Xavier and the Great Depression

“Focus.”

Somewhere between the insomnia, the brain fog, the throbbing heat between his temples and the car alarm outside Xavier was trying to access a file in his mind that wasn’t corrupt. When the futility of this became apparent he would seek refuge in sleep, sometimes for twenty or more hours at a time.

This of course was not conducive to holding a full time job and his psychiatrist had diagnosed him with clinical depression. He thought he was lucky to have spent 15 years paying his taxes to a socialist state whereas elsewhere he would have soon become one of the faceless shadows that lurk the subways and alleys of cities such as this. At least here he was able to maintain the dignity of going mad in the solitude of his own home.

“The satellites can read your mind,” his neighbour Edgar mumbled to himself as he trimmed the rosebush in the communal garden. In a way, it was a comfort to have a neighbour that was more mad than he was. Depression seemed a logical state in comparison, the inevitable consequence of a world increasingly filled with chaos and despair, whereas Edgar was in a world completely disconnected from causes or consequences or any logical sequence of events.

“They can influence your entire psyche, you know,” Edgar proclaimed in his loud stage whisper, the shaking shears in his hands making the statement all the more ominous, “It’s the microwaves, they penetrate the molecules of your body.”

“Your roses are looking very healthy this year,” Xavier remarked as he shut the window to concentrate on his own universe of misery.

Everything leading to this state of affairs seemed a blur. Now all that existed was this room, his cat curled up on the armchair and the sliver of sun from the gap in the curtain slicing a beam of amber light onto the radiator. The stillness had a life of its own and if his mind could mimic this scene then perhaps he could find some peace and clarity. The telephone ring broke his meditative state.

“Hello, is this Xavier Peters?” the urgent male voice inquired.

“Yes”

Then just as abruptly the caller hung up. Whatever it was, which sounded of the utmost importance was now hanging in the air. Was he trying to sell something? Had someone died? Was he from the benefits office, calling to check if he was depressed enough? Unanswered questions perturbed Xavier and the only answer was another cup of tea.

Across the street from his kitchen window was St. Denys Bookshop, a theological bookstore that had been there for nearly thirty years. There wasn’t a day that went by that someone didn’t go into this shop and now that times were getting harder there wasn’t an hour that went by without someone walking through its doors. Yet everyone he knew was an atheist. Most of the local churches were either empty or half full of sleeping pensioners trying to save on heating bills. Who were these holy people?

Beside it was a five story building that had been newly constructed three years earlier but remained empty ever since. There had been a problem with the electricity supply ever since construction was completed but somehow nothing had been done to remedy this. Once every month or so the owner, a fat Indian man with a clipboard would go into the building with a couple of builder types and conduct some sort of inspection which never seemed to resolve the issue. Sometimes in the middle of the night Xavier thought he could detect movement on the top floor and thought that perhaps squatters were making use of the empty space.

At least he could throw some perspective on his situation from the less fortunate specimens around him. He wasn’t talking to rosebushes, he didn’t have to squat in an abandoned building and he wasn’t desperately searching for spiritual enlightenment in some dusty corner of a bookshop. He was mentally ill in a normal reparable way, the consequence of unfortunate circumstances and a chemical imbalance that could hopefully soon be remedied.

In Xavier’s state of mind the simplest everyday task had become a monumental effort. He had devised a method to help counteract the paralysis of his dulled mind, he had taken to counting and mentally cataloguing every step of each task he undertook regardless of how simple the activity might seem. This way he would never leave anything undone unless it was by design.

“Cup of tea, step number one. Place water in the electric kettle. Step number two, turn on the kettle. Step number three, get a mug from the cabinet. Step number four, get a teabag from the jar. Step number five, get a teaspoon from the tray. Step number six, scoop a lump of sugar from the jar into the mug. Step number seven, pour the boiled water into the mug. Step number eight, remove teabag. Step number nine, add milk.”

It was the analysis of each task broken down into it’s components that made him appreciate the complexity of everyday things and feel a sense of achievement in the mundane. The engineering involved in the making of a simple cup of tea culminated in his sense of accomplishment for this hour. In the grip of the worst clinical depression there are some people who don’t even leave their bed to defecate, Xavier thought to himself. Not only can I make a cup of tea but I’ve never soiled myself.

