All language is a translation of what we encounter, I tell the cardiologist when he concludes his line of questioning by asking again if I’ve been under any new stress lately. And again my brain will not cooperate. It will not access recent memory. The doctor is a dependable, fine fellow who listens patiently as I explain a theory that perhaps my atoms are playing different fugues of arterial force, preventing unification of movement, and that’s why my blood pressure keeps falling.
He nods and says, Possible, but not likely. But possible.
My partner sighs and squeezes my hand.
The doctor presses me further: Did something happen recently?
I take a deep breath and try to cooperate, but my brain shuts down again. Instead, I tell the doctor my dreams of going into deep space, only I might be seen by an observer as a tachyon. That is a hypothetical particle that allegedly travels faster than the speed of light.
How can you be sure you are a tachyon if it’s hypothetical? he asks, eyes crinkling slightly in a smile hidden by his mask. How do you know what it really is?
Because, I try to explain calmly, while all language is a translation of what we encounter—and I accept this to be true—I still wish to exist outside this limitation.
She always has that one ready, my partner sighs.
So you ARE getting sleep then, the doctor says, since you say you are dreaming?
No, she doesn’t sleep, my partner says. Like she’s on a bridge between sleep and not sleeping.
But dreaming is the correct word, I say, I’m just not asleep for them the way you’d like me to be asleep.
So drifting off into daydreams—but at night. And no deep sleep.
Yes, I say, though in the dreams, I’m not actually a tachyon.
That’s probably for the best, the doctor says.
The observer is wrong, I go on.
The observer is a certain scientist friend of hers, my partner murmurs.
The observer is trying to “translate me” when I’m a set of whole new particles.
New particles?
Yes. I’m also the bridge. No one can invent me.
There is a pause.
You write about science. You’re the “Poet Wrestling with” poet?
Wait till you hear about what she’s done to the periodic table, my partner mutters.
And you travel for work, right? the doctor says. That can’t be fun, if you’re fainting regularly.
And my vision isn’t great. But I make it work.
What about places you’re visiting for the first time? the doctor asks.
I kinda just know where things are.
You know where things are in a place you’ve never been?
Yeah.
I see.
You know what I call a certain physicist friend, doc? That is, an “actual” physicist?
She air quotes “physicist” to annoy him, my partner says, making the gesture as well.
No, I say. I air quote for emphasis.
I’m just trying to translate, my partner sighs.
So what do you call him? the doctor asks.
The Auditor of My Imagination.
He laughs. Well, then, I guess, welcome to another sort of audit. We’re going to have to admit you for more tests, my dear.