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Denial is the grease that makes our lives bearable. It's a bit like WD-40. If the D is for denial, what's the W? Wholehearted? Wee? I suppose it varies according to the denier.
But think of it: perhaps the opposite of denial is continual confrontation. Or maybe the opposite of denial is acceptance, which in a way is another form of denial: this person's behaviour is intolerable, but I don't want a confrontation, so I'll just accept it (and claim to any who ask that it is NOT intolerable). Isn't that denial?
With a good spritzing of WD-40 we can slide through the difficulties of our daily lives.
I was thinking that being in denial is like wearing the blinkers that they used to put on horses—those shields fastened at the outer edge of the horses' eyes to keep them from shying at unexpected obstacles. Blinkers that kept the horses' gaze narrow and straight ahead. Having thought that, I began to doubt the very concept of blinkers. Did I make up the word? Were horses actually blinkered once? Are they still? Was it only carriage horses that were blinkered, not riding horses? If so, that would explain why I haven't see a blinkered horse in years.
But then I thought, is that even the right word? Blinkered? It surely wasn't blinded, or blindered. And as I tried to wade through this murky memory I felt as if I had conjured up the whole thing: blinkers, horses wearing blinkers (how on earth were they attached?)—the very phrase seemed false, invented by my newly strange mind. Once I knew. Or maybe I didn't. Maybe I made it up. It could go either way.
And this brings me straight back to denial: am I still pretending to be a functioning human being, when the truth is that my mind is fit for , , , for treason, stratagems and spoils, it must be, since Shakespeare says that's what happens to a person who has no music in his soul. Well, that lack of music in my soul these days is a topic for a different essay.
Sufficient unto the day is the denial thereof . . . In this case, I think maybe denial is a good thing. Today's WD-40 will allow me to slip through the blockages and traffic cones of my brain, and just pretend, pretend. Oh yes, I'm the great pretender.
If you ask me why the title of this piece is "Denial and Cleopatra," I will deny any intention of including her in this essay. Deny, deny, deny.
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