And How Shall We Escape?

A holiday 'escape'. A weekend 'escape'. 'Escapist' novels. Mere 'escapism'. Escape, escape, escape. We live to escape. To the child, what is the weekend and the summer but escapes from school? And what more does the child look forward to than the weekend and the summer? And what mesmerizes a child more than a magician defeating death in a last minute escape? A couple years ago, while living in Pancevo, Serbia, in the midst of a dark depression, one that lasted until only recently, the notion of 'escape' seeped its way into my journals. Sometime in the winter of 2017-2018, sitting in a cafe, my dog Lady at my feet, this is what I wrote:

I've been asleep for days, weeks, months now. Lulled by the rain, lulled by the snow, lulled by the crushing weight of grey. The grey in the sky and the gray in mind. The all-consuming, all everywhere gray wet gray of regret, forgetting, futility. Lulled by the dripping drips in the bathroom sink.

I awake in the morning and I am still asleep. I drink a coffee and I am still asleep.

I see the sleeping dogs on the streets, still sleeping in the same place day after day. And I wonder if I am of them.

I remember I once stood with arms outstretch, desperate to touch, to be touched. Now, I keep my hands in my pockets. Now, I don't have the strength to lift them. Barely the strength to pick up a pen.

Escape used to give me hope. Hope gave me a reason to live. There is no more escape. No–what reason is there to live? No escape. No hope. I open the door of one prison cell and it only leads to another. An infinite chain of prison cells. Paradise no more. Even so. Eventually all paradises become a prison.

From one graveyard to another. One bed to another. One cunt to another. Dead on the death bed of fuck. Sleeping to sleep again. Shutters drawn. The weight of gray outside. The weight of gray inside. No escape from the gray.

Every escape has been a waking dream–from which I have always awoken.

Sleep, dream, awake. Sleep, dream, awake. Despair, despair. There is no escape from this.

Live long enough, everything becomes an interminable cycle that demands escape: living, loving, hurting, sleeping, working, not working, malingering, dying, laughing, crying.

How should I live then to escape the demand for escape?

I guess what I was asking is this: to what ultimate escape does the adult–that child that has Fallen into consciousness and awareness of old age–turn when all else has failed? What escape is offered to him? Are airport novels, weekends getaways, city breaks enough to sate that hunger? Sex, alcohol, drugs? Does a few moments of meditation provide the lasting relief Man requires from his drudgery and toil? Is the only option death? Can we truly be Sisyphus and satisfied? Perhaps then this is why 'Escape Games' or 'Escape Rooms' have bloomed all over the world, thriving and growing and birthing more. Perhaps then this is why we're so drawn to them, why they're so successful. We might say they're filling a deep seated human hunger, providing escape on a physical, concrete level. But if we look carefully, they might even teach us something about the essence of escape, what man truly demands. And perhaps then this why my own life intersected with one in a crucial way at its one of its most ultimate crossroads.

****

In February 2018, after a debilitating mental breakdown that had begun around Christmas time 2018 while living in Vienna–one which saw me lose my job, lose some friends, and lose contact with family–I moved back to Pancevo to undergo psychotherapy. I figured a country that had been through many wars, that had only recently been bombed by Nato, would have the psychologists equipped to deal with a man who'd felt as though he'd undergone some kind of a psycho-spiritual bombardment. I figured only there could I find a therapist that could deal with a man as fucked as me.

