"self-referential art" by jasoneppink is licensed underCC BY 2.0
Lately I have been exploring ways to “compartmentalize” my anxieties so that I can continue living and working in this world without being haunted every second by the specter of imminent global catastrophe. According to those who are not quite as terrified about the current “situation” as I am, this ability to mentally isolate negative thoughts is the key to functioning in a society that is trying very hard to destroy itself—and is essential if, like me, you’d rather not be an eyewitness to the end of civilization.
But there I go again.
Had I been able to compartmentalize the last half of the previous sentence, that whole “end of civilization” trope would have remained locked up in a tiny compartment in my brain, which would have allowed me to express—and possibly even experience!—a more positive thought, one that would help unfurl the knot at the base of my neck and calm, if only for a moment, the spasms of agony in my lower back. But no, I did not have the discipline to derail that dispiriting thought and park it under a protective mental portico somewhere near my hippocampus. Instead, I inadvertently lit up my cerebellum with “danger” signals that triggered a “fight or flight” response in my body, which made me run out the front door and around the block before I could even finish the damn sentence.
For a writer, these sorts of interruptions are counterproductive, because it is difficult to write while one is running. That’s why runners don’t write, and vice-versa. In order to write, one must be able to sit for hours at a time immersed in quiet contemplation. But if, while one is contemplating, the horrifying reality of modern existence intrudes, it tends to dampen one’s desire to continue imagining bizarre new sexual situations for one’s heroine, and can even make a guy think that the world doesn’t need another trashy erotic thriller. Compared to the terror of the coronavirus, the lusty fetishes of a young White House news correspondent might not seem all that important anymore. But according to my therapist, if I can learn to compartmentalize those intrusive negative thoughts—to banish them in some private storage locker in my brain—then I can create room for more positive thoughts, and get back to contemplating the effect all these crazy erotic escapades are having on my character’s super-stimulated psyche.
One popular compartmentalization technique I have been experimenting with lately is known as the “memory palace.” The idea here is to construct a “palace” in your mind—one with lots of rooms and a big, scary basement—where you can “store” negative thoughts and memories until you need them. Why negative thoughts need a room with a four-poster bed, 600-thread-count sheets and a bathroom with two sinks, I do not know. But the memory palace is a tried-and-true concept, so who am I to question what sort of accommodations a negative thought needs in order to stay put, where it can’t hurt anyone?
Constructing a memory palace is harder than you might think, however. The first thing I discovered right out of the gate is that I can’t afford anything close to a palace, and, because my mind is so cluttered with useless information, I would have nowhere to put one anyway. Instead, I drained what was left of my meagre savings and constructed a memory “shed,” one complete with nifty cubbyholes for all kinds of debilitating thoughts, as well as a table outfitted with a large C-clamp for particularly unruly feelings of rage and despair. I even built a trap door in the floor to store anything that might lead to homicide or arson, and secured the whole thing with a sturdy “Master” padlock I purchased at Walmart mere moments before yelling at one of their “greeters” to stop being so goddamn friendly.
Once my memory shed was set up, however, it’s shortcomings became immediately apparent. Turns out a negative thought stuffed into a cubbyhole can just waltz right out anytime it wants to. Then all it has to do is ooze through a crack in the door and it’s out, free to roam your psyche like a hitchhiker on quaaludes.
To fix the problem, my therapist advised building small doors to cover the cubbyholes, which I did. It took two months, though, and required several trips to the hardware store to get the right kind of hinges and some tasteful little knobs, in case I ever want to open a closed cubbyhole on the off chance that I forget what’s inside. The knobs were a little spendy, though, so I had to use what was left of my government stimulus check and, come dinner time, had to scrounge half a sandwich out of the dumpster behind the local Subway shop.
Now normally, dumpster diving for my dinner would have occasioned a cascade of negative thoughts: This is disgusting. Eating out of a trash can is beneath me. You’re an idiot for not bringing a flashlight. I wonder if the Sbarro dumpster is any better? Did something move over there? Should I eat it, too?— that kind of thing. Fortunately, after some expert professional guidance, I was able to “cubbyhole” those negative thoughts and enjoy a discarded meatball sub, albeit one with the top half missing, and half a bag of Sun Chips.
Using a memory shed requires practice, however, and I am admittedly a novice. Stuffing a shitty sandwich into a cubbyhole is fairly easy, but other things present more of a challenge. Notice here that I used the word “challenge” instead of a far more accurate word like “problem” or “headache.” That’s because my therapist has encouraged me to look at the “bright” side of things, and has urged me to “reframe” the way I think about things by using words that mean the opposite of what I really feel. So in the parlance of psychological health, cubbyholes are not for storing “problems” or “trauma,” they are for storing “challenges” and “opportunities” that one simply hasn’t capitalized on yet. Likewise, “anxiety” and “panic” are not your body’s way of telling you that you’re about to die, they just nature’s way of insisting that you care too much about living. Because in nature, as it turns out, there are plenty of things worse than dying, and nature doesn’t want you to miss out. The “challenge” is deciding which form of terror you prefer.
