I am spending this week and next at the archive. The Brian Sutton-Smith Library and Archives of Play at the Strong Museum of Play has a staggering collection of periodicals, papers, and artifacts.

Just before I left Chicago, I started reading Vita Nostra, a fantasy book heavily steeped in metaphysics and the nature of learning. In it, a creepy man recruits Sasha to a mysterious school in an obscure town, first subjecting her to a series of routines through which she realizes the stakes of her schoolwork might be horrifyingly high. At the school, the importance of hard work is stressed again and again. Students who fail exams or miss assignments receive unnerving news from home and more advanced students exhibit bizarre habits. Sasha finds herself losing track of time, of her ability to speak, and even, perhaps, herself.

The historian, in the archive, with a cell phone

I lose track of things in the archive, too: time, place, the order of things. I forget to move, to drink water, to eat. Today, I went through nearly 6,000 pages of magazines. I photographed the pages I needed (and some I thought were funny or might be useful later). I kept going until my phone died, then plugged it into charge, only to kill it again. When the phone was dead, I went for walks through the museum to play games and watch visitors. I avoid the tank with the reef in it now, after watching the largest fish eat one of his tankmates, but most of the museum is perfect for meandering. I play Centipede and Ms. Pac-Man. Eventually I eat lunch.

The archive is an easy place to forget you have a body. I try to take breaks, really, but I am not the best at it. There is so much to read. There are files to organize. And there is not enough time. This morning, I leaned too far and fell out of my chair, right there in the library. I got back up and kept reading. My back tightens and tenses. My shoulders start sloping until they’re stiff. I forget to drink water. The cell phone dies again. One of the museum staff and I wander to the pinball exhibit with one of the staff, brainstorming ideas for the space. I walk back, and I read and read and read.

I tend towards hyperfocus, like many people with ADHD. It’s helpful, but there’s some danger to it, too. Hours slide through without notice. I get back to my car at the end of the day and realize I feel like a person who hasn’t drank any water, because I am.

A disintegration period

As Sasha advances in her studies at the Institute for Special Technologies, she enters a period of disintegration. She shows a tendency towards metamorphosis. When she asks the professors if she will be human at the end of this, they ask her what that means and why it is important. Her perception changes, and she loses track of her own edges. While I am not disintegrating, I am out of context. I packed too few clothes and forgot to bring shampoo. I am a person who hasn’t drank any water, who has lost track of all the maintenance tasks necessary for embodiment.

On messenger with a friend, I joke that the human body is a terrible design, that I’d rather not live in one. My back hurts. My stomach is knotted. I looked at nearly 6,000 pages today, and I’m full of ideas. I can see connections behind my eyelids. I dream them. Sometimes I say that archival work is tedious, and it is, but it is also disorienting. Focus. Focus hard enough and boundaries between things come unraveled, I see bizarre connections and hone in on them. This is the work I do. I am discovering, becoming. On Saturday, I will wake up in my house.

Until then, I have to try to stay at home in my body. Unlike Sasha, I know I am human. I am, after all, a person who hasn’t drank any water, but perhaps I have a tendency towards metamorphosis.