The Continuing Rising of Waters

The Continuing Rising of Waters

For as the sea rushes to the shore and we are buffeted by its
waves, we again become familiar with the play of the mind.

2

“I see the words,” he said to me, “but I’m not sure what they mean. Should I study them?
“Why? There’s nothing to be read in them “But,” he said, and did I detect a bit wistfully? “in this place, one never knows.”
“Is this what you believe?”
Wistfullness became a full grin, and he repeated, “One never knows.”

3

The asylum stands in its majesty, a sentinel amidst the wheat and corn fields of the countryside. He still thought is something to remark upon; that this imposing structure should be here. Over time, and it was a gradual process, he could see the singular benefit of this. The patients, and he did feel those he was charged with bridged the definition of “patient,” could feel secure in their seclusion, away from vindictiveness against the ill and the confused, where the grounds of the asylum could be theirs. He, too, shared in this benefit; this was a very aesthetic and rewarding place to work.
Small and he thought somewhat macabre, the asylum had its own cemetery, and it provided a final alternative for two groups of residents. There were those placed in the asylum’s care and who were forgotten and so were buried within its confines. Then there were those who, for one reason or another, preferred burial here. He enjoyed his walks here among the dead; it was greatly conducive to thinking. He didn’t always enjoy the thinking it led to, the pains it sometimes afforded him, pains he thought were his due to endure, but the rewards he found in this place were enough to surmount it.
Some of the asylum’s residents were quite well healed, others were poor, and some were in fact sick. He sometimes struggled with the temptation to feel sorrow for these sick, never forgetting they were people and not just names occupying space. He was good at meeting struggles, and he prided himself in this. It was one thing he could take pride in.
Of the many stories the walls of the asylum testified to, one had the most meaning for him. He would like to say something else; maybe the most mysterious or the saddest, but this story over time had become part of him, allowing him to feel he had compromised his position. Not the first time had had felt such a thing; this, as on the other occasions, it passed. But what man, when he was given to speech, would deny himself? The woman involved, and he had a good laugh over that because stories about women were prevalent here, probably gave his story more of a relevance to him. The story was, at the very least, entertaining.
The man who told it seemed to believe it, and this was very strange. He killed the woman out of love for her, certainly not anything he hadn’t heard in this place, but then she spoke to him. And he believed this! If anything was sad about this case, this was it.
Stories were the life-blood of this place; their routine welcome, if predictable. For some, a tolerable life here was all that could be asked for, and he recognized the sharing of these stories was a necessary thing, but there were many times, especially when these stories were told over and over again, when routine became agonizing. He found escape among the beautiful things of the asylum’s grounds to be comforting. He could spend time with himself there, but more often than not his work followed him out of the asylum. His “reward,” he supposed.
His present “escape” from the routine of the asylum allowed for further thoughts of the resident he had come to believe as his most curious. This man’s assertions that he did not belong here, that he could leave of his own accord at any time, were among the reasons why he was kept here. He did not make acquaintances well, preferring his own company. He did not speak much, and when he did his words testified that his place in the asylum was well justified. To some of those in this place, his silence was reason enough. He kept himself away from, maybe even was afraid of, associations; this was what was said of him. He did have a vivid imagination, an imagination that was broadcast as real, an imagination that was at times scary. Perhaps it was best he kept to himself.
A person has to suffer from something curable to be cured of anything; he had long used this as the basis for his work. But to this man, “cure” was a word that did not apply. He said he killed people, and no one in this place was ready to say he didn’t. To the staff of the asylum who were aware of his fantasies, nothing was done to discourage them. To the residents who believed his stories as much as he did, he was viewed as a talked about member of the asylums “family.”
He was part of them, and, for his benefit, with them he would stay. The asylum was used to him. Under suspicion was whether his stories would be welcomed in the world outside of this place. He might be thought of “not all there” and be sent to a metal asylum.

4

It’s true that I don’t belong here. I tell everyone here it is. Some here say they don’t believe me, and I can understand them saying this, but I tell you I do not lie. It is they who lie to me.
I am happy with my life here, and although it is in my power to leave, there is no reason for me to do so. I keep to myself as much as I can, because I feel this is what is wanted from me. When I do find myself among the residents – my fellow captors – I am pleased to entertain them. We provide amusement and support for each other. The truth is I can tolerate being here better than most of them.
I have no idea how long I’ve been here, nor do I know of anything that matters less. It’s a matter of some amusement to me why people wonder about things that don’t matter. Perhaps it’s the wondering more than the reasons why gives them satisfaction. Thinking about things that don’t matter might be easier and less challenging for them; yes, it might be so, but then it really doesn’t matter.
Does anything matter? Sometimes I want to say no, but then that would be dishonest. Being here can be trying for me, but I manage to live well enough. That’s enough for me. But I feel tired now, and I shall rest awhile. Perhaps I will leave for another place. Have I contradicted something I said earlier? If I have, let it be so.

5
“You saw the words the same as I. Why do you suppose they were written?”
“Look around you.”
“Walls. Corridors. Rooms.”
“Yes. Not much room in here for stimulation.”
“So the words were written out of a desire to find some.”
“That’s what I would theorize.”
“The question is who were they written by?”
“I wonder how much that should matter.”
“Yes,” he said, glancing away, wanting his irritation to be observed. “If we discover who said them we could learn why they were said.”
“I suppose.”
He wasn’t sure why he was unwilling to share his current thinking; perhaps there was no reason beyond not wanting to be overruled, especially by someone he considered of less authority. It did matter who the words were written by, and he was confident he knew who that individual was. Could there be any more than one candidate, the very same person with whom he shared a certain history? It mattered not in the least why he had come to be in the asylum, or that he preferred a solitary life within its walls, but his belief that his stories were real and his glorification in them, made him the perfect, and indeed the only, candidate for this. Even with this, it was this last phrase, we again become familiar with the play of the mind, which gave him interest.
To express such a thought within the confines of these halls was impressive. This man wasn’t serving himself well, but he was protected from the world outside, enough justification for his being here. This man, this “patient,” was a gift to the asylum, a thing that was, in varying degrees, disturbing to him.

6: Oceans

I don’t know why I seem so tired lately. Perhaps it’s living in this place, time piling up, but this is a speculation that doesn’t satisfy me. My captors are troubled y my presence here, of this I am certain. They are not telling me the truth, and this I don’t understand. They say I have not done the things I know I’ve done. If this asylum is supposed to be a healing place, I would think speaking the truth is what they would want. I think they do want me here, and I want to be here; it’s a bit fascinating to me that I do when I can leave this place at any time. They tell me, maybe because it’s a comfort to them, that I can’t; it is they who don’t want to recognize the truth.
The sky is angry tonight, and I think is it angry with me? A preposterous thought, but this asylum, with its dark and lonely walls, is well ordered for preposterous thoughts. Skies, with their sometimes full and sometimes thin clouds, have become my friends, to join the night in offering me friendship. In so far as they listen to me and give me no reason to think ill of them, those who share this place with me also benefit from my friendship. It is difficult sometimes to distinguish the keepers from those they keep; a minor observation but, in this place, a truthful one. But here I sit, the sky angered and calling me to unknown pleasures, the best kind, and I am feeling happy. Happiness is a gift often given me, and in this antiseptic environment, this I am most appreciative of. My decision to leave the asylum, aided by the promises of cool night air and the sounds of creatures, was good for me. But I shall go back after a time because the asylum, its emptiness despite its population ensnaring me, is my home. And home is too much of a good thing to ever leave behind. Until then, the wind blows cool and the nighttime creatures call to each other and to me, and good feelings are with me. Why should I go back? No, no, I’ve been through this before. I know where I want to be, where my family is, and knowing beats the hell out of not knowing. I feel necessary inside the walls of the asylum. I suppose this is why I never wish to stray far from it. The bird and freshness of the outside, the confused and needy souls of the inside, the later is my prize, and my satisfaction. I choose between two worlds, I’m glad I can.
That’s it. I’m done.