Regeneration X (4 page)

“I
have no idea what I would rather be doing.” I can think of at least five things
. After a long moment of silence, she asked, “Michael, do you care what I think? I mean do you ever want to know what I think? Because you don’t ask.”

“Of course I care, but you usually tell me what you’re thinking. I don’t have to ask. Besides, I know the way you think by the questions you ask.”

Hmm, here I thought I did most of the talking to myself
. “Okay, so don’t you wonder if I feel as if I’m walking in place?”

“I know you feel this way, six ways to Sunday.”

“Then is there anything you’ve been thinking about? Anything you’d want to talk about?” she asked pushing and pulling to have a conversation.

“Uh oh. I think I see another project coming on. We could talk about the 17th-Century still-life movement in Europe, because right now, this is what I’m dealing with. Speaking of, I have some papers to grade. I’ll think about something more interesting and get back to you.” He smiled, got up, and beckoned Fergus to follow him. “Come on Fergus, you can pose as an eggplant.”

Charley giggled as she mentally transformed Fergus into a black vegetable. “If you’re on the subject for a while, I could pose for you.”

“Next time, carrot-top.”

“Where’s that come from anyway, I guess the green part doesn’t count? Besides, I’m not orange either.”

“And you’re more spicy than sweet, so radish-top.”

“Hey! Spicy or not, I’m not squat or round. I’m what you call
almost
petite. I’d rather be a carrot.”

“My call and radish top, you will remain.”
 

As their regular bit of togetherness time and the evening came to a close, she looked forward to snuggling up with her cashmere throw in the club chair. She retreated to her sanctuary to contemplate her minute existence in this century as Michael moved along to his study to consider the influence of art on the world and his students.

Just before settling down, it occurred to her she should at least prep her canvas tonight. The gesso would take some time to dry; she would be able to start on her mental masterpiece tomorrow or Saturday.

Inez was right, of course, the preparations surely delayed getting an idea out.

Chapter Three

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

To the last syllable of recorded time;

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death.

—William Shakespeare,
Macbeth (5.5)

・
・
・

WHEN POINT OF VIEW ON HEALTH, (POV)—an online magazine focused on healthcare concepts, innovations, and opinions—was launched in 2011, it was a small publication with a simple mission: to publish peer-review articles on current medical practices. It was started by Levy Mason, a former naturopathic physician-turned-publisher. Charley began working for Levy and POV as an editor shortly after its debut.

Since then, the magazine had evolved into a respected source, covering numerous broad topics and, in this way; it was similar to a newspaper. Each issue would contain brief articles, which cursorily introduced a variety of concepts, but the same issue would also include up to five in-depth articles from the preceding issue’s short topics. Of course, the magazine incorporated scientific advancements and technologies, and allo- versus naturopathic approaches; but it also addressed healthcare topics as they relate to society, finance, marketing, and politics. They even regularly published a segment on nutrition and its consequential effects on quality of life.

Twelve years later, now its long-time editor-in-chief, Charley contributed roughly 60 hours of focus to
POV
every week. This morning she was editing an article on Vitamin K deficiency, written by renowned nutritionist and regular contributor, Dr. Amar Parikh, as well as mediating a couple of topics on android implant interference, which had flooded the magazine’s concept forum with responses. Later a meeting with Levy would likely lead to an eventful afternoon of sessions with the section editors and strategists, as well as implementation follow-up meeting with the production team.

Needless to say, she had plenty of work to keep her busy and once she got started, she got to it, day after day. Although she was usually engrossed with the task at hand, she also had no problem stopping at just the right time, even if it was mid-task; the problem being, the most opportune time usually ended up being well into the evening.

All in all, she found her work stimulating, but it was not necessarily enjoyable or fulfilling. She appreciated learning about healthcare, contributing to the magazine, and accepted the awareness her position bestowed—even though she oftentimes disagreed with principle practices and found much of it disturbing. While she tried not to be envious of others insomuch as wishing she had their wealth or possessions, she did envy Michael for effectively navigating to his career and having had the foresight to know how to get to where he wanted to be professionally.

