They are building a church at the bottom of the hill. It is almost finished and stands out already because it is made of plaster and not tile. It is black and white. Hopefully this does not reflect the psyche of its congregation.
A meeting with a student about language and schizophrenia.
Schizophrenics have issues with working memory which means they’re less likely to stay on topic. They forget what they’re saying as they go but carry on anyway. To do this, they speak from word to word, just based on associations. Chains of interconnected yet unrelated meanings.
My aunt is schizophrenic and speaks in poetic puddles, her words deep and shallow at the same time. Once when my little brother wouldn’t finish his chicken wings, she said something to the effect of him needing to eat his wings so he could grow to be strong like an eagle and learn to fly high. It didn’t help that my aunt always speaks as if reading aloud at a funeral. I see the formula now: Eat chicken wings > growth from wings > strength in wings > strong bird > eagle > eagles fly high. This is what the student’s literature review says my aunt was doing. She did it all the time. My brother was compelled to finish his chicken wings.
We saw an eagle later that day. My aunt looked confused when we pointed it out to her.
Another time, my aunt hoisted herself into my mother’s car to drive us to school and saw mushrooms in the lawn. They had sprouted up overnight. She sighed, “Mushrooms in the grass, alas.” It was a good rhyme, and I was going through a Lewis Carroll phase, so I asked her why she said what she said. She acted like she had no idea what I was talking about. I thought she was just being modest and pressed her on it. Then her eyes widened. Fear. For the rest of the ride, she didn’t utter a single word. I felt rejected. I wanted her to know I thought it was cool, that I was listening. She drove us around a lot whenever she came to live with us, often for months at a time. She spoke in mysteries, and I spent long stretches of time in the back seat thinking about what they meant, though I could never figure out what. Neither could she and, on some level, she probably worried she never would.
My family doesn’t do poetry. And so this aunt annoys everyone because the consensus is you can never get a straight answer out of her. Flummoxing is the word for this aunt. Now I know why.
I think about the houses on Lamma and that the way they are built is the same as the words of my aunt. One field cleared and leveled. Then the next. One plot after another. Just make sure you put a house on each.
I do not listen. I watch.