“There’s a cool web of language winds
us in,
Retreat from too much joy or too
much fear.”
-- Robert Graves 1895-1985: “The Cool Web” (1927)
If consciousness is an oceanic aspect of being, then language is like the surface of the rough or placid waters that conceal our thoughts and memories. The hyacinths, submerged stumps, sharks, and dark, silent depths of what compises conscious and unconscious mind can never be fully revealed to those around us, whether strangers, friends, or loved ones--nor, perhaps, should they be. We think we see, collate, and assemble our perceptions in a coherent fashion; and yet dreams, imaginings, fixations, and uncontrollable nightmares and fantasies counter this traditional model/assumption. I can love you while harboring longings and resentments that must never be spoken. The folly of wishing someone close might plug into your mind, or vice versa, may sound romantic, but it would doom the that all important dichotomy between self and other that ensures self-autonomy, and thus the capacity for care and compassion. After all, conciousness loses its purchase without consciousness of others, and there can be no such consciousness without the delineation of self/other. As an example, I might plug into your mind during a private reverie I could never reconcile with your affection for me. Or, you might intrude on my private world during my struggle, while not outwardly manifest, with a severe anxiety or panic attack. The beauty of language, then, is its capacity to filter the swirl of consciousness into a mode that synchronizes human interaction. It allows us to, in a way, create the persona we gift to others by self-editing who we are. This implies we are always uncertain of who we really are, you say. But perhaps a constant uncertainty about our core identity, who we are, is better than a self-absolutism that leaves no room for the fluidity of experience, and the way that flux changes our perceptions of self and other in a kind of Heisenbergian psychonalytical way. The language of my interpersonal exchanges with you functions as a pen that contains my demons as much as a method of social interaction. That thin line between love and hate, or perhaps better, the compartmentalization of the inevitable ambivalence/ambiguity that comes with intimate emotional attachment, is maintained through language, and our choice, or lack thereof, of what to say and when to say it. Would that I had always been able to control my own sea-snakes and subliminal demons. For me, one positive outcome of having been ill has been a keener awareness of the distinction between the inner dynamics of being (contents of consciousness) and the words I choose to externally articulate this in my interactions with others.
us in,
Retreat from too much joy or too
much fear.”
-- Robert Graves 1895-1985: “The Cool Web” (1927)
If consciousness is an oceanic aspect of being, then language is like the surface of the rough or placid waters that conceal our thoughts and memories. The hyacinths, submerged stumps, sharks, and dark, silent depths of what compises conscious and unconscious mind can never be fully revealed to those around us, whether strangers, friends, or loved ones--nor, perhaps, should they be. We think we see, collate, and assemble our perceptions in a coherent fashion; and yet dreams, imaginings, fixations, and uncontrollable nightmares and fantasies counter this traditional model/assumption. I can love you while harboring longings and resentments that must never be spoken. The folly of wishing someone close might plug into your mind, or vice versa, may sound romantic, but it would doom the that all important dichotomy between self and other that ensures self-autonomy, and thus the capacity for care and compassion. After all, conciousness loses its purchase without consciousness of others, and there can be no such consciousness without the delineation of self/other. As an example, I might plug into your mind during a private reverie I could never reconcile with your affection for me. Or, you might intrude on my private world during my struggle, while not outwardly manifest, with a severe anxiety or panic attack. The beauty of language, then, is its capacity to filter the swirl of consciousness into a mode that synchronizes human interaction. It allows us to, in a way, create the persona we gift to others by self-editing who we are. This implies we are always uncertain of who we really are, you say. But perhaps a constant uncertainty about our core identity, who we are, is better than a self-absolutism that leaves no room for the fluidity of experience, and the way that flux changes our perceptions of self and other in a kind of Heisenbergian psychonalytical way. The language of my interpersonal exchanges with you functions as a pen that contains my demons as much as a method of social interaction. That thin line between love and hate, or perhaps better, the compartmentalization of the inevitable ambivalence/ambiguity that comes with intimate emotional attachment, is maintained through language, and our choice, or lack thereof, of what to say and when to say it. Would that I had always been able to control my own sea-snakes and subliminal demons. For me, one positive outcome of having been ill has been a keener awareness of the distinction between the inner dynamics of being (contents of consciousness) and the words I choose to externally articulate this in my interactions with others.
Love - Randy
3 comments:
Randy,
I could not have said it any simpler. ;)
You are an amazing writer.
Well said.
~*~
Bonni Q
Say What?!!!
say that again
what were you saying
So illness,vulnerability fostered caution in your communication style?
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