As far as a being a contributing member of society, she had no qualms, since providing
POV
’s readers with useful information was a worthwhile endeavor. She took consolation in this. But like with Michael, she didn’t understand how some people just knew, in advance the direction to take—to be able to contribute and still be personally fulfilled. Most children of her generation and earlier grew up imagining,
I want to be … a rocket scientist … an athlete … a doctor … a singer
. Some children were much more specific,
I want to be like … Wernher von Braun … Michael Jordan … Dr. Sanjay Gupta … … Beyoncé
. But, how many actually fulfilled their dream without being diverted?

For adults those fantasies were long past and each person had to work with the experience and skills they had to offer. For this reason, she’d considered teaching an online composition course at a community college to shift the focus of her career, but it seemed much the same as riding a train on a parallel track. She decided this avenue was not for her.

She wished she’d focused her attentions on content as a means of providing joy, not just information. If she were qualified to teach literary textual analysis courses there would have been no debate. An escape from reality was right up her alley. Even better would be if she could teach literature at a university with fellow academics in a brick and mortar environment, but again she was too far removed from this scenario. In fact, there were so few opportunities like this now, even for qualified candidates. Even more discouraging was that online courses were the norm. A lot had changed since she’d been in school; the wonderful old options had become little by little, impossible while different byways were more probable. Nowadays aspirations were,
I want to be like … Nathan Kidd in the movie ‘Damned Good’ … the founder of HaloYou, Tomek Wysocki … or the first person to create a complete alternate world theme
. This was reality.
 

As she did for the hundredth time, Charley blocked out the discontent she felt and carried on.

December 1, 2024

I painted a portrait of myself gazing down on the world from a mountain peak. My eyes were cast out on the beauty, complexity, roughness, and toughness of the cliffs and valleys. The mountains looked realistic and majestic, almost the way I remember them. I, however, translated on canvas, came out faded, transient, and incompatible with my environment.

I’m not an especially skilled painter, but the juxtaposition of the profound and the ordinary came through quite clearly, I think.

I haven’t been officially diagnosed with depression. I’m afraid and disturbed by the possibility. Because I’m not satisfied with my life, I’ll be told I’m chemically unbalanced. I want more, that’s all.
 

Why do I have to be happy? I can’t have what I want, am I supposed to be happy about it? Why should I become a puppet, swayed and manipulated by chemical concoctions intended to cover up my reality or override any trace, less-positive feelings I have behind the choices I’ve made?

Then there is the helplessness; the idea it’s too late for me to change anything. Had I been forewarned when I was seventeen, I should have made different choices, like the cliché, if only I knew what I know now … hindsight being 20/20. Funny thing is, even 20/20 means ‘average’ and I’m this already.

Anyway, I think I would have become an actress. Not for fame or fortune, I really just want to live different lives during ‘work’ and be able to return to my home and time when the adventures of the day are done. I would learn how to fence, waltz and speak in Edwardian English. I would wear voluminous ball gowns and costumes, travel to exotic, historic or fantastic places, and look and act as someone else. I could be brave and adventurous and take the risks I could not in real life. The only consequences would be for the characters I played.

If I were seventeen.

Instead, I’ve been floating through life, working solely to pay bills, generally putzing around, occasionally going out doing this and that, or taking a vacation during the approved three-week time frame every year. My life revolves around PTO. I know it’s what everyone on the hamster wheel does. But is everyone else ok with it?

Chances are slim: I’ll be walking down the street when the producer of Masterpiece Theatre will approach me and say, “You have this quality we’re looking for and would be perfect for the part of a Lady and detective. It’s set in a 19th-Century town called Tymony.” So grasping at straws, I wish on stars and passingly pray for divine intervention. I know it sounds hopeless and helpless, but what else is there for me to look forward to? Every job I’ve had since I graduated college has been a step further away from hope, and now I am pigeon holed and without promise.

