Lately I've been forced to take stock of my good and bad points more directly than I would have liked. Still, there's something to be said for seeing things in the indicative. One thing I've come to realize, in reflecting on where my days frequently go awry, is that I seem, like a spaceship in one of those post-60s sci-fi stories, to have lost most of the functionality of my protective shields. Trouble I might once have noted in the abstract -- "Look, crew members, there are intergalactic pirates waiting over there in the narrow passage between the planet Zorkoff and its closest moon" -- but not been affected by is now likely to pose a threat to my sense of well-being. I am vulnerable to hits, to extend the conceit, and seem to be taking them on an increasingly regular basis.

Mind you, some of these hits feel welcome. Little moments of happiness feel big right now. And I find my eyes filling with sincere tears at songs and films that would once have made them wet with uncontrollable laughter. Even when I say, "Baby, hit me one more time," though, the effect of the blow is still destabilizing. I am easily sent off course, for better and -- more often -- worse. What I would like to discover is a way of reconstructing the shields I had in my late teens, when I was emotionally impervious to most of the stimulus in my environment, but with modifications that would make them retractable. Pills aren't going to cut it. Nor is the pride I took back then in being as detached as possible. Maybe all the reading and thinking I've done about Zen over the past decade can now find a practical outlet. Or maybe I just want to start consuming more science fiction.

Tags: analysis, autobiography, theory
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