The Secret Self of Pan Gu

Nebulous, faceless, looming monstrous,
a presence inundating her own
from within and without
from the fourfoldness:
East, West, South and North.

Nothing moves but a still suspension,
Her being an ambiguous light, wavering
an embryo consciousness, or simply
a cloud of amorphous wanting, accumulating,
while the boundaries are slowly taking form:

Being / non-being,
inward / outward,
past / future,
Self / Other

Then suddenly—

The impending weight of the present
The birth of language

“S-E-P-A-R-A-T-I-O-N !”

That first and only word,
she assumes she hears
as a palm wide as the earth uproots her,
lifts her high, and sets her down

On top of
a solid platform.

The surface of
Reality

Part personal history, part philosophical meditation, The Secret Self of Pan Gu is a hybrid memoir which adopts the Chinese creation myth of Pan Gu separating heaven and earth as a structuring spine. Into this cosmic framework, the narrator weaves together personal memory, cultural reflection, contemporary psychanalysis, and dream fantasies as an organic whole. By mapping an <Dream Record 1: The Water Dreams>

1.A Lake
* This dream was recorded in an email to my friend Ernie Olson, dated Sep 25, 2018, and was later revised for inclusion in this book.

A lake, where it doesn’t belong. The backyard of my college doesn’t exist at all, on the other side of reality. I am walking with a young girl, who appears to be one of my students. Instead of continuing on our way, we pause and gaze. A few Black kids are playing around us on the bank.

The lake is rectangular in shape. The water seems to be waiting, dangerously tempting. A whirlpool quietly forms at its center: crystal clear, yet carrying a sinister undertone of black.

Instead of walking my usual way, I pause. I gaze. I fear. I resist. I desire.

One of the Black boys on the shore plunges into the center of that swirling vortex. There he stands, completely happy and exuberant.

Before I can stop her, my young companion also leaps into the lake. I gasp. Stepping closer to the water, I watch her swimming. I am startled, seeing her take off her clothes. Her young, vibrant breasts are clearly visible under the mystically dark but clear water. In my embarrassment I glance around. People are walking along both banks. I wonder if they can see that she is naked. Meanwhile, I am also anxious about her safety. The water looks menacing to me.

Only that a small voice bothers me from within.

I wish I were she.



2.The Submerged City
At night, the city becomes a city beneath the ocean. Not wet. She can still drink her coffee. As if it’s not water but light. And she’s the only inhabitant in this city.

The coffee shop is where she spends most of her days. One entrance links to the interior of the city’s most luxurious shopping mall; the other opens onto the wharf of an ancient canal. Here, the rush of eager tourists and the stream of aloof locals meet like two colliding currents. She belongs to neither.

It is the night version of the city to which she belongs. The city in and under and surrounded by the water.

She sits at one of its entrances – now there’s no difference between the two. She drinks her coffee. Her bare feet kissing the substantiality of the blue tiled floor. No, it’s not wet.

She wonders through which sense she perceives the water. The water is insubstantial. A waterly nonsubstance.