The Bronze Cast. Pam Stavropoulos

Ah but I’m improving.

      Slowly but surely.

      It’s a relief to yield to tiredness. Coffee notwithstanding, she sleeps almost as soon as turning out the light. Oblivious to another irony this time as she begins to drift off.

       I’m starting to fall asleep without thoughts of Luke.

      In the morning she will need to tell herself differently.

       In your dreams!

      In which Luke has again figured.

      `Unfinished business’ is the term.

      It sure feels like it.

      The morning air is mild as she walks to work. Relishing that luxury, as she rarely fails to do.

      Well-dressed commuters are forging a path in the opposite direction; sidewalk cafes are already doing a brisk trade. As she reaches the plaza area near St. John’s, alongside the fountain and the park, figures moving their bodies in graceful arcs and parabolas come into view.

      Members of the Chinese community, practising Falun Gong.

      She is intrigued by what seems to be as much art form as spiritual practice and exercise activity. But the sight also triggers memories of Shen, the Chinese asylum-seeker she had attempted to assist. Whose application for permanent residence is unlikely to be successful.

      Shen practises Falun Gong as well. Indeed he is a teacher of it. But the logistics of the law are such that he is unable to include that information in his visa application. The likely outcome of her limited involvement in his plight is almost too painful to think about.

      But preoccupies her anyway. She is aware, too, as she arrives to greet her first client, of the fragment of the dream she has again had about Luke.

      And which has lodged in her mind like shrapnel.

      `I had a dream last night’.

      `Oh yes?’

      She has long ceased to be surprised by coincidence.

      `Can you tell me about it?’

      He can and he does.

      In technicolour detail. It is filled with symbolism which is highly distracting.

      She is tempted to run with that. But knows better.

       Let the client lead. And focus on the feeling.

      `So how did you feel while you were dreaming?’

      `How did I feel?’

      He looks bemused. And also disconcerted. Her question has arrested the content description he has clearly enjoyed giving.

      A medium length pause.

      `I’m not sure’.

      `Try to describe what you felt’.

      And he does. Haltingly, the words less eloquent this time, the pace and flow less smooth.

      She feels more connected to his hesitation. Sees in it, as she hopes he will begin to, his potential for healing. In contrast to ideas and content, the emotional realm is less amenable to coherent expression. Because it is harder to articulate feeling.

      `I don’t know. Curiosity. Some excitement even. But also – embarrassment’.

      `Oh yes?’

      Definitely need to go with that. The reluctance of consciousness to own the less comfortable sensations.

      In which, if able to be tolerated, the best hope for healing resides.

      `I guess it reminded me of – ‘

      A reservoir of past experience and present attitudes to it opens up. Which engages them both for the remainder of the session. And which holds out the possibility of fruitful work for the next.

      When he leaves he looks quiet and thoughtful.

       3

      How can he communicate what had happened to him?

      To the extent that he has any idea. Even entertaining the question is a blow from which he recoils.

       What had happened to him ….

      Things weren’t meant to happen to him.

      He wasn’t a passive pawn in the face of life’s vagaries.

       Was that what he had become?

      He was meant to shape and control his own life-course.

      As he had always tried to do. As he is still exhausting himself in attempting. And which, considering what he is up against, he has gone some way towards achieving.

      He had been a good sportsman. And a good businessman. Still has his own small company, the maintenance of which requires effort he is now unable to summon.

      Every goal a personal challenge. And many of them attained.

      Except, it now seems, those that really matter.

      To feel connection. To know and be known.

       Why should things so basic be elusive to him?

      When he has accomplished what many would regard as much more difficult?

      If it was a matter of energy, ability, willpower – those capacities had always been strong in him. Given what he’d experienced, he probably couldn’t have survived without them.

      Although at this point, alarmingly, even survival seems ambitious.

      What he wants, needs, covets- and the more he wants it the less accessible it seems – is a sense of internal solidity.

      Some kind of self-acceptance.

      Some kind of (he almost laughs aloud at the word, but without humour) some kind of peace.

      Rather than withdrawing from contact (meaningful contact, not the vocabulary of commerce) he wants the affirmation of acceptance.

      Acceptance from at least some others. And - the prerequisite, he knows, to experiencing that- from his own beleaguered self. Instead his life is a navigation course, littered with obstacles (minefields, bloody IEDs) which only he can see.

      He isn’t the invisible man. Others are aware of his presence. And he can be assertive at times. But it is a presence that seems to have little to do with him.

       I don’t identify with that guy.

      The can-do operator who can fix everything but himself.

      The more I `achieve’, the less real I become.

      It’s as if I’m trying to override with `success’ a reality that is impervious to that method. I’m running faster, throwing further, jumping higher. But I’m not moving within myself.

      It’s as if my `real’ self – whatever that is, was, or could be – has petrified. Like a bronze cast, riveted to the spot, while some kind of imposter forges ahead.

       How can I communicate that?

      And how can I put words to the experience I suspect – fear – has given rise to it?

      A steady leaking of energy.

       My pilot light is going out.

      I need to do something about this while I still can. The alternative doesn’t bear thinking about.

      Escalating panic attacks at the side of the road until implosion.

      The bronze cast finally melted; a puddle on the street.

      He needs sustenance. But is midway through ordering when he remembers the coffee here isn’t good.

      Continues with the order anyway.