion) I lucked out: I fell off the boat and swam to shore, no one bothered to launch a rescue or to follow. It was a smooth and final, if wet, exit.

In my recurring dream (that finer delusion) I am not so lucky. I cannot leave. I am guarded twenty-four/seven, I cannot go out alone, I need permission for the silliest things — like going to the store, or getting a haircut, or even buying cigarettes at the canteen.

In my dream, I am getting more and more desperate to leave and by that very token find myself further and further captive: everyone knows my intention to escape so everyone keeps an especially close eye on me, reports any deviation from prescribed behavior, keeps me good and captive.

Then, in almost every edition of this dream, I remember the freedom of not having joined up to support Leader in his quest to save mankind. I look back at life under open sky and the freedom to go and do and think (yes, and think) as I pleased and I long for that freedom more than anything, and in this longing the prison-noose tightens further and further: I feel like the Tasmanian Wolf — the last of her species — pulsating from one end of her cage to the other, knowing she is the last, knowing she is captive, knowing she will die offspring-less. I know I will die a captive.

Then, when the agony peaks, the imprisonment now intense beyond endurance, I wake up: to a relief that each time has me recognize my real bedroom and breathe (almost scream): “Thank God!”

The dream usually stays with me well into the forenoon, so tangible, such a threat that it sees fit to hang around. Then I forget about it for a while, until, until another night when for some unfathomable reason it deludes itself into new dream existence. The scenario, the surroundings might be different, but not by much, while the dramatis personae remain the same. Dear Leader, his Loyal Officers, the Troops, and the multitude of watchful eyes preventing escape.

I need my passport to leave, but they have it locked away and are not about to hand it over. Trapped.

Memories drunk with time stumble over other delusions and weave themselves into new nightmare.

Until, until: “Thank God!”

Then, another night, the same nightmare, but this delusion then deludes another delusion: a parked car. I know the streets of this city (which isn’t quite Los Angeles) and I know where I parked the car, but now that I desperately need it where I parked it no longer exists, so I am casting about for alternate streets or parking lots where it might have moved but no matter how hard I look (and looking for something missing occurs not seldom in these dreams) I cannot find it and so I wind up in the word processing center at Musick, Peeler & Garrett where I have recently installed and written manuals for the IBM Displaywriter though now I no longer have a clue how to word process; yet, I have this huge document with millions of revisions that has to be turned around instantly.

When do you need it? I used to ask the attorneys.

I need it yesterday, was a stock reply.

Come back yesterday, and it’ll be ready, was my stock rejoinder.

Sometimes quick (polite, they’ve heard this before) laughter sometimes nothing.

And I am no nearer to deciphering the mysteries of the Displaywriter and the attorney or his secretary (or both) keep asking me for the mammoth eight and a half by fourteen lease, running close to a hundred pages, each marked up disconcertingly, or whatever this nightmare of a document might be, and I still haven’t a clue what happened to my car.

I could have sworn.

When I wake up I wonder if law firms still have busy word processing departments, if at all, or whether secretaries take care of all that.

And, again, I thank God for the coarser of the two delusions.

© Wolfstuff

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