The Memory Artists - Jeffrey Moore [90]
“Well, we still have to understand the interaction between the mental—the thought or new memory forming—and the physical. How do the two influence each other? Descartes thought that the pineal gland—via the eyes—was the point at which the two interacted, which is ridiculous, but now scientists think that the interaction happens at the quantum level.”
“Hence your studies of Feynman.”
“Well, I’m … not really at that level. And never will be.”
“Noel, I’m sure you’ll get there, and beyond. All you need is … well, confidence. Or arrogance—the arrogance of Norval.”
Noel managed a half-smile. “Yeah, I guess I could learn a few things from him.”
“And JJ can show you a few things too.”
“I know. He’s good at re-routeing my thought patterns—at deingraining bad mental habits, if that’s a word.”
“Has he converted you to CAM? To ‘neutraceuticals’ instead of pharmaceuticals?”
“No. Big Pharma’s bad, but the ‘wellness’ industry is worse. Unregulated and dishonest. Untested and unreliable. For the most part, anyway. But I’m trying to keep an open mind—it does have some things to offer. And I love JJ’s enthusiasm, optimism, which rubs off.”
A patch of silence followed, which neither person seemed to notice, let alone be uncomfortable with. Noel gazed up at the small basement window, like a dungeon grate, and saw snowflakes dance and cling to the glass. Each one was worth an hour of study under the microscope, his father had told him, each one a map of divinity.
“I’m trying to remember,” said Samira, her words slightly slurred, “how we got on to all this.”
Noel shifted his gaze. “I’m the one who got us off track. You were asking about coloured hearing.”
“Right, I wanted to know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing. Does it screw up your life? Would you ever want to get rid of it?”
“No, I wouldn’t. Ever. I have trouble, in fact, conceiving of a world in which letters and sounds are neutral, clear, white, whatever. Sometimes I think those who don’t have synaesthesia are missing out on something. Almost like being colour blind. I think all synaesthetes feel the same way. Mind you, we’re not all the same—most have mild cases, which don’t interfere with their everyday life, while a few have trouble functioning in society because of it, like some artists. And me.”
“Did you ever try to get help? Did you ever see a psychiatrist or neurologist or—”
“Yeah, hordes of them. Dr. Vorta among them.”
“Did he help?”
“He did, but his colleagues didn’t. One put me on lithium carbonate, which made things worse, another tried acupuncture, which might’ve worked if he’d known what he was doing, another gave me nineteen electro-convulsive treatments, which almost left me brain-dead. And then they all got together and wrote articles about me.”38
“They didn’t help you to control it, or channel it …”
“I more or less found out how to stop it on my own.”
“With classical music? And certain tastes?”
“Yeah, and I’ve learned to put myself into a kind of trance, deliberately emptying my mind.”
“Like Zen Buddhists?”
“Only if they get terrible headaches while doing it.”
“Are your dreams as wild? As colourful?”
“Not at all. They’re in black and white most of the time, and usually involve quiz shows or labyrinths ... And I usually wake up with this wish to be transported on my mattress back to my bedroom in Babylon …” Noel’s mind, vibrant and viatic, began to travel but he forced it to stop, pressing his hands against his temples. “In high school, in Montreal, everybody wanted me to go on this quiz show called Reach for The Top. But I refused and everybody was furious with me for the rest of the year, the principal most of all. Especially when our school didn’t make it past the first round …”
Samira laughed. “I remember that show. So you’re still dealing with high school trauma. Still trying to find a way out of the maze.”
My mind is a maze, thought Noel. With no exits but only entrances into more mazes. A Gordian knot of coils and loops and convolutions. “Maybe.”
“What does Dr Vorta have to say