Anyway, once I attached all the little cubbyhole doors in my memory shed, I began filling the cubbies with challenges I’d rather forget about. At first, it was small things, like touching my face, wearing a mask, germs at the grocery store, social distancing, Zoom meetings, kids, neighbors, the mailman, mail, haircuts, exercise and family. Then I started cramming in larger challenges, like personal bankruptcy, homelessness, hunger, lack of healthcare, crumbling infrastructure, political gridlock, wildfires, earthquakes, hurricanes, tornadoes, vape lung, and those really hot days when you just know your air-conditioning is going to go out.
The cubbies filled up fast, so I started piling the even bigger challenges on the floor of my memory shed, and stacking the really awful stuff on the workbench. By the time I’d finished with the death of democracy, global economic collapse, war with China, dying bees, melting glaciers, guns, idiots, and Sudoku, there wasn’t much room left for the really big things, like climate change, mass extinction, disappointing Greta, and a sudden, inexplicable explosion of the sun. So I stacked everything as efficiently as possible, cramming potential crises and calamities wherever I could. But even then I had no room left for other “essentials” I was supposedto put in the shed, like childhood trauma, drug dependency, gambling issues, alcoholism and an allegedly weird preference for clothes made of Kevlar.
Once I’d built my memory shed and filled it with thoughts and memories I desperately needed to control in order to refocus my attention on the illicit desires of a seemingly sweet young journalist looking for lust in the halls of American power, I shut the main door and locked it.
Now, per the instructions of a highly paid professional who shall remain nameless, I was ready to use my memory shed. Trouble was, I immediately began forgetting where I’d put things. So, for instance, if I wanted to retrieve a stored thought about, say, my fear of Mitch McConnell, I’d open up the cubbyhole where I thought I’d put him and boom, out would pop a sneaking suspicion that Alexa is listening to everything my wife and I say about Donald Trump. (Which is all good, of course. Why wouldn’t it be?) And once, I snuck a peek inside a cubby where I thought I’d stored my hatred of Tom Petty, only to find a cubby full of paranoia about what 5G radio frequencies might be doing to my brain.
Long story short, it didn’t take long for my memory shed to turn into a huge “challenge” of its own. That’s because one day I left a serious concern about the deregulation of fracking too close to that exploding sun thing and poof, the whole shed went up in flames. No warning. Nothing I could do. All that work, up in smoke.
With nowhere to store all my negative thoughts and memories, I had a rough few days. Said and did a few things I will probably come to regret. But with some expert professional guidance, I have been encouraged to think of the whole memory-shed debacle as an “opportunity” rather than a complete psychological clusterfuck of monumentally epic proportions.
And you know what? It worked. Suddenly, out of nowhere, having “reframed” my “problem,” I arrived at the perfect solution. As it turns out, the memory shed was a mistake all along.
What I really need is a memory “bunker,” someplace deep underground and fortified by thick walls of American steel that can prevent even the most terrifying thoughts from escaping. So that’s what I’m building now. In addition to impenetrable walls, my memory bunker is going to be outfitted with hydraulic titanium doors that can withstand an atomic blast, and every last millimeter of it will be hermetically sealed to keep out any renegade spores of the novel coronavirus, which gets less novel by the day. It will even have a secure dungeon of sorts, where I can safely store a lifetime’s worth of homicidal rage and keep in check a whole range of potentially destructive feelings about the Electoral College.
It’s going to take a while to fill in all the details, but building my memory bunker has already given me peace of mind. Just knowing that I will have a place to store unwanted thoughts and memories is comforting. And knowing that I can toss any troubling thought down there, pressure-lock the door and forget about it—well, that’s empowering.
Indeed, my outlook on life has changed completely. Now, I look forward to the day when I can return with a clear head and full heart to my sex-starved heroine, whose voracious sensual appetites get her into all sorts of situations that would make any normal woman blush and faint. But it’s also how she uncovers such great stories. For her, desire and deadlines go hand in hand—or hand in anywhere, really—so there is no separating the two, especially if there are handcuffs involved. In the latest chapter, she has just met president Donald Trump behind the bleachers of a MAGA rally, and she appears to have caught his eye. What will happen next, I don’t quite know yet. All I can tell you that it is going to involve some hijinks in the Rose Garden and eventually end up in a scene involving extra hand sanitizer, a few Chinese love toys, and direct access to the nuclear launch codes.
Before I seal my heroine’s fate, though, I need to finish my memory bunker. Because if there is even a sliver of a chance that my suppressed fear, anger and memories might once again intrude on the happy, healthy life I am trying to lead,Iwill be the one to explode. And that would not be good for my heroine, who needs me to guide her into her next adventure, and to make sure that she is wearing a mask at all times. Because when Mitch McConnell walks into the room, everyone needs a few extra layers of protection.
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