ALCHEMIES OF THE HEART. David Dorian

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      Echoes of Distant Bells

      A diary! It’s the motivation of memorialists to expose themselves and seek absolution. They don’t know what they should be redeemed from. They can’t escape a perpetual malaise at the core of their being. After Freud, journal writers became engaged in self-analysis emboldened by a new arsenal. They excavated the strata of the self in quest of repressed trauma.

      In this present autobiography of the last three years of my life, I won’t ignore distasteful details or enshrine triumphs. I’ll flagrantly divulge my sins. Confessions lead to torture chambers. Every journal writer is a mini Freud; every diary keeper, a lay analyst. Freud practiced self-analysis throughout his life, self-examining his emotions, unconscious thoughts, latent desires. My discovery of this mentalist was a hand grenade thrown at the fortress of my self. I delved into his writings with the sacred curiosity and saintly eagerness of a pilgrim on the road to Damascus.

      *****

      My wife was appreciating my good spirit which had replaced my intermittent cynicism. This anonymous Asian woman I had visited a few times was altering my mood by soothing my pulmonary discomfort and alleviating my innate discontent.

      An inner revolution had started. This Oriental agent provocateur threw a Molotov cocktail on my ramparts. She helped me overthrow myself.

      *****

      My wife traveled to Washington, DC, to help decorate her sister’s apartment.

      I drove to the city. The air on Fifth Avenue reeked of car exhaust fumes and women’s perfume.

      The elevator groaned as it struggled to the ninth floor. The elderly Chinese lady ushered me in. She took my hand and squeezed it.

      I undressed and lay down in the massage table.

      Her moist fingers unleashed a torrent cascading down my chest, loosening gnarled muscles, pulverizing recalcitrant nerves, unearthing obstructing rocks, uprooting petrified roots. The stream of effervescent feelings turned into a river rushing toward a waterfall. My body, now liquefied, fell into the abyss of the white rapids. A sudden serenity permeated every molecule of my epidermis. I was nudged by a gentle current like a sailboat caressed by temperate winds. The benevolent tide escorted me to a large estuary, and the drift deposited me on a protruding coral bank covered with soft aquamarine grass.

      I left that massage session with a stillness and emptiness. My chest kept improving, getting stronger after each encounter with my nurse. Everyone has had, at any given moment, an extraordinary experience which will be for him, because of the memory of it he preserves, the crucial stimulus to his inner modification. Memories of college poetry courses I had taken during a summer session at Columbia University emerged. Poetic lines read by an inspired teacher trickled. The words from the Persian poet Al Ghazali echoed:

      Are you ready to cut off your head and place your foot on it? The cost of the elixir of love is your head. Do you hesitate?

      *****

      This journal would start a dialogue with myself and build new relationships with other parts of my soul. This salvage operation within myself could retrieve sunken ships. It’s through conversations that truths are revealed. Suspects are exposed while chatting. Writing could be a start of a new liaison with myself. It’s still better than slashing my wrists with a rusted razor.