The abandoned building across the street was a shoddily constructed modern red brick monstrosity only marginally better than the ditch of rancid water that once stood in its place. Xavier thought surely the owner would make more money by cutting his losses and knocking it down to sell the land. It was bizarre that this construction on a prime piece of city centre real estate was sitting idle when surely there would be a queue of buyers waiting to hand over good cash for a location such as this.

This evening he could once again see what appeared to be the reflection of a flashlight on a metallic surface on the second floor. There appeared to be movement in the shadows but it was difficult to tell whether this was an exterior reflection on the window pane or someone moving inside. The ugliness of the building made it almost invisible to passers by, the best camouflage for any sort of unsavoury activity. The architectural equivalent of the banality of evil.

Xavier wished he had someone like Grace Kelly to peer through the curtains with him but in the desolate darkness of his apartment he had only the cat beside him. It’s pupils widened as more movement appeared, proof that there must be more to it than just his imagination. Animals have a heightened sense of awareness in situations where the normal senses are limited.

He had read several weeks earlier that someone had been running a drug processing plant in the attic of their semi-detached. Perhaps this was such a place, or perhaps it was a laboratory for the more exotic chemical concoctions sold on the mean streets to throngs of desperate addled thrill seekers.

Or perhaps not. Maybe it was simply a homeless person trying to keep warm for the night. Calling the police would simply mean turning him or her out into the streets, a pointless waste of time and effort. He couldn’t make the phone call without being certain that something was definitely amiss. That would involve Step One; leaving his chair, Step Two; getting dressed, Step Three; turning on the alarm, Step Four; opening and locking the front door, Step Five; entering the building, possibly by force, Step Six; walking up the stairs and Step Seven; encountering a hostile, possibly violent individual who either wants to evade the law or simply get a decent nights sleep. The variables and the effort involved made this an undesirable prospect for the evening. So Xavier decided to simply sit and wait. Only two steps involved.

As Xavier watched for more signs of movement his consciousness started to drift until he was in a deep sleep punctuated by the flicker of his eyelids signalling his surrender to the world of his sub conscience. It was now that the work could begin.

Dr. Catticus Schrödinger was the best experimental psychologist of his species. He seldom communicated with humans directly unless they were already marginalised, like their neighbour Edgar who could handle the truth because in his view it didn’t conflict with any false mental construct of the world.

The doctor’s specialty was brainwashing and his role as a nocturnal creature was a perfect cover. As humans are more susceptible to suggestion in sleep his experiments would always commence after sundown.

Experience had taught Catticus that human nature is like mercury and they were by far without a doubt the most unpredictable species on the planet. Unfortunately they also held all other life forms to ransom with their whims and destructive nature and as long as they were in charge no other creature could count on their own continued survival. Therefore something had to be done and his organisation was in charge of regime change of the surreptitious nature, secrecy was of the utmost importance so the invisible war could be waged without resistance.

Xavier was an excellent subject for experimentation. He slept virtually three quarters of his life and confined himself to a controlled environment. His movements were easy to monitor and his diet rarely varied. He was on a medication that did not have any adverse reactions with the psychotropic drugs Catticus administered in his evening meals.

The power of suggestion is an amazing way to control most humans, who are at best feeble minded and easy to influence and at worst prone to reactions of extreme psychosis. Catticus knew he was constantly treading a fine line but he was in expert in the field of mind manipulation. The changes had to be gradually implemented as not to upset the delicate balance of the fragile human psyche.

The most important element of this regime was the volume and inflection of the whisper. Catticus had to position himself directly by the humans ear to achieve the most effective frequency to entrain their neural pathways. If a subject was overweight or a sleepwalker this could be a very perilous state of affairs.

“Xavier…your enemies live amongst you and conspire to eradicate the menial comforts that make your miserable existence vaguely tolerable.” It was always best to start with the good news.

“There will come a time when you will have to mobilise against the dark forces of oppression. You may find that you might have to venture out of your home to do this but do not fear, there is a universe beyond this existence that will welcome you when the time comes.”

The street lamp flickered outside and emitted a short sharp buzz before extinguishing. There was movement amidst the shadows in the red brick building across the way and Catticus paused to check for signs of hostility. Espionage was a precarious game for the average human and no mean feat for a foot and a half tall feline.

The souls of certain individuals are not dissimilar to cats and Xavier was such a person. He was easy to placate with food and warmth, sleep was his primary activity and craved peace above all else. Really he was a cat trapped in the body of a human, which might explain why he suffered clinical depression amidst all the expectations and conflicts that humanity inflicted upon itself.

