I acknowledge the feverishness of my new mental illness
-- Helene Cixous,
A postcard which never turns up, wedged under a frayed door,obscured by a dusty wooden table leg, in an abandoned houseabout to be foreclosed. A postcard forgotten or never sent. Apostcard only dreamt about. A postcard never written, butrehearsed until somebody goes mad, featuring a mysteriousold stone building with a starving child in front of it wearing ared torn sweater on a post-war street with large grey potholes.A postcard which can never be written, to which ink won'tadhere, refused by a post office due to profanity or insufficientpostage (may I recite the catalog of insufficiencies?) whosestamps fell off or which dropped into a grey gutter during arecent typhoon (like this one) instead of the mail carrier'swhite pouch and falls out of holes in dirty red bent metalmailboxes. A postcard with an illegible address, addressed toor by someone in a non-existent country, like this one, writtenby somebody dead (as dead as the non-existent doorknobs onthe
dividing us) perhaps myself.
Here I am in this goddessforsaken country, my every moveclosely inspected by a shadowy mysteriously uniformedgovernment, prevented from crossing any more borders,especially the ones I've already managed to cross withoutexactly dying. This makes me very cross indeed, as I want toretrace my mistaken steps til I go mad, so mad that I fling onthe restaurant conveyer belt sushi I've half eaten whileassigning random grades to students in my English classesbased on the 2nd letter of their non-existent middle names.After wielding my large pink and white Hello Kitty alarmclock until it shatters in plastic bits adhering to the brownsticky sparkly stucco bedroom wall, it continues to shriek atme in Japanese (
mada da ne? OKITE! -
- still asleep? GETUP!) every morning, as if that were possible, as if anybodywould be capable of moving in this intense July heat even aninch or a centimeter. Yet somehow I manage to unstick myself