The Curse of Vision

There.

Here's a warning I intend to heed from here out:

DO NOT climb Bradbury Mountain in record time (19:20 per mile, if you're asking), go home, clean up, have a burrito then head to tango practica expecting to dance full on.

Actually it took me about 15 minutes of sitting on my own in the corner before I realized I should probably dance while I was there.

One tanda. One.

Then straight into the floor.

When I first heard the music while coming up the stairs I was already struggling with whether I had the energy to handle what has usually been a big, bright, hot room full of people and loud music - fortunately the holiday seems to have cut down the crowd to half normal size.

I seem to remember some people talking to me but I had pretty much left the room when I walked in the door.

What happened was the peculiar (well for others) affect that takes over my consciousness sometimes when I'm watching people dance. I hear the music and see the dancer's motions but superimposed on it is a mesmerizing vision controlled by the music I hear.

It's like watching a double-exposed film and there is (sometimes) a moment when I can choose to follow that vision or stay within the room - and if I'm tired I have no choice, it takes me over and I usually sit like a mannikin, lost to the world or anyone in it.

After a while my own creativity takes over and I'm writing music - or working it out for processing later - in my head and two pieces of music - mental and aural - are perking along together.

At other times when the room and people and noise get to me first I can be overwhelmed by sensing it all. People really frighten me a lot of the time if I'm tired or preoccupied or just feel I'm not in the right place - even wearing the wrong clothes or bringing the wrong food to a potluck dinner.

It's a truly stomach-turning, near vomit-inducing, terrifying feeling, like the room is ganging up on me - which happened when I was a child, in Mrs. Johnstone's music class, of course. I made the mistake of telling my multi-age classmates that I liked "Winnie the Pooh and the Blustery Day" and they all ganged up on me, chasing me into the corner while Mrs. J was out of the room - one warning from the lookout and suddenly I was alone, cringing at the piano, out of my chair during a teacher absence.

That's the most memorable incident. There were lot's of others.

Today I suspect educators would be able to handle it but back in the Sixties I didn't have a prayer.

So people scare me sometimes. Not always but I have to watch myself. I've been known to sit in a catatonic state in the doorway, or a room, for an entire evening; leave in the middle of a milonga for no good reason (which can be the best of reasons if you pay attention).

But I'm surrounded by friends who know when I'm up my tree, for whatever reason and trust that I'll climb down when I feel the coast is clear. Sometimes it's the same night, sometimes not.

My late friend and confidante Eckart Horn told me during one particularly dangerous time back at the end of my public school teaching days that he knew what was wrong with me.

In his light German accent he said, "You have the curse of vision".

"I beg your pardon?" was my reply.

"When you think of somethink or feel somethink you zee it completely whole and perfect. Your vision is so clear that reality almost cannot compete with it - especially your friends.

"And you cannot communicate it.

"Because you zee vhat can be - what YOU can be - and you know you are not perfectly expressing that vision - you think everyone else sees the same fault - which really isn't a fault.

"You know, you really should believe what you tell my kids - your dreams can come true".

He was right.

I see and feel everything so strongly, people are so clear to me - I can't tell you the number of times my intensity has made people uncomfortable.

I know I can see it happening, probably before they do but, to quote Ray Bradbury, "to a man who's never seen an elephant a bug under the microscope is the most terrifying thing on Earth".

What seems like a bug to most people - or just a regular thing - seems like a huge, big deal to me.

It's been suggested that medication might help but  I don't want to give up the joy and beauty I see in order to escape the fear and pain.

I think, down deep inside, there is a basic safe place that is who I am - really, truly.

I was privileged to be Madeleine L'Engle's guide when she did a quiet day at St. Luke's - about two weeks after her husband, Hugh Grant, had died. While we chatted - she was a delight - I thanked her for writing "A Wrinkle In Time" because it had protected something deep inside me that I could bring out once I had finally cried enough tears.

A hug from Madeleine is something special - she was really Mrs. Whatsit, you know.

So maybe the ice is made of tears - it has to form and crack enough times for all of the life hidden in the ocean below to come to the surface.... and the curse of vision is just me going back to look for something that was already there.

I only know that I am very very lucky to know so many people, so many things, that are worth loving.

And I do, you know. I love you all.


Portland, Maine