|Beat the Whites with the Red Wedge, El Lissitzky.|
"To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others. [...] this self having shed its attachments was free for the strangest of adventures. When life shrank down for a moment, the range of experience seemed limitless. [...] the things you know us by, are simply childish. Beneath it is all dark, it is all spreading, it is unfathomably deep; but now and again we rise to the surface and that is what you see us by." To the Lighthouse, (Vintage classics edition) p. 58.
|Best £3 I ever spent in HMV.|
I recently finished, no, hmm... the book ended, I started reading it, and, after a point, there were no more written words to read in the book. Neither of us has finished with the other that is for certain. In the past I had struggled with Virginia Woolf, no great surprise, sometimes you're not ready for certain things, sometimes you've picked up "the wrong book", time and place and all of the other subtleties are slightly askew. This September I was certainly ready for A room of one's own, in part probably due to the fact that, at the time, and for many a month prior, I didn't have a room of my own, I was desperately unsettled and felt like a non-human, if, and I suspect not, non-humans are capable of feeling anything but. Though conversely I'm sure our family dog is well aware that he's not human, perhaps not, either way I must stop useless speculation, especially with myself in such a public place. So, we were well matched mentally at that particular point in time, so compatible in fact that I asked my parents to bring along my unread copy of To the Lighthouse to Poland with them at the beginning of October, so keen was I to re-kindle my relationship with Virginia (as absorbing as 'A.R.O.O.O.' was, (shit, it's probably easier to write the damned title!)a long and lonely month was surplus time to think on it).
|Bon voyage gift from the amazing Kath.|
To the Lighthouse was a fantastic novel, and I really wish I hadn't attempted The Waves before it, and failed with Woolf first time around. As with the illuminating essay before it, I'm still in its thrall. The above is one of many quote-ables I've been holding close to me, inspecting regularly, dissecting occasionally.
Anyway, to the real reason I'm writing today, reasonS. It may or may not be obvious to you few subscribers and facebook friends who may occasionally happen by this neck of the internetted woods, but, I'm lonely. There it is, out there, common taboo, awkward, embarrassing, searching, yearning, now actively willing interaction. Terribly terribly lonely. I want to bare myself to you who may in turn wish to bare something of yourselves with me. This is what its all about, all of this typing and framing and discussing. Well, I'm sick of the finite circles of my solo sorting and questioning, cut in to me, with your very own wedge shaped cores, I want us to bathe in our darkness, ein tywyllwch.
I, as I'm sure do many of you dark lights out there, have many things, emotional and physical, that really need to be gotten hold of, to better understand and learn to live with (I'm not sure if I'm capable of changing them, so, I can at least try to change my attitude towards them.. hopefully.... no?), but weakness is one of them, and I need friendship, a beautiful scaffold to my weakness. I'm tearing slightly as I write, because it's all managing to sound so heartless and demanding, a friend is not a means I know that I do, a friend is a wonderful end. To stretch this further still, my ends are loosening. Really. I get these, episodes.
First there's an acute awareness of my body, something I'm keenly aware of at the worst/best of times, though this is different, somehow sharpened. Now, I'm no stranger to this sharpness, but there's a new mood accompanying. I used to walk along a street for example, my mind's self chattering away then all of a sudden I'd get a flash of myself tumbling over something and smashing into an approaching vehicle in the road - accompanying feeling, a sort of mixture of awed shock and thrill. This as I said is usual, not typical as in daily, I don't walk that much, but regular. The newness lies in the aftermath of the flash, and it happens not just adjacent to predictable roads, bridges and cliff tops either.
Yesterday, sat in M's parents living room, I had the searing vision that my hand was going to jerk from my side and smash into the cups on the tabletop, so powerful was it that I had to sit on my hands. Far from being horrified or disturbed I found the whole thing hysterically funny, I pretended laughter at some television ad, humorous voice over, bad animation. On the walk to work with M I decided to share with him my strange episode, throughout the telling I was so breathlessly hysterical that tears rolled down my face and I had to beat my chest like the ape that I am in order to quell the massive/messy bursting of my being.
I'll be in class explaining something to the students, they making notes or pictures, then along comes this push of a scene in my mind, my arms(hands pressed on the tabletop, forearms straight) buckle under some phantom weight and my face smashes into the table with a satisfying crack. And, in joy almost, I bark a short surprising laugh and have to stop the saliva getting any farther south than my chin.
I need to avoid this because I do not at any cost want to again become a source of concern or fear or unease for any of my family members, students, etc.,.
Though I must confess reader, I do relish these bouts of feeling, unadulterated and un-nameable emotions coursing through me. Better this than not feeling at all, correct?
M says I might benefit from visiting a doctor, of what lord knows, and how on earth would that help is also a mystery. In my limited experience matters of this kind aren't much bettered by GPs who only manage to scare you into a corner of self-diagnosis and drug dependance. Not useful.
No, I just need to let it out from time to time, fears, worries, stupid half segments from my mental celluloid. Like old projection equipment I'm sure that if I can't share the pictures of my mind at a healthy pace and progression with someone similarly tuned and sympathetic, and in turn share some of their selves, we'll each come to a dead stop and eventually our pictures will burn into unrecognizable oblivion. Having a marked negative effect on our respective lives.
Sophie, I miss you dearly. Sometimes I catch myself thinking about you and I panic, real physical panic, I think thoughts like "what the hell has she done this week? How is her diet? Where has she been? What's she living for? Where will she go? Is her mind a home for her or unwelcome company that just won't leave?!" And on and on and I shake. At times my mind is an uncontrollable blaze without you.
Let's don't worry unduly, write ourselves oftener. Some times it's fucking hard. But sometimes fucking necessary.
I failed to draw a picture for my brother's birthday (tomorrow) this last few weeks, then, Tuesday, I drew one of myself in awkward failure. I woke with burnt lips from a weekend in chilly mountains, swollen eyes from dust and smoke. But I like it. Some small light from an almost dark.
Golau arall yw tywyllwch i arddangos gwir brydferthwch, one of my favourite lines in song, a song which ends with rhown ein golau gwan i'n gilydd ar hyd y nos.