I won't go into details too much here–I'll save them for a later date. Suffice to say I saw both a therapist and a psychiatrist, the psychiatrist putting me on a cocktail of pills and the therapist delving into my world of dreams. But this therapy, these pills, together they stirred to life something inside of me that had lain dormant till then, some rough beast far more murderous and vicious than even my most contemplative, nihilistic depressions. And this beast wanted to kill me. I had finally lost my mind, I knew. I went insane, having days and days I could not account for, other than an other-wordly feeling that I was out there somewhere, completely disconnected. And something had to be done. I should have seen this coming. In the weeks leading up to the break down, the light bulbs in my apartments were burning out, one by one, and I didn't have the strength nor will to replace them. By the time it finally exploded, all the lights in the place had burnt out and I was in complete darkness. Just myself and my monster in the thick black dark. The night the last remaining light bulb burnt out, I confront my monster in the bathroom mirror, his face vicious and hungry and infernal, the yellow flicker of a candle flame lighting his face up. And I knew one of us had to go. Him or me. **** It was him. I quit taking the pills, believing they in part fueled this beast's bloodlust, but the withdrawals were grotesque, nightmarish, pure Hell, only emboldening its ferocity. (Let me note here that one of these pills was Clonazepam, the same drug which Jordan Peterson is currently is in rehab for due to these withdrawal effects. Only after his hospitalization did I discover these withdrawals could have been fatal. )

I fell down a substance-induced rabbit hole trying to elude this beast, trying to save my life, but every time I looked in the mirror, he'd reappear. He wouldn't go without a fight.

I wanted to check myself into an asylum, I desperately did. But I was in a foreign country, one in which I did not know the language, one in which the mental institutions had a barbaric reputation, still employing 20th century methods grotesque to the West today. So I began making arrangements to check myself in John of God's in Dublin. At least they'd speak English. At least they'd have modern methodologies.

But Lady. What about Lady? I could not leave her behind. Due to her hellishly high levels of anxiety, I could not subject her to flying in the cargo hold of the plane (being over the weight limit to travel in the cabin as she is). And even when I got there? Who could even keep her for me while I'm undergoing whatever treatment they'd make me undergo? How long would I even be committed for?

And thus the paradox was born: Leave Lady behind to save my own life? But a life in which I'd abdicated my one true responsibility, I felt was not even worth living. And I was right back where I started. In a prison of circumstance.

With no escape.

****

With the aid of some Angels of friends, we hatched a plan to drive me 2000km to Cherbourg, France. From there I could take a ferry with Lady to Dublin, where I could get the help I believed I needed. We managed to circumnavigate the problem of the plane. But still, the question remained: What to do with Lady once I got there and checked myself in? The question still pained and strained me, though the glimmer of escape on the horizon brought me a modicum of respite. But little did I know, there were still mighty mountains to climb, to overcome before that journey could commence. Before the dragon could be slain. Lady still needed to have her vaccinations updated before being allowed to travel on the ferry from Cherbourg, and I needed to have those vaccines administered in a European Union country, which Serbia was not. I checked online and believed I'd found veterinarian just over the border in a small village in Romania. I and Aleksander–one of the 'Angels' mentioned before–made a plan to drive there on Monday, as it was then Saturday and we'd not make it before closing. I spent Saturday evening and Sunday drinking and saying my goodbyes. At some point I received at tattoo spelling out "PANCEVO" in the cyrillic alphabet on my arm. I was punched in the face and bloodied by an old fling whose offers I had rebuffed. I dealt with the reappearance in my life of a former friend of high toxicity who'd I previously cut ties with trying to convince me I should kill myself. The town schizophrenic began showing up at my apartment, begging for help. I could only lend him a listening ear. I had an idea of where he was coming from. I hoped I helped. Madness attracts madness, I learned. On Sunday evening, upon hearing of my sudden departure, a local bar owner friend invited me to his local, "The Galaxy", for a going away party of sorts. Alcohol was on offer, and at that time, I was on offer to alcohol. It was how I was coping with my madness, with my anxiety, with the beast out to kill me. But in hindsight, I realize how it was probably also fueling insanity in ways I then did not, nor did I want to, consider. I was merely feeding the beast. And we drank. And I drank. And I do not remember. **** I woke up Monday morning in pure darkness, the place familiar but not. It was a minute or so before I realized: I am inside the bar. I am in The Galaxy. Alone. I supposed it must have been a good party, but look what it has brought: the steel doors were locked from the outside, and locked steer shutters covered the windows. I was trapped yet again and I needed to get to the veterinarian that day for the ferry tickets were booked and the trip could not be delayed. Panic and door kicking ensued, my heart racing, my hands shaking, my teeth chattering. My phone was dead and I had no way to contact the outside. I kicked and kicked and they would not budge. Finally, I collected myself. I began to search. For what, I don't know. Perhaps a fire escape, an emergency exit, someone's dropped phone. And in searching, I found something I'd been overlooking the whole time. There, right before me, on the counter, I found a key and a note wishing me well. It was the key to the locked front door, those gates of steel. I escaped.

