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CHRIS TONELLI |
One True Conclusion Gleaned
We know there are gaps in the
resistance. Synapses
between ganglia. A canyon between
us
and the other side of an ancient
river. A whole gulf.
Lie to them. Say, “tell the
truth,”
and not expect it. It will be an
embarrassed moment
when they try to reach us (they’ll
make
symbols for this guilt). Imagine
what would happen
if every time “I love you,” was
said
an orgasm was had—this is
essentially what they are
hoping for. It is always possible
to go
some distance. Far enough. A
glimpse. I think I’d need
another one, or a whole group that
I can
treat as one. A flock of glimpses
on a primitive route
or a herd of gnus on their trodden
way.
Whatever interrupts it is
resistance; they try to remind
us of this everyday. What will we
make
in the face of it? They, on the other hand, seem acutely
aware of doubt’s hostile purpose
in this
standstill, as they hastily cover
up the obvious weak spots,
persistent as animals about the
fact that
this is the shortest road to
recovery. How is it that they
have held up in the arbitrary
drift, knowing
that something which may have
happened last year will
be treated as complete certainty?
The disguise doesn’t seem as
important to them as
the desire to restore all that’s
been lost.
“Deceive ourselves,” they say,
“until it breaks off, until
the ground is cut out from under
us,
or at least until we forget.” And
what is our excuse? If we
wanted
the world, we’d go outside? What
they are doing out there, we’ll
never know. But it looks fun.
Oceanic States
Oceanic feelings are the feelings of bliss and agony that accompany the
idea that one has created the world by viewing it.
He couldn’t make enough things to
complete the world.
Or he couldn’t see enough things
in the world (we tried telling him
this was the goal) to feel as if
he’d created it: atrocious outer
object. Inner object. He split
himself, wanting the world out of him.
Wanting out of it. He became fixed
by it, and it ceased to be itself.
He tried to get the good of it to
flow into him. But this was
also wrong—this object’s very
success was its badness.
He tried putting the bad bits back
into the world. But all he could do
was fill it with worse things. He
dreaded his aggression towards it—
its retaliation, its
temporariness. He dreaded himself, we were sure.
So he let in the bad, modified it,
and let it back out, knowing
he’d never be able to retrieve it.
Finds that a bit of the external world
is malleable, safe to treat
it as a bit of himself. He realized that he didn’t
want it back. That it was
startlingly repellent. Feels it is
lovely (horrible) stuff he has created or exists in its own right.
“Certainly
there is very much here I do not
understand,” he said, apparently
finding the unfamiliar in the
familiar. Certainly there is very much here
we do. Recurrent partial return to
the feeling of being one is possible.
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