2004-12-27
The Red Dust
...What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, you cannot say, or guess, for you know only a heap of broken imges, where the sun beats, and the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, and the dry stone no sound of water. Only there is shadow under this red rock, (come in under the shadow of this red rock), and I will show you something different from either your shadow at morning striding behind you or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust...
My favorite excerpt from "The Waste Land". In the dark depths of night I walk about my room--ever since I first read it--and recite that single excerpt aloud.
Tsao Hsueh-Chin's Dream of the Red Chamber regards this mortal world as "The Red Dust"--the world of chaos and pain and lies and deceit. This Red Dust is what cloaks us as night and embraces us in the morning sun.
Reading that particular excerpt for the first time, I thought that the Red Rock is in some ways like our Red Dust. When the tempestuous misery falls upon us...there is always a small bit of succor that can be found. I imagine an old, decrepit man--white hair strands growing out of his glossed scalp like vines--pruned, long fingers gripped to a gnarled wooden staff--whose eye looks into mine:
...Only there is shadow under this red rock...
He will say to me, telling me of the small bit of succor left in this Red Dust.
...Come in under the shadow of this red rock...
He urges. Can we find peace within the shadows?
I have always thought that true peace can be found only in death. I think about dying--the idea allures me--because of the peace that can be found. Last autumn was the time to kill myself--I wanted to.
What holds me back--evidence that I'm not ready--are thoughts of those whom I love. Alastair told me that if ever I should commit suicide, he'd hate me until his own natural death.
Not only would you be the weak one, but you'd have also betrayed me--an ultimate betrayal
He said to me once.
My mother only cried when I told her what I wanted to do. I don't do these things because of her--I love her.
After finding out about my mother's illness last week, these urges are coming back all too soon.
And I tossed and turned last night, wondering why I am so unhappy. Through sobs I realized--once more--that she is the only thing I have in the Red Dust.
When the terra firma shatters beneath me, I shall fall for an eternity.
And I just kept sobbing when I told Al. When I was small, my mother would take me to the store and I'd always hold on to her for fear of losing her. When I didn't see her, I'd begin to wail and scream and saw no end--no light--no shadow.
That's how I used to cry when small--uncontrollably with sharp, violent gasps between words. I would try my best to be coherent when adults would kneel and take my black curls in their hans and ask, "What's wrong?"
It felt like that. I felt like I was five again: standing and sobbing with my boyfriend as he kneeled down and asked, "What's wrong? Are you going to lose your mommy?"
My greatest fear has always been loss. And losing her signifies the end of me. I'd rather...die, and would. Not caring about Alastair or my young sister or my father--I'd take my own life were she to die.
I don't like telling others my most intimate feelings, thoughts, and fears. I've always thought that it would take a very strong soul to handle me.
Simply...I do not wish to be near others anymore. Slowly, I'm drawing inside a strong shell--the shadow under the red rock. Shall I try to fix my heap of broken images?
The cricket sings, yet I can't hear him.