But that was only the beginning. ****

Approaching the Romanian border with Aleksander, he has a good laugh as I recount the events of that morning. Lady sits in the back seat, watching the Serbian countryside pass her by–fields strewn with the detritus of modernity–plastic bags, beer cans, abandoned homes––and I'm in the passenger seat, a complete mess. Then he realizes– "I've forgotten my passport at home. Fuck. I can't drive you over the border." I know my residual alcohol level from the previous night is probably still too high to safely or legally drive. "We have to go back home to get it," he says.

"No, just drive. We'll find someone at the border to drop me off in the village. I'll get the shots done then hitchhike back to the border. Just wait for me there," I tell him.

At the border, Aleksander finds an older man driving a van waiting in the queue to cross. He's passing the village and agrees to take Lady and me. We hop in and get ready to pass.

****

Eastern Europe is famous for the corruption of its officials. From the presidency to the police to even the parking attendants. It's rife and it's everywhere. And it's known to make life Hell. Many people ascribe this corruption to the poverty found in these countries, but I think they've got it backwards. I believe these countries remain poor because of the corruption. The honest man is crushed easily and fatally under the jackboot of corruption. Consider this Serbian joke Aleksander once recounted to me:

A man and his fiancee are getting married and his friends are trying to decide on a gift to get him.

"A new car?" one friend proposes, and the others decline, saying "No, it's not enough." "A new house" another says? And again, the others: "No. It is not enough."

"How about a yacht?" the third one proposes, but still, the consensus is: "Not enough!"

Finally, the fourth friend says, "I know, I know! A day working as a guard at the border!" The others turn to him and say, "Are you fucking crazy? That's way too much!" **** "Give me the dog's passport," commands the border guard, a large billboard behind him proclaiming Stop Corruption!

I hand it to him. He flips through it, pretends to read it. "There is a problem. Your dog cannot pass." "There is no problem", I tell him. "This is a European Union pet passport." He begins speaking at length, making very little sense. Mere noise. Making up laws. Making up by-laws. He threatens to have my dog impounded for two weeks. "You would not like that, would you?" Still, I insist my dog has every legal right to pass. "You speak English, but you do not understand the English I am speaking," he says. And in that moment, I realize he does indeed speak very good English. I've never encountered this in a border guard his age before. I inquire where he, at his old age, acquired such good English language skills. "Six months of the year, I live in New York City. Manhattan." I know what the wage of border guards is in Eastern Europe. No more than $500 a month. How the fuck can he afford to live in Manhattan half the year? And then I know. "Listen," he tells me. "I'm guarding this border for the next eight hours. If you want to wait for the next border guard, that is fine. I am going to hand her passport back to you. I want you to think about what I said. In five minutes, I am going to ask to see her passport again. And this time, I had better see her legal permission to pass in there." He hands the passport back.

****

We're past the border now, the older man driving with a smile, me $20 lighter. He speaks no English and I speak very limited Serbian. Somehow, we're able to communicate, however frugally.

The village, the one just past the border, the one I thought had a veterinarian, it in fact it does not. It is a strange place, and the rot of corruption and poverty is palpable. It's streets are strewn with down and outs, alcoholics, the forsaken and dispossessed–men without eyes, men without teeth, men without limbs. None can comprehend when we ask where to find a veterinarian, or find the inquiry hilarious, merely answering with a sad laugh and a swig of the bottle.

