Monday, November 08, 2004
Moments of genius
Moments of genius are rarely repeated. My best ideas occur when I’m driving, in the middle of the night, halfway up a cliff. When I arrive, wake up or reach the top they evaporate into the ether.
Ether is an old-fashioned term for what scientists once supposed filled the space in the universe between planets, comets and other heavenly bodies. Now we know better. Space is just that, space. Aside from planets, comets, asteroids and a few black holes there isn’t much up there. It’s pretty much uncluttered unless you count cosmic dust.
Watson and Frick, the guys who figured out the DNA double helix gig might have missed their one moment to capture fame and fortune if they hadn’t been paying attention or at least had a tape recorder, flashlight, or a climbing gear.
Hang on, this relates back to, back to… umm, whatever went on before now. Sorry, I’m having a dissociative moment. More about dissociation later.
I’ve actually had quite a few moments of actual genius. In the 1960’s I thought up vending machines to sell bottled water. It made sense to us Qs, we all hate soda. My friends laughed.
Just after graphics were introduced to the World Wide Web I dreamed up an online auction. I was a fledgling website designer and an antique dealer.
I thought it would be cool to offer Vaseline glass and shaving mugs to the highest Internet bidder. My friends laughed. I kept designing websites and eventually closed the antiques business…. But not before ebay proved me right. The Internet drew us in like a siren song. In cyberspace we are separate and free in a way we can never be in the real world. We haunted Internet Relay Chat roaming at home in physics, poets and writers chatrooms.
I’m still waiting for my next moment of genius. Even if I manage to write it down or record it I doubt Oprah will hear about it. If she does she’ll probably laugh.
My theory about Oprah is she serves as a definitive American deity. Think about it.
I’m sure things would have gone a lot smoother for us Qs if we’d gotten her attention during at least one moment of genius or tragedy during the last 15 years.
What would have been different if I’d asked myself “What would Oprah do?” in the pre-dawn hours of an autumn night in 1996. I held an antique straight-edged razor poised above my wrist, an elegant weapon from a more civilized time.
eliot watched from a unique perspective, for my wrist is his too. Blood dripped on our computer keyboard. I’d been chatting online when I was overwhelmed by the familiar need to cut. I was weary of fighting the urge. I expected to die. el was curious about how it would feel. We shared consciousness as I cut. We watched droplets of blood well up and drip to the desktop, splash on the keyboard.
I kept typing, chatting with people from an IRC writer’s channel who had become our friends over the last few months. Each of us Qs yearns to be recognized and valued as ourselves. In cyberspace, linked nearly mind to mind that almost seems possible. The writer’s chatroom was the first place eliot ever used his real name. The first time someone addressed him as eliot he wept. In cyberspace no one knew we shared the same body, or that we were male while the body we inhabited was female. No one knew online I was holding a razor to my wrist either.
Even if el wanted to stop me, I clearly had ops and was not about to relinquish it. Usually one of us is “up” alone. Two or more of us can share consciousness, but only the one who is "up" controls what happens.
Lillie was livid with both of us.
“Stop!” she screamed.
I ignored her. Watched our blood well up. I had no emotion left. I was totally numb, or thought I was.
“Shel, if you kill us you kill Baby!” Lillie shrieked. “You’re supposed to protect us you bastard!”
She had my attention. I looked at el. He sighed and nodded.
Shit. Outvoted. I put the razor down. I laid my head on the keyboard and sobbed. Crisis averted. But our problems weren’t gone. And there were a lot of them. First and foremost was my growing feeling of impending doom. As guardian and protector of the Q realm I sensed something awful looming on our horizon. Suicide seemed better than knowing what it was.
Looking back I’m really, really glad I didn’t die that night, or the many other times el or I drew blood. I cut more often to prove I was real than out of a deathwish. But every time I cut suicide was a risk. It took three years of therapy and Eyvonne’s love to make us stop.
A lot of things led up to my crisis that night. Our personal Book of Counted Sorrows included early childhood abuses locked in the deepest forgetfulness a human being can generate. My vestigial knowledge of those memories had me on the defensive. I would do anything to keep Pandora’s box closed. Once unleashed those hounds of hell would consume us all.
Lillie’s marriage was disintegrating then too. Her husband’s usual temper tantrums escalated into violence. We needed help but were convinced no one could understand. Understanding would require disclosure, not easy after a lifetime of hiding.
The few times we were desperate enough to seek help we found none. Elders of Lillie's church counseled submission. They told her his behaviors were responses to her failures as a wife. She told them to go to hell.
Examining defensive bruises on Lillie’s forearms the doctor said, "Well, he doesn't really hurt you does he? He doesn't use his fist, or hit your head?"
