s was so frequently the case at the time, an emotional malaise had
brought itself to bear on what was, even under the best circumstances, a typically
less-than-cheerful disposition. Depression had become my particularly ardent
companion ever since being inducted into the privilege of American public
education (although less ardour than ordure was involved, in my uncharitable
estimation), and its sticky embrace was proving increasingly more difficult
to disentangle. I had recently adopted -- more out of desperation than any
kind of philosophical insight -- the conviction that such things could be
overcome by force of will alone; but as this had yet to be effectively
undertaken in practice, other tactics needed to be employed to mediate my
distress.On this particular occasion, I decided to buoy my spirits with a strong dose of nostalgia. At 12 years of age, I had not yet accumulated that much of past into which to retreat, but any relics from my earlier life in Toronto (a life that now seemed wholly disconnected from me) invariably had a positive effect upon my state of mind. So it was that I crawled out into the garage in search of some succourance from the past.
It didn't take very much effort to uncover what I was seeking. Unfortunately, the effect was not nearly what I had hoped; most of the reminders available had been brought out to serve this purpose too many times already, and this was undermining their potency. What was needed now was something entirely unexpected. After some scrounging around in the rafters, I found exactly that: in the form of an old candle-making kit.
I brought the box down and set it on the floor, my shriveled little heart brimming over with the memories that this old treasure had resurrected for me. A further surprise was yet in store, however, for inside the box were not the plastic molds and braids of wicks that I had anticipated, but an even dearer remnant from my very early childhood. It was an old Canadian jam jar -- now filled with screws and washers, but still bearing its original label featuring two charming cartoon teddy bears capering about on a colourful background. I sat cross-legged and studied their cheerful faces, so familiar and yet entirely forgotten for so many years.
It was at this moment that an even more unexpected turn took place,
apparently for no reason whatsoever. The two smiling mascots that only
moments earlier had conjured up feelings of warmth and comfort suddenly
inspired a dread that was overwhelming. Their little black eyes glared at me
with such unmitigated evil that I could not even bear to remain in the same
room with them anymore. The damnable box was hurriedly returned to its
proper place and I ran back into the house to hide in my room. There I
remained for the next several hours, tormented by the lingering image of
those wicked bears and too paralysed with fear to even move.
M6(7)