I seriously sound depressed. How does keeping this journal help, exactly? Inez suggested I pour myself out without the interruptions and segues that happen in conversations, and somehow I’ve managed to feel worse about my life, thinking somewhere long ago I made a wrong turn. I rather knew it already, but now I’ve put it down in writing.

Perhaps it was because she was a writer, the words on paper, figuratively speaking, seemed so manifest. Charley was tempted to erase her journal entry, as if the feelings would dissipate once she deleted the words. The rational side of her mind was glad to release a black worm that persistently wriggled in her mind.

She sat there, fascinated by these revelations. Suddenly, the barrage of thoughts was organized; writing managed this better than painting. The very first time Inez had suggested it, she had cast the idea aside as being something beyond her abilities, or more precisely, a corruption of her capabilities as a writer/editor, like asking a surgeon to administer a flu shot, and frequently.

“Can you chat?” she texted Inez.

“Calling.” Inez texted back almost immediately.

“Hi. You and Becks free tomorrow?” She asked, but continued talking without waiting for an answer. “So …” She paused, but again resumed. “While this isn’t
stop the presses
news or anything … I feel kind-of giddy. Uh, that is
sooo
sad, something so small gets me excited. You can tell nothing changes much around here. Like nothing. It’s the same ‘ole same ‘ole, every dang day.”

“Charley! You know you’re actually talking to me and not to yourself? Out with it, what’s this news?

“Right. So, I’ve been writing in a journal.”

“Good! Finally. I’ve only mentioned it once or twice. And …? Do you want to share? You always have so much going on in your head. I think it will help.”

“Surprisingly, it was an immense release. Umm that sounded just a little orgasmic. Anyway, it completely organized my cluttered brain, which for me is rather mind-blowing. For now. But, not sure it makes anything better.”

Inez laughed and then said more seriously, “Hmm, yes. I don’t think it will solve all your problems. It just helps to figure out what the problem actually is …
or problems
.

“I hope you know I wasn’t trying to tell you to shut up. But it’s cool right? I imagine especially for you. You’re a smart cookie. I knew you’d see the advantages and make the connections. It was just a matter of trying it.

“And if you get hung up on semantics, you should practice jotting down whatever comes to mind really quickly, or writing exactly how you feel as if no one will read it. Burst mode it’s called. I always find it surprising, and it makes me feel like a kid hiding something from my parents.”

“I’ll try it—and I was thinking the same. It’s similar writing in a diary, but the adult version. And screw the semantics. I’ve tried it before and it didn’t work
because
of this. For some reason, this time it was easy to just voice some unrealized thoughts lurking around.

“Although, I have to say, I’m so sick of myself right now I’m going to have to pace it out a little, otherwise every entry will come out a sob story. My life is perfectly fine, but in writing, it’s obvious I feel sorry for myself. Another reason why I don’t want to
practice
is I think it will become more of a chore and then I won’t do it at all. Besides, I think I already have carpal tunnel.

“I’m at the point where I don’t care if anyone
does
read it, but I’m assuming no one will anyway. It’s not likely my thoughts would interest anyone.”

“Why do you say that?” Inez prompted after her last comment, “I didn’t mean to shut you down, honestly.”

“Oh, no worries, it’s not you. I’m just a little annoyed; apparently, I’m an open book with nothing new to say. He didn’t say it snidely or anything, but Michael said I tell him everything I’m thinking and I thought, ‘Shit! Really?’ Why do I feel so, what’s the word … suppressed? What would he think if he really knew
everything
? He might disown me. My head is constantly abuzz.”

“Hilarious, maybe he’s got enough on his mind, adding all of your thoughts would make his head explode in a thousand different colors, psychedelic-like. You come across some crazy business, GMCOs, tech implants, gender pre-selection … I wouldn’t want all that in my head either.”