Postscript on Ecstatic Awkwardness: Hidden Places, Emotional Landscapes and States of Emergency
My little revelatory post recieved a few comments from my modest readership. The opinions varied considerably. There are those who identified with my labourous exertion to transform a personal trauma into a comprehensible medium that can actually be communicated and understood. And in some cases even appreicated.
There are those who frowned upon my 'celebration' of my misery. Those who have little regard for the aesthetics of sorrow as a supreme emotion worthy of elaboration just as joy or happiness.
I am grateful to both audiences. Yet there remains something to be said. There will always remain something to be said. Something to add to the 'text'. Some meaning, some new layer of meaning, some nuance, a little explication, some reference.
Like it has been said before, 'the text is silent'. Someone has to speak on its behalf. And despite the fact that my very humble text was full of clear imagery and pretty simple references, there reamins few things to be said, which might, not be so clear about the text, i.e. intention, genesis and references.
After my little episode transpired and my thoughtful comforter saw how miserbale I was, and knowing my hypergraphic nature, he encouraged me to "express" myself. By writing all that is going through my mind and tormenting my heart.
And this was my intention.
I am not celebrating my own misery in a pathalogical context. Or indulging in self-exaltation or egomania.
My thoughts and the words that carried them came as a cathartic experience.
Stressing the Latin prefix "ex". I was ex-pressing, ex-posing, ex-ternalizing, ex-pelling. It was an attempt, a very modest and humble attempt to capture a moment, a mental moment that would reflect the kind of thoughts that were going through my head, endless moments of everyday. This was an image captured for the briefest moment. The rest remains to perturb whatever sainty that remains in me.
I am so keen that my intention becomes a self-evident reality. For this is not a call for defeatism or a morbidity cult.
This was a pure, therapeutic process of the utmost sincere intention.
And since my intention was not to make it inevitably miserable or perfectly beautiful, how it came together was equally simple and sincere.
I just sat for hours and I wrote all that went through my mind. I followed a whirlwind of emotions and tried to make sense of it. And here comes the role of a laborious exertion. For this was an experience that was agonizing as it was ecstatic. And agonizing to an abysmal degree. To a degree of extreme desolation. To make, to capture that into words, words that reflect the meaning, projected truthfully, that is where the effort to write comes in. Not that I wished or had the 'intention' to write in a particular style or using a specific format. The authority first and last was for the 'text'.
The 'text' was autonomous. In as much as that I could not overcome my linguistic self-consciousness. Not more than that by any means.
That I should have kept this strictly personal, that I should have kept this experience a private matter, for there is no point in sharing it, I think amounts to cruel and unusual punishment.
That I should be judged for the decision is one thing, but to be censured because I expressed myself, now that is preposterous.
That I should be judged because I indulged in my sorrow and brooding, is definitely a cruel disposition. For I am then denied the relief of self-expression and the comfort of human compassion.
I don't think any of the readers would agree to something of this sort.
This space will be 'subverted' in whatever creative way I think necessary. No one can police my thoughts or ideas. And I shall not allow it either.
Not in this blog, no!
Those who are familiar with the contemporary music canon will recognize that the references used for this title are compiled from several songs, by the eccentric Icelandic singer, Bjork. A former arch nemesis for myself. But one that I learnt to appreciate under the influence of my Taurus gentleman.
Again a play on 'texts'. In a futile attempt to escape the burden of the meaning, of the memory, to mitigate the impact of the thoughts and ideas invoked by the 'text'.
I shouldn't have let him into my 'hidden place'? For this was treacherous, nefarious 'emotional landscape' and I should not have allowed myself to be "taken into" the formidable landscape, engulfed by it and driven into this 'state of emergency'.
But I admit, in truth, that I do long for my Taurus gentleman. And that given the choice I would have done the same thing again and again. I would have 'gone into that hidden place' again and again. I would have allowed myself to get lost in that 'emotional landscape'. And this state, this state 'of emergency' I am in right now is completely justified.
And yes, yes I would love nothing more than to have this 'communion', this heightened state of 'relatedness' with this person again.
I admit this in little or no doubt. And in a significant and majestic amount of pain.
The pain that seems to offend those with little fancy for the glory of loss and the inspiration of sorrow.
