the thought-stream of an artist and writer

Tracey Physioc Brockett

the thought-stream of an artist and writer

Tuesday, June 16, 2015

The Enchantment; A Story of Grace

There is a whole world in which she lives for which she has no words. She gets herself in trouble whenever she forgets she is in school or with others. It is a secret she keeps. The effort required wears her out. She spends her school days in a narrow corridor of space and time and expectations she must negotiate so carefully. She is becoming skilled at interpreting clues, which she learns to imitate and parrot back. She knows her quiet demeanor and strange beauty opens doors, and the teachers cut her slack because she seems so compliant. She hopes they do not really see her. She is in a constant sweat of vigilance not to call attention to deficits. Or to the place she retreats, where she hums and clicks and loses herself in a rhythm and pattern no one else seems to see or sense. She is constantly getting caught out talking or singing to herself, or making her tuneless noises, getting lost inside herself.
Once she has laid out a kind of map of things in her head, once she has some sort of absolute zero tucked into her consciousness, then she is free to think the new things out. If X is so, then Y must be X with the difference, plus or minus. She is very good at fudging, when she knows the ball park she's aiming at. She often leaves much too early for events, makes her way there incognito, reconnoitering. She will then walk blocks in circles, working things out.The strangeness of the territory becomes more familiar, less of an all over blur. If it is a very stressful event, or she's tired, there will be a glaze over everything, so much so that she can't see edges. She knows if anyone happens to be looking they will find it strange that she's groping for doorknob, or turning to a blind wall instead of the hallway. She has tripped both up and down stairs, knocked into people. She has assumed, very badly, in conversation. If she has her mind focused on positioning her body correctly the ambient noise will wash over her and she will have to pretend she can hear the conversation. Again she tries for clues, places where she can offer some small words that prove she is involved, a part of things, to keep from being forgotten, left behind, abandoned. She cannot really offer anything of herself until the issues with physical space have been compensated for. There is a simply no room in her brain for opinions. She is thought very odd or rather dim. She knows this, but is beyond caring except in a distant way, which is how she regards her childhood escapades, as Trials. She doesn't dwell on what she does not have the ability to change, either at the time, or ever for that matter. But she still hopes there is a chance for redemption. A time she can speak freely, when the fuzzy haze in her brain will give way. There are times when she manages to say things that seem to spring fully formed without her knowledge.As if they are born in her breath, in her mouth, between her teeth and her tongue. She can't imagine explaining to someone what a mystery she is to herself, now that she knows this is not true for others. She thinks they cannot imagine the leap of faith she makes every day: That she will muddle through, that when lost she will find her way, that what she already knows will be enough of a clue to go on.
For earlier posts of this story:
Where the Story Starts
Once Upon a Time

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