Female friends dismissed Lillie’s tearful tales of aggressive sexual demands. "That's just how men are," they said. "What did you do to make him so mad?”
No one suspected our multiplicity. No one really seemed concerned that Lillie was being hurt. No one but eliot, Baby and I.
I knew I couldn’t win a physical fight with the guy. The bruises proved that. But I threatened to call the police if he hit us again.
“You’ll be dead before they get here,” he snarled.
Check and checkmate.
In true dissociative fashion, Lillie wanted to salvage the relationship. She didn’t say she wanted to stay because she loved him. Her reasons were more practical. He’d threatened to take custody of the boys and keep the house if she tried to divorce him. He pointed out she had no secure income. “What judge would award you the kids? Where would you live?” he taunted. And he didn’t even know about his wife being multiple.
In true dissociative fashion I backed off. It wasn’t my relationship it was hers. But el and I spent longer hours working. We figured it wouldn’t hurt to have a better income.
The constant turmoil inside and out rattled eliot’s composure. It interfered with his ability to do his job within the system. An organizer dependent on logical thinking el was our system administrator, kind of like the Central Processing Unit of a computer. Through most of our adulthood eliot stayed inside by choice. Socially inept, many of eliot’s attempts at friendship or more intimate relationships bordered on disaster. Since our teens he was content to let Lillie and I handle most outside stuff. With eliot off balance things rapidly spiraled out of control. We began having vivid visual and auditory disturbances that terrified all of us. They descended without warning overlaying or obliterating anything else we were experiencing.
“What if it happens when I’m driving?” Lillie asked.
I didn’t know what to say. I was worried about the same thing. I mean what would you do if you were driving down the road and suddenly giant squiggly colored lines filled your entire field of vision.
“Maybe it’s a neurological condition,” el observed.
I shivered. “Nope.” I couldn’t tell him why I was so sure. I could only try and batten down the hatches for what I knew was inevitable.
The visions flooded over us in the blink between waking and sleep. They stole our dreams turning them into nightmares.
Never good sleepers, we actively fought sleep until we were exhausted. We averaged two hours sleep a night. Lillie’s husband didn't even notice. We whiled away those long dark hours reading, writing, chatting. Someone was always on the writer’s channel day or night. We chatted with people half a world away. They became as important to us as our real world friends. Maybe more so. We trusted them. They knew our likes, dislikes, moods, quirks. Techies who noticed our computer Internet Protocol number was the same assumed eliot and I were two people, perhaps brothers, living in the same household. We let them go right on believing it.
© 2004 M. S. Eliot
Ether is an old-fashioned term for what scientists once supposed filled the space in the universe between planets, comets and other heavenly bodies. Now we know better. Space is just that, space. Aside from planets, comets, asteroids and a few black holes there isn’t much up there. It’s pretty much uncluttered unless you count cosmic dust.
Watson and Frick, the guys who figured out the DNA double helix gig might have missed their one moment to capture fame and fortune if they hadn’t been paying attention or at least had a tape recorder, flashlight, or a climbing gear.
Hang on, this relates back to, back to… umm, whatever went on before now. Sorry, I’m having a dissociative moment. More about dissociation later.
I’ve actually had quite a few moments of actual genius. In the 1960’s I thought up vending machines to sell bottled water. It made sense to us Qs, we all hate soda. My friends laughed.
Just after graphics were introduced to the World Wide Web I dreamed up an online auction. I was a fledgling website designer and an antique dealer.
I thought it would be cool to offer Vaseline glass and shaving mugs to the highest Internet bidder. My friends laughed. I kept designing websites and eventually closed the antiques business…. But not before ebay proved me right. The Internet drew us in like a siren song. In cyberspace we are separate and free in a way we can never be in the real world. We haunted Internet Relay Chat roaming at home in physics, poets and writers chatrooms.
I’m still waiting for my next moment of genius. Even if I manage to write it down or record it I doubt Oprah will hear about it. If she does she’ll probably laugh.
My theory about Oprah is she serves as a definitive American deity. Think about it.
I’m sure things would have gone a lot smoother for us Qs if we’d gotten her attention during at least one moment of genius or tragedy during the last 15 years.
What would have been different if I’d asked myself “What would Oprah do?” in the pre-dawn hours of an autumn night in 1996. I held an antique straight-edged razor poised above my wrist, an elegant weapon from a more civilized time.
eliot watched from a unique perspective, for my wrist is his too. Blood dripped on our computer keyboard. I’d been chatting online when I was overwhelmed by the familiar need to cut. I was weary of fighting the urge. I expected to die. el was curious about how it would feel. We shared consciousness as I cut. We watched droplets of blood well up and drip to the desktop, splash on the keyboard.