After several minutes of silence Catticus could sense that there was no risk of intrusion and once again commenced the subconscious alteration of the subject in his nocturnal laboratory .

© Naomi C. Pattirane 2009

Yumi and the Imperceptable Road to Hell

“Most people in this world are happy to come home from work, eat, drink, watch television and they don’t care about anything else in life. Only about ten percent of people, maybe less care about personal freedom”

Something about what Pedro said, despite his broken English struck a chord in Yumi. Up until the age of 33 she was one of these people, albeit against her will. She was on a never-ending treadmill of living to work 60 to70 hours a week and her fuel was fear. She was an immigrant and felt she had to slave twice as hard to justify her existence.

Now many years later, a divorce and a nervous breakdown later she realised that for so many years she never took a holiday, never enjoyed life and settled in the wrong place. The boulder of Sisyphus had been chained to her neck by the corporate conglomerate to which she sold her youth, answering queries for the customer services department of Hell Incorporated.

“You’re being exploited,” said the voice at the other end of the line. She didn’t understand why a man ordering navy pants in 1999 would want to tell her this.

“You’re being exploited and you should leave this job.”

“Would you like to hear about our special offers?” Yumi implored with a vague sense of panic.

“You don’t understand the extent to which you are being controlled, every moment of your life. Your world is being manipulated in ways you cannot comprehend.”

“Do you have any queries about your account?” she desperately needed to get this man off the line before her supervisor told her off about conversing with dementia patients again. The previous week she had a half an hour chat with a man who thought he had invented radar.

“You may choose to ignore me now but one day you will realise the truth.”

“Well, Mr. Jones, thank you for shopping with us and your pants will be with you in eight to ten days. Goodbye.”

At that time in her life she felt the constant adrenaline of fear in every corner of my life. She felt as if something were chasing her but couldn’t define precisely what it was and she frequently had the sensation of losing vast amounts of time when only minutes had passed. Food was also an enemy to Yumi, something that felt almost as if it were a contaminant. She would buy endless containers of disinfectant to keep her empty kitchen cabinets germ free but rarely did she buy any goods to fill them.

Now that she was no longer bound to her monotonous job or a permanent home, her travels fulfilled her quest for personal freedom. Although she barely had the money to do so she managed to find menial jobs in each town she travelled to, enough to keep her fed but often not sufficient enough to find a roof over her head. She found that the safest alternative was to sleep at airports, which were far cleaner and safer than train stations or parks. Frequently she would stay at communes such as this and share the gardening and daily chores in exchange for a bed or floor surface. Pedro was a fellow commune dweller and world wanderer in search of his own possibly non-existent utopia that he might finally claim as home.

“Stop thinking about the past,” he whispered over Yumi’s shoulder as she dried the dishes. This broke her moment of reflection.

“How did you know what I was thinking?”

Pedro smiled in his all-knowing way and for a moment she thought she felt him answer without words but she reasoned this must be a figment of her overactive imagination.

“Universal consciousness,” Pedro chimed.

“Is that what it is? Or perhaps I’m too obviously running away from my past. Maybe my seams are starting to fray.”

Pedro was the free spirit type that Yumi had once despised. He had never held a real job in his life and did not understand what her quest was about, he had no context with which to measure personal growth or transformation because freedom was a luxury he took for granted.

In the evening Yumi took a solitary walk down to the field of windmills, the large metallic monoliths seemed to possess a life of their own in the night sky, their sharp blades slicing through the constellations emitted a low drone that seemed to come from the bowels of the earth. This field could provide energy for the three adjoining towns but harnessing the power of the wind made the landscape look as if it were taken over by an army of robotic triffids prepared to wreak havoc on all of nature. It was difficult to feel the sense of peace she sought out here alone.

Perhaps the truth was too painful to deal with and her wanderlust was a distraction from the world of aspiration and failure that she found after migrating so many miles to stay in one pointless place for so long. She was no longer sure what constituted happiness or whether she would even recognise it if she found it.

Under the night sky Yumi reflected to herself; we are living in the age of the sound byte, but the byte is getting smaller and smaller until one day it will be reduced to a quark and everything we have left of civilisation and consciousness will be deleted from this corner of the universal hard drive.

© Naomi C. Pattirane 2009