We spend the day searching rural Romania and finally, through luck and the guidance of a rare sober, English-speaking villager, find one, quite a ways away from the border, where Aleksander still patiently awaits me. Lady gets her year vaccinations.

Exiting Romania, we're greeted by a wholly different border guard–a young, friendly, talkative, inquisitive boy. "Thank you for visiting Romania," he tells me. "How did you like our country?"

I wait for him too to ask for a bribe. He does not.

"Many people think bad things of Romanians. But please, don't think we are all corrupt. We have good people here too." "You do," I tell him. "You, people like you, give me hope." ****

Back in Pancevo that evening, I sit with Aleksander at a cafe to making our final preparations for the journey to France. I'm still not certain what I will do with Lady once I check myself in. And now, I'm not even certain I should check myself in. This glimmer of escape, the obstacles I'd overcome that day, the kindness of the older gentleman who drove me all over countryside Romania in search of a veterinarian, the young border guard–they have all filled me with a renewed sense of hope–for myself and for the world. I could feel the beast starting to subside. Growing smaller. More puppy-like. Easily tamed. But I still I know I have to go. Pancevo too is suffering from its own internal rot of corruption. Pancevo too is suffering its own trauma at the hands of an increasingly authoritarian, corrupt, brutal regime. The atmosphere is not a good place for someone like me to recover from what I'd been through the last couple weeks. I need to be somewhere less foreign, less strange. Somewhere familiar. Somewhere I can have some quiet, some peace. Somewhere I can understand the local tongue. And even more, I need to get away from the everflowing libations that are dangerously too cheap. So the plan is still on. I must keep striving back to Ireland, lest that glimmer of escape die and the beast be re-awoken. The only complication now is, where to live with Lady? Ireland is undergoing is a devastating housing crisis. Word is, it is impossible to rent with a pet–if you can even find a place rent at all (or even afford to rent at all). After some time of sitting there with Aleksander, despairing over this conundrum, conceiving of no solutions but only further complications, an old friend contacts me. I knew her only briefly, and many years before. She tells me if I'd like, she has a job for me in Derry, up in the North of Ireland. Included with the job is a house I can have all to myself, and Lady is welcome to stay. An escape granted from the Heavens. I don't know how else to put it. And the job? Running an escape room. ****

Rule number one when running an escape room is: Don't get on the intercom to help the players unless it's absolutely, vitally necessary. Disembodied voices ruin the magic, detracts from the immersive experience and excessive help makes victory in the game much less fulfilling. The goal, after all, is to allow the players to figure out the puzzles on their own as much as possible. The sense of accomplishment–not the escape itself–felt at the end is the ultimate reward.

Rule number two is: If you must give guidance, give it through ambiguous clues that appear on a screen. An ambiguous clue means it can be interpreted in several ways, thus allowing the player to still feel a sense of accomplishment even when you've given guidance and that is what makes the game meaningful. Rule number three is: Make sure the room has a plot–a story–with all the requisite components of a story. Rule number four is: Make sure there is an ultimate goal in the room. This needn't always be an "escape", but should always be an unlocking of some kind of final mystery. Rule number five is: Make sure the game is a continual set of puzzles (mysteries), all of which dove tail neatly into the final big reveal. Rule number six is: Design it in such a way that it cannot be played alone, but must be played by groups in order to unite them. Rule number seven is: Maintain as much mystery as possible while still allowing people of most ages and skill sets and intelligence levels to enjoy and complete it and feel a sense of reward. **** Does this pattern of escape room rules reflect a much greater, transcendent pattern of organization in our world, our lives? Is death really the only escape?

After all, I am still alive. **** After that day at the border in Romania, I've felt a sense of anxiety whenever approaching a border with Lady. "Victory!" I always think when I finally do pass them. Perhaps there are far greater, more profound, more radical borders to escape beyond. That is the crux. **** And I will cross them.