I kept typing, chatting with people from an IRC writer’s channel who had become our friends over the last few months. Each of us Qs yearns to be recognized and valued as ourselves. In cyberspace, linked nearly mind to mind that almost seems possible. The writer’s chatroom was the first place eliot ever used his real name. The first time someone addressed him as eliot he wept. In cyberspace no one knew we shared the same body, or that we were male while the body we inhabited was female. No one knew online I was holding a razor to my wrist either.
Even if el wanted to stop me, I clearly had ops and was not about to relinquish it. Usually one of us is “up” alone. Two or more of us can share consciousness, but only the one who is "up" controls what happens.
Lillie was livid with both of us.
“Stop!” she screamed.
I ignored her. Watched our blood well up. I had no emotion left. I was totally numb, or thought I was.
“Shel, if you kill us you kill Baby!” Lillie shrieked. “You’re supposed to protect us you bastard!”
She had my attention. I looked at el. He sighed and nodded.
Shit. Outvoted. I put the razor down. I laid my head on the keyboard and sobbed. Crisis averted. But our problems weren’t gone. And there were a lot of them. First and foremost was my growing feeling of impending doom. As guardian and protector of the Q realm I sensed something awful looming on our horizon. Suicide seemed better than knowing what it was.
Looking back I’m really, really glad I didn’t die that night, or the many other times el or I drew blood. I cut more often to prove I was real than out of a deathwish. But every time I cut suicide was a risk. It took three years of therapy and Eyvonne’s love to make us stop.
A lot of things led up to my crisis that night. Our personal Book of Counted Sorrows included early childhood abuses locked in the deepest forgetfulness a human being can generate. My vestigial knowledge of those memories had me on the defensive. I would do anything to keep Pandora’s box closed. Once unleashed those hounds of hell would consume us all.
Lillie’s marriage was disintegrating then too. Her husband’s usual temper tantrums escalated into violence. We needed help but were convinced no one could understand. Understanding would require disclosure, not easy after a lifetime of hiding.
The few times we were desperate enough to seek help we found none. Elders of Lillie's church counseled submission. They told her his behaviors were responses to her failures as a wife. She told them to go to hell.
Examining defensive bruises on Lillie’s forearms the doctor said, "Well, he doesn't really hurt you does he? He doesn't use his fist, or hit your head?"
Female friends dismissed Lillie’s tearful tales of aggressive sexual demands. "That's just how men are," they said. "What did you do to make him so mad?”
No one suspected our multiplicity. No one really seemed concerned that Lillie was being hurt. No one but eliot, Baby and I.
I knew I couldn’t win a physical fight with the guy. The bruises proved that. But I threatened to call the police if he hit us again.
“You’ll be dead before they get here,” he snarled.
Check and checkmate.
In true dissociative fashion, Lillie wanted to salvage the relationship. She didn’t say she wanted to stay because she loved him. Her reasons were more practical. He’d threatened to take custody of the boys and keep the house if she tried to divorce him. He pointed out she had no secure income. “What judge would award you the kids? Where would you live?” he taunted. And he didn’t even know about his wife being multiple.
In true dissociative fashion I backed off. It wasn’t my relationship it was hers. But el and I spent longer hours working. We figured it wouldn’t hurt to have a better income.
The constant turmoil inside and out rattled eliot’s composure. It interfered with his ability to do his job within the system. An organizer dependent on logical thinking el was our system administrator, kind of like the Central Processing Unit of a computer. Through most of our adulthood eliot stayed inside by choice. Socially inept, many of eliot’s attempts at friendship or more intimate relationships bordered on disaster. Since our teens he was content to let Lillie and I handle most outside stuff. With eliot off balance things rapidly spiraled out of control. We began having vivid visual and auditory disturbances that terrified all of us. They descended without warning overlaying or obliterating anything else we were experiencing.
“What if it happens when I’m driving?” Lillie asked.
I didn’t know what to say. I was worried about the same thing. I mean what would you do if you were driving down the road and suddenly giant squiggly colored lines filled your entire field of vision.
“Maybe it’s a neurological condition,” el observed.
I shivered. “Nope.” I couldn’t tell him why I was so sure. I could only try and batten down the hatches for what I knew was inevitable.
The visions flooded over us in the blink between waking and sleep. They stole our dreams turning them into nightmares.
Never good sleepers, we actively fought sleep until we were exhausted. We averaged two hours sleep a night. Lillie’s husband didn't even notice. We whiled away those long dark hours reading, writing, chatting. Someone was always on the writer’s channel day or night. We chatted with people half a world away. They became as important to us as our real world friends. Maybe more so. We trusted them. They knew our likes, dislikes, moods, quirks. Techies who noticed our computer Internet Protocol number was the same assumed eliot and I were two people, perhaps brothers, living in the same household. We let them go right on believing it.
© 2004 M. S. Eliot
