Carmen Cygni AKA Soul Trash (Q2 2024 Edition)
Bartleby develops the symptoms characteristic of neurasthenia. In this light, his signature phrase, “I would prefer not to,” expresses neither the negative potency of not-to nor the instinct for delay and deferral that is essential for “spirituality.” Rather, it stands for a lack of drive and for apathy, which seal Bartleby’s doom.
Han, B.-C. (2015). The burnout society (E. Butler, Trans.). Stanford University Press
It’s a living and breathing world; this tiny universe confined within the cramped space of my cranium — and its worldbuilding is ever a work in progress. Its denizens populate themselves thanks to the memories I have of those who remain and the ones who got away — good AND bad, bitter AND sweet. They ALL dwell in my memory palace, my inner island.
To engage with others in our (yours and mine) shared reality, i.e., THIS reality, to be an average “normie,” I have to resurface from my sea of unconscious and pretend this reality is all we have, that it’s the only one that matters for being a good, law-abiding citizen; the only reality that’s acceptable, lest the majority would readily, metaphorically, lunge at me and slap that “agak laen” (an Indonesian slang which literally means “somewhat different” or “neurodivergent” in English) label smack dab on my forehead — an action taken for further consideration on whether or not interpersonal engagement with me is worth investing their time and (mostly emotional) energy.
To interact and communicate effectively, therefore, I travel back and forth across the multiverse — between the universe within me and the universe(s?) without. Truth to be told, this travel can get REALLY draining REALLY fast, and, at times, I feel REALLY shitty for not “giving the best version of myself,” or at least showing it, at least, to honor those who deign to spend their time and energy interacting in a prolonged, non-sporadic period with me.
Swimming in my inner ocean brings both solace and suffering; I value its function as an intermission; a brief respite from the battery-depleting reality I share with my fellow humans; though feelings of loneliness and frustration from reminiscing (deliberate or not) frequent moments of misunderstanding and communication failure are real. Despite this, it’s my go-to destination whenever I feel out of juice.
Overindulging in this swim doesn’t help much, however, for I need to be (high-)functioning in society to sustain my increasingly frequent voyages, venturing forth into the dark waters within and all that, and such sustenance can only come from saying the right words to the right person(s) at the right time at the right place and Getting (the right) Things Done ON TIME in the material world, with its near-universally-accepted material means of exchange — it’s what makes the (material) world go round, after all. I got to make ends meet; pay the bills; keep the kitchen running with all its puffs and huffs (“dapur ngebul” in Indonesian).
And, in case you didn’t get the memo, yes, I DO love to hear myself talk, although the reverse is also true: I DO hate the way I present myself to this world, this reality, as that No Action, Talk Only (NATO) guy; that good-for-nothing wanker who over-promises and under-delivers; that narcissistic megalomaniacal egotist who makes a Sisyphus out of himself through self-sabotage at every fucking turn of his life; that weak-willed deep-sea-diver at the mercy of his wonky wacky whims and flights of fancy; preferring the embrace of his own abyss than encounter with the problems that most of his species face day in day out; that cowardly cretin with neither grit nor grim determination to stop fucking swimming aimlessly and, instead, unlock his true potential and go sock the world squarely in its jaw to prove his worth and usefulness before he clinically expires.
It‘s about preserving my personal agency (or so I’ve believed since I was five). I no longer want to be under anyone else’s control. NEVER again. But, first and foremost, I need to wrest control back to ME from ME to get it to cooperate to do great (although, admittedly, mostly unglamorous) things together and to be whole again. Fractured, yes, but whole.
I’ve never been willing to give up my liberty for companionship. I’d forsake friends and family to maintain my personal freedom and to keep a semblance of personal agency.
“I would prefer not to,” says Bartleby, the Scrivener.
“I would prefer not to care,” says Yowid, the not-so-cunning linguist.
I know full well that this part of me is my id (or es, in German), my pleasure principle, or whatever it’s called. I realize that the first step in making peace with myself is acknowledging it and recognizing that such a part exists in me. More often than not, it influences and even directs me to do unspeakable things. Now I need to befriend it, if not outright subdue it, to make it do speakable (read: good according to society’s standards) things. To help me achieve all my ambitions, aspirations, and dreams. Together. Ew.
Speaking of which, my ultimate dream is to be able to prove useful to those who matter to me, break the bread and share the joys of life with them, and, on my deathbed, tell them, with an air of finality, “Drop my body at the nearest research hospital, would you please? Thank you. And go. Fuck. Your. Self.”
My penultimate dream, by the way, is to publish a book (or books?) that collects my thoughts and feelings, which may or may not leave a lasting impact on as many people as possible on this tiny blue dot of a planet. So… yep. I’ll settle for this.
