Dora_aleksey

Dora Lee had never expected to turn thirty-five. For her, time and age had always appeared as abstractions. The future, in general, was an expanse of place in which she could make anything, where anything was possible. Her rosy-colored glasses had often governed the directions she went in, from Bangkok to the Netherlands, from Harvard to a smal place in Boston, where she tried to write a novel. But now, it seemed, after al the time had passed – and not real y too much time – she was back in the house her mother and father had nurtured her in. She wasn’t entirely happy. But she wasn’t real y sad either. Sometimes, just around the time when the light fel and evening became more apparent, she started to feel the lines of her aloneness more sharply, as if she were alone, not real y in the body, but in the spirit, too; for, in the body, she was with her parents – they were loving as usual. But, in the spirit, there was a feeling of wal s al around her. The wal s were probably what compel ed her to, day in and day out, try to write in such a way that the whole of her being was engaged. She was writing in the personal, with the “I”, but she found that the “I” somehow failed to encapsulate al it was that she was feeling. So then, she turned away from what she was doing, knowing that somehow, she had come upon yet another wal . There was no way of writing the story, of even discerning what the story was. From her point of view, it was simple. She needed to tel the past. But then, when she sat and tried to write it, it always eluded her, as if it weren’t real y meant to be written about or known. This, she decided, she could be at peace with, if only she could know what it was she could write instead, to get her self out of her terror of not real y knowing what to say about her life and the route she had gone. The light had faded from al of the windows – it was near six – and she wondered if she should take a pil of the Lorazepam. Her doctor had prescribed it for anxiety, as needed; and right now, she was feeling anxious – it was a vague and horrid sort of feeling, as if a spider were in the room, but a spider that didn’t cause harm. It was just something – a presence – that one didn’t real y want to have near. She said to herself, “No. Tonight, I’m not going to take it.” She had tried twice, by now, and each time, the anxiety had ebbed slowly away. She had been happy with the results, but then, she also wondered about the fact that one day, she might have to always rely on it. She was worried about the medications. At night, she took a couple more – Zyprexa and Depakote – for the bipolar disorder she had been diagnosed with. Her type was Bipolar Type 1, she was told by her doctor, which meant that the manias – or upswings – tended toward psychosis. Early in March, Dora had exhibited the signs, yet again, of ful -fledged psychosis, where she felt, very deeply, that President Obama was her twin. This wasn’t in the sense that they were long lost brother and sister, having been born from one womb; the idea was different. They were spiritual twins, meant to come together and to work in tandem. But Dora didn’t want her thinking to linger on that journey. Often, it would take her right back into an odd feeling of unreality. She wasn’t entirely sure how it was that the psychosis had created such a frame, so vividly, of another reality; but it wasn’t something she wanted to invite back. What she wanted to do was grow her reality, for real. She wanted to be able to lie with her body on the grass and to hear the heartbeat of earth in her ears. She wanted to breathe the scent of the springtime… She couldn’t believe how cool it was stil , near the end of April. Easter had just passed, and the daffodils were disheveled by the early spring cold. The evergreens were stagnant, and the leaves were beginning to bud on the trees; but the grey skies and the rains that would fal each day gave the whole feel of the gloom too much power, she thought. Dora liked the rain, but she didn’t like it when it was endless. And right now, it felt endless. She wanted the sun to come out, to rejoice in the living. She wanted the tiny emerald buds to break out into fans! She longed for the air that told her it was spring, laden with birdsong. She knew that when it was spring, she would be able to take some photographs. Maybe her mom would come with her. They could walk in the Morton Arboretum and take the trails that led past the magnolia trees, ful and in bloom… The night had deepened. After dinner, Dora had excused her self by brewing a cup of mint tea and then going upstairs. She wanted to write a little more – she had an idea of a book… a prayer… But then, she didn’t real y know. She sipped the tea and sighed. She checked her email, and then, she surfed on the Internet… Nothing of interest… Maybe a book to order… Maybe she should get Dante… But then… there was Facebook… But no, she didn’t real y want to look at the photos. She went back into her email account. He hadn’t written her. Aleksey. She had been waiting for his email. It had been more than a week. Maybe he didn’t real y want to correspond. She decided to anyway. She wished him a happy Easter, and he replied almost in an instant, with a thank you. The emails went back and forth. She learned that he was feeling drowsy, not real y able to concentrate. But he had had a good weekend. Went to a concert on Saturday. Et cetera, et cetera. She wasn’t sure why, but she felt that maybe now she was bored with the relation. Maybe it wasn’t what she thought – or hoped – it would be. He wrote an odd email about being “middle class” and coming from Tarzana. “Tarzana? Where’s that?” “In the val ey.” It didn’t mean anything. She didn’t have a clue. He was obviously trying to inform her of his social status, within LA, but it stil didn’t make any sense. It didn’t matter to her if he was poor or rich – what she liked was that he studied philosophy, that he had emailed her on Christmas Day, tel ing her he had seen her art (on the Internet, of course). He had seemed to real y know how it was that she thought, and she had clung to the dream of him… of who he was… and what he was doing. But now, he seemed to be struggling. He didn’t want the relation. She could feel it unspoken, between the lines… She’s crazy…

Source: http://laurakim.net/Dora_Aleksey.pdf