Notes from Guillermo del Toro's The Orphanage

That's what Jung means when he says
It's in the subconscious that the living
coexist with the dead.
The Germans have another name for 'the herald of death':
Doppelgänger.
A being that appears in one's own image.
A double.
To glance at him,
or at any of the others I've shown you,
means, without the slightest doubt,
a passport to the other world.

... strange things are happening...

This wasn't a children's room in the orphanage, right?
No, the bedroom was back there.
Then we should start here.
I want an old object from this house
Something related to its history and, if possible,
Some clothing from the past.
We're not alone.

You're talking about ghosts.
And what is a ghost, Carlos?
There's something here, and we all saw it.

When something terrible happens, sometimes it leaves a trace
a wound that acts as a knot between two time lines.
It's like an echo repeated over and over, waiting to be heard.
Like a scar (oh I'm sorry) - like a scar or a pinch, that begs for
a caress to relieve it.
Laura, we who are close to death
we are more receptive to these messages.

What should I do?
My dear, you are a good mother
Your pain gives you strength, it will guide you.
But only you know how far you are willing to go.
You hear but do not listen.
Seeing is not believing
It's the other way around.
Believe: and you will see.

Before, after, and somebody in between

9 July 2008, J to Belle: It occurred to me last night that, in a way, you are encountering yourself as you were 30 years ago. I have often thought about meeting myself at different ages--a 20-year-old version of me meeting the 45-year-old version; what would it be like? Although I have adjusted your image in some ways over the years, it is fundamentally the person you were all those years ago.

Once a week or so I drive several miles north to the little town library. Once there I head for the computers in a quiet corner of the intimately scaled room. The library has high-speed internet, unlike home, so it's a treat to be able to zip through the web, view things fast. I sit at the station nearest the window that faces the road. On the sill a grouping of young-adult books has been on display for a number of weeks. There's only one book that I notice. The girl's gaze draws me in and meets mine. She soberly regards me.

The first time I saw the image of the girl I felt a strong connection. She looks like my younger brother M when he was her age. If he had a daughter, I imagine that's what she might look like.

I've examined the book a few times. It's always there - nobody checks it out. The blurb reads, "One hour into her first day of tenth grade, Martha Kowalski knows she's really in trouble. The school bully, Chardonnay, has already threatened her life-- and at home, things are even worse. Martha's mom, fresh out of rehab is shacking up with a total jerk...."

It's the image that speaks to me.

Yesterday, looking for earphones (of which there are fewer sets than terminals), I sat at a different computer, opposite of the one I usually take.

Nevertheless the book cover was angled to face me. Wherever you go there I am.

I couldn’t find the earplug connection on the other computer (why? hadn't I successfully negotiated it a couple of weeks ago?) and became exasperated. I gathered my bag and coat and switched back to my usual station.

I felt a trace of annoyance that the girl is always there, waiting, watching. Why? Now she faced away from me. I adjusted her back.

When I was done with the computer I decided to take the book and check it out. Even as the clerk was processing the transaction I kicked myself for not having simply thought to get the camera from the car and snap a picture of the object in situ on the sill. Too late – done deal – due 01-02-10.

I don't physically look like her, I don't believe, though since the girl may be of Polish descent (as is, evidently, the novel’s protagonist), our looks may be reminiscent. What I'm responding to, I think, is a reflection across time - my older self looking back at a younger self, my younger self apprehending her older self. It's not the same as studying snapshots of me when I was that age. Those images are lovely, but they’re of another world, they're at a remove. The girl in those images seems like a different person to me. She doesn't communicate with me directly.

But the image of this girl - she seems to be looking intently, inquiringly at me, right into me. We regard each other, as if reflections in a mirror. That’s what you look like? Yes. Are you all right? Yes I am. Will it be all right? Yes, don’t worry.

Thank you. You are a very pleasant person. Thank you. You are too.

echo

Beautiful stranger, each day I come upon these fields and woods
In hope of another glimpse of you.
In two weeks and a day I have seen you twice.
The moment before I first saw you
I gazed across a field and mouthed “I love you”
At the day, or me, or nothing in particular, or everything at once.
When I looked at the path again
There you were, on the path of the overlook
Striding in my direction, umbrella in hand.
Brown, curly hair, soft well-trimmed beard.
You smiled, and I smiled
You said hello, and then I hello, as we passed.
Our eyes met and then I looked away
Stricken with shyness

I looked down as we passed
And that was that.
I finished my walk, and got in my car
And realized what an impression you’d made.
Two-thirty. I noted the time.
And have thought of you since.
The second time, I couldn’t look
You, shirtless, emerged from the meadow, and crossed my path.
Speechless, abounding, I was helpless to behold you.
You hurried to your car
The door slammed
You must have gotten dressed and then
You drove away. I heard but couldn’t turn and look.

How thrilled I’d been, the unwound hour previous
To see your car, bronze-gold
With a berkshire plate.
He’s here.

I have consulted Whitman, to figure out what to do.
I carry a slip of paper which I imagine, if I see you,
I might slip to you, the way Emily Dickinson proferred
White lilies to the astonished Mr. Higginson.
The note contains Whitman’s words, not mine.
“17 October [I must be careful–hunters are permitted to bow deer now-Will this keep you away?],
"Pondering Walt Whitman,” I penned.

To You, it’s called.
STRANGER! If you, passing meet me, and desire to speak to me,
Why should you not speak to me?
And why should I not speak to you?
Written in 1860, it speaks to me now.

Why not speak to you, indeed?
Whitman, in another poem, counsels not to.
(And there is plenty reason for me
To chastely keep to myself.)

I imagine little scenes with you –
I hand you the slip of paper, you read
You follow after me, take me in your arms, give me a kiss.
Wait, I say, Whitman said speak, not kiss.

Perhaps I slip it to you on the path
Look back as you read, astonished.
Or perhaps I place it on your car
Tucked on your windshield
Or under a stone on the hood of your car.

Will you know it’s from me?

Or I imagine meeting you on the path again and being brave enough
To ask you out for coffee.
We go to Le Gamin.

But if I am Echo, are you Narcissus?
Will you push me away?
Are you, even, straight – or gay?
Straight, I’m sure of it – else why the voltage as you passed?

I long for you and ache
In despair I look for you
Mr. Whitman comforts me.

From another poem, To a Stranger,
He offers advice to the lovelorn.
I am not to speak to you
I am to wait
I am to meet you again
I am to see to it that I do not lose you.
I thought I had it figured out –
You come Fridays
But yesterday – no

Or maybe I scrap the note
And if I see you on the path
I say, “Hello, passing stranger”
Perhaps you recognize it – perhaps you teach English
And so you know what I mean.
Or you are puzzled, and if you ask
I say, over my shoulder, walking past,
google Whitman, passing, and stranger!
And then you know.

18 October 2008