The Abracadabra of Silence

“There’s no illness at all, I simply got into a magic circle that I can’t get out of. It makes no difference to me. I’m ready for everything. I got into a magic circle. Now everything, even the genuine sympathy of my friends, leads to one thing—my perdition. I’m perishing and I have enough courage to realize it.”
“You’ll get well my friend.”
“Why say that?” Andrei Yefimych said vexedly. “It’s a rare man who doesn’t experience the same thing towards the end of his life as I am experiencing now. When you’re told that you have something like a bad kidney or an enlarged heart, and you start getting treated, or that you’re a madman or a criminal, that is, in short, when people suddenly pay attention to you, then you should know that you’ve gotten into a magic circle and you’ll never get out of it. If you try to get out, you’ll get more lost. Give up, because no human effort can save you. So it seems to me.”
—“Ward No. 6” / Anton Chekhov

No, I’m not dying though I’ve felt a bit like I am, and I haven’t been too criminal as of late, but in case you’re wondering, yes, I’ve been in a magic circle. Not a hula hoop despite a burgeoning underground hula hoop community, but definitely a magic circle. I might still be in it, but I feel like the way out might be just around the bend. Notice I used the word bend not corner, for indeed it is circular, whatever this is. For weeks now, if you were to ask me what day it is, I’d have no friggin’ clue. I’ve been marking post-hurricane time by which episode of which season of the Sopranos I’m on. I am keeping a brave face thanks to Netflix and the anxiety of a fictional middle-aged mobster.

Steve, a good friend and mentor recently observed “your last postings seem tortured and full of Kierkegaardian angst.” Of course I was flattered in some pathetically silly way, given that Kierkegaard, my patron saint of irreverence, struck such a fine balance between the absurdly serious and the seriously absurd. Yet I recognize that this particular balancing act I’ve been attempting to perform, and which has more teeter in it than it should, is merely symptomatic of spiritual crisis.

I have lost my voice inside that circle. I’ve had so many things to say and nothing to say at all, so I hope you won’t mind if I borrow the words of others to prove the existence of said magic circle.
Evidence #1. Steve, for example, was writing to share his and his wife’s experiences as an American Red Cross volunteer deployed to Baton Rouge:

Article Author: mpho

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