If I remember my high school physics correctly, a man by the name of Heisenburg made the amazing discovery that the observer of a phenomena affects the presentation and action of that phenomena by the simple act of observing it. One of the more interesting things my friend and former girlfriend with MPD pointed out to me is that just as each of her identities looks and feels different to each other, MY appearance changes from each of their subjective perspectives.

So in a Ground Hog Day scenario, each time I come through her front door “she” might see a slightly different version of me. On Tuesday the overweight, slovenly dressed, passive and somewhat clingy me stumbles through the door—late of course. Friday night the dependable in a crisis, take charge, loving and lovable compassionate me whose company is a delight and a balm greets her dog. For each version of “her”, there exists an alternate version of me.

I believe in my alternate identities, too. As the observer of myself, I have been aware of each and every one of them for as long as I can remember. But none of them seem particularly solid or substantial which moves me in the dangerous direction of not taking ANY of them seriously, neglected children all.

And now my friend L is in the process of fusing, of stirring her various selves together. Impatient, I would like to lick the bowl, have a little sample before the baking is done, but I can’t.

I am fascinated by color wheels. I could look at those little paint swatches in the hardware store all day. I have seen many of L’s colors. Some are constant and as solid as the red on a Valentine’s Day card. Others are opaque and ephemeral, flashing by, forcing me wide awake like the little rainbows seen out a moving car’s window after a storm.

Right now her palette is ablaze with strong and vibrant blotches of overlapping hues. When she is “done”, I think there will be a blazing white light which can never be doused or denied again.

But what of me? I would like to believe that in the end I will appear as a Royal Blue, or Verdant Green. My greatest fear is that the end result of my mixing will be the dirty gray I created each and every time in the water glass I swirled my watercolor brush around in as a child. Always waiting just a little too long to change the water. And L and my recombined selves will pass through each other like ghosts.

Or maybe, we will learn to make do with more reliable senses—senses not fooled by age, or calamity and indecision--smell, touch, the sound of our beating hearts.

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