clumps of grass which sprout from seams in the pavement, passing steps that once led to the threshold of a temple but now end in midair, a capital ornamented with winged lions and bulls, and the Agelastos Petra or Mirthless Stone, where Demeter supposedly took a rest, apparently without delight.
I don’t need the map to tell me I’ve arrived at the Plutonian. A cave is hollowed into the rock, its entrance bulging with deep blue shadow. When I step into it, chill bumps break out across my arms. Several clefts and cavities are lined with flowers, stalks of wheat, pomegranates, buttons, and ribbons—little altars scooped in the rock. I photograph them from different angles.
The holes seem to tunnel back endlessly, disappearing into darkness. I put the cap on the camera lens and force myself to sit down on a stone ledge inside the grotto and take in the fact that I’m at the mythical spot where Persephone returned. I should do something . Pray for answers. Make an offering. I lift the pomegranate charm on my necklace and roll it between my fingertips, thinking for a second that I’ll make a grand gesture and leave it at one of the altars. But gazing at it around my neck, I notice it gives off a tiny glow against the skin of my chest, just a smudge of rose light, and I decide I can’t part with it.
What I do is sit here and think about last night in the restaurant—the dancer waiting for me to get out of my seat, the way his face dropped when I didn’t. I wonder if my dancing would have broken an impasse inside of me and made everything better. The fantasy du jour. Why had I sat there like that? Now the evening will haunt me until I can’t remember the details anymore—not the music, the dancer’s face, or how helpless I felt when I was up against my own resistance to living out there in the world.
My mind bounces from one self-recrimination to another, settling finally on the rejection letter, the doorstep where I usually end up with my load of blame and self-loathing. Sometimes, in an attempt to sidestep reality, I binge on memories of how it was before that letter came, and on my daydreams about the life I’d envisioned—silly things like wearing jeans to teach my classes, carrying a brown leather briefcase, updating my passport, planning my next sabbatical in Athens, writing papers on Greece at an antique desk. When I think about those reveries now, though, they seem infused with romance. There is nothing in them about a fervent interest in students, grading stacks of papers, chiseling out lesson plans, or sitting through faculty meetings. I’m not enthused by these facets of the job—the nitty-gritty parts—and this sudden revelation both disconcerts and embarrasses me.
I think about the weird moment in the restaurant when it crossed my mind that the evaporation of my career plan was not the real source of my depression. I do realize the letter has become far more than a rejection letter. Somehow it has gotten attached to much deeper things, turning into a catchall for everything that seems wrong with me: “Ann: the Official Document.” Could my depression come from my belief that the document is true? These thoughts create a lump of anxiety in my stomach. I don’t want to venture any further into them.
I sit on the stone ledge as depression floods in. I try to hold myself there, to not jump up and take more pictures, to not run away. I remember when I was around nine, playing rodeo in the ocean waves with my brother, straddling a raft, and how a large wave unexpectedly knocked me off and shoved me under. Before I could surface, another wave pushed me down, then another. But this is not a game. This is my life. The darkness tunneling back and back.
I could lose myself to depression .
Fear flushes through me and for a moment I border on panic.
This is when I land on the ocean floor, and I don’t know how to surface, or if I will. Simply facing that truth, grim as it is, alleviates the alarm inside.
I don’t need the map to tell me I’ve arrived at the Plutonian. A cave is hollowed into the rock, its entrance bulging with deep blue shadow. When I step into it, chill bumps break out across my arms. Several clefts and cavities are lined with flowers, stalks of wheat, pomegranates, buttons, and ribbons—little altars scooped in the rock. I photograph them from different angles.
The holes seem to tunnel back endlessly, disappearing into darkness. I put the cap on the camera lens and force myself to sit down on a stone ledge inside the grotto and take in the fact that I’m at the mythical spot where Persephone returned. I should do something . Pray for answers. Make an offering. I lift the pomegranate charm on my necklace and roll it between my fingertips, thinking for a second that I’ll make a grand gesture and leave it at one of the altars. But gazing at it around my neck, I notice it gives off a tiny glow against the skin of my chest, just a smudge of rose light, and I decide I can’t part with it.
What I do is sit here and think about last night in the restaurant—the dancer waiting for me to get out of my seat, the way his face dropped when I didn’t. I wonder if my dancing would have broken an impasse inside of me and made everything better. The fantasy du jour. Why had I sat there like that? Now the evening will haunt me until I can’t remember the details anymore—not the music, the dancer’s face, or how helpless I felt when I was up against my own resistance to living out there in the world.
My mind bounces from one self-recrimination to another, settling finally on the rejection letter, the doorstep where I usually end up with my load of blame and self-loathing. Sometimes, in an attempt to sidestep reality, I binge on memories of how it was before that letter came, and on my daydreams about the life I’d envisioned—silly things like wearing jeans to teach my classes, carrying a brown leather briefcase, updating my passport, planning my next sabbatical in Athens, writing papers on Greece at an antique desk. When I think about those reveries now, though, they seem infused with romance. There is nothing in them about a fervent interest in students, grading stacks of papers, chiseling out lesson plans, or sitting through faculty meetings. I’m not enthused by these facets of the job—the nitty-gritty parts—and this sudden revelation both disconcerts and embarrasses me.
I think about the weird moment in the restaurant when it crossed my mind that the evaporation of my career plan was not the real source of my depression. I do realize the letter has become far more than a rejection letter. Somehow it has gotten attached to much deeper things, turning into a catchall for everything that seems wrong with me: “Ann: the Official Document.” Could my depression come from my belief that the document is true? These thoughts create a lump of anxiety in my stomach. I don’t want to venture any further into them.
I sit on the stone ledge as depression floods in. I try to hold myself there, to not jump up and take more pictures, to not run away. I remember when I was around nine, playing rodeo in the ocean waves with my brother, straddling a raft, and how a large wave unexpectedly knocked me off and shoved me under. Before I could surface, another wave pushed me down, then another. But this is not a game. This is my life. The darkness tunneling back and back.
I could lose myself to depression .
Fear flushes through me and for a moment I border on panic.
This is when I land on the ocean floor, and I don’t know how to surface, or if I will. Simply facing that truth, grim as it is, alleviates the alarm inside.
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