That I was severed from the one person that stirred this much feeling, that invoked/revealed this much meaning, is a fact that seem to create a dilemma for many. Myself included?
That I should display a broken heart with such verbal audacity, with such confident boldness seems to mystify and "annoy" a number of individuals.
It took Jala al-Din al-Rumi only one encounter with Shams ed-Din al-Tabrizi to compose over five thousand lines of ecstatic poetry.
This is a consolation. This is the raison d'etre of this feeling.
I think of the profound intensity of Rumi's verses, and think this was for one person, one person he encountered once, and where the entire universe was born out of this moment. This state of ecstatic, beautiful, beautiful agony.
People for over eight hundred years or more are celebrating that encounter, this ecstasy. And the so-called misery.
This encounter, that only God knows how long it lasted and what transpired between the two, is exalted, beyond imagination.
My encounter was not as 'sacred', not as 'transcendental' as Rumi's was, however, it was one of the moments in time where the world reveals itself, completely, in the most extraordinary of ways.
A question of my gratitude to this chance, this marvelous opportunity should be little considered. That I got to witness this much significance, this much depth, is something to cherish nonetheless. Even if accompanied by horrendous pain.
Even if it destroys the shallow semblance of meaningful existence that I have.
What was borne out of this encounter was a tree, a splendid tree with pain as fruit and thorns for leaves. Formidable, foreboding like a stunning freak of nature: grotesque yet picturesque, agonizing yet tantalizing, horrid yet magnificent.
And in the place where I keep all those feeling concealed, where I keep them hidden from the world, that tree, that magnificent tree grew overnight, bloomed, bore fruit, like the one in the Garden of Eden.
With the same consequences.
The fruit is the fruit of knowledge. It is the kind of knowledge that transforms and destroys. That alters the essence of you.
And now you have to face a new existence. One that is informed by the ideas/ideals of loss and pain.
A tree, to grow, it took a little of me. One has to give for this 'life' to thrive. It takes a little of you. And in the shadows of memories, the thorns dies, a little, the fruits dry out a little. And the tree dims, loses life-force little by a little.
Thoughts are like streams running to a river. This river, this river was composed by the streams of musicality, wistful reminiscence and wishes unfulfilled.
Rivers run deep.
And navigating the human mind is a treacherous journey.
These words were my attempt to present 'the river', the 'trees' and the world in between….
There are those who frowned upon my 'celebration' of my misery. Those who have little regard for the aesthetics of sorrow as a supreme emotion worthy of elaboration just as joy or happiness.
I am grateful to both audiences. Yet there remains something to be said. There will always remain something to be said. Something to add to the 'text'. Some meaning, some new layer of meaning, some nuance, a little explication, some reference.
Like it has been said before, 'the text is silent'. Someone has to speak on its behalf. And despite the fact that my very humble text was full of clear imagery and pretty simple references, there reamins few things to be said, which might, not be so clear about the text, i.e. intention, genesis and references.
After my little episode transpired and my thoughtful comforter saw how miserbale I was, and knowing my hypergraphic nature, he encouraged me to "express" myself. By writing all that is going through my mind and tormenting my heart.
And this was my intention.
I am not celebrating my own misery in a pathalogical context. Or indulging in self-exaltation or egomania.
My thoughts and the words that carried them came as a cathartic experience.
Stressing the Latin prefix "ex". I was ex-pressing, ex-posing, ex-ternalizing, ex-pelling. It was an attempt, a very modest and humble attempt to capture a moment, a mental moment that would reflect the kind of thoughts that were going through my head, endless moments of everyday. This was an image captured for the briefest moment. The rest remains to perturb whatever sainty that remains in me.
I am so keen that my intention becomes a self-evident reality. For this is not a call for defeatism or a morbidity cult.
This was a pure, therapeutic process of the utmost sincere intention.
And since my intention was not to make it inevitably miserable or perfectly beautiful, how it came together was equally simple and sincere.
I just sat for hours and I wrote all that went through my mind. I followed a whirlwind of emotions and tried to make sense of it. And here comes the role of a laborious exertion. For this was an experience that was agonizing as it was ecstatic. And agonizing to an abysmal degree. To a degree of extreme desolation. To make, to capture that into words, words that reflect the meaning, projected truthfully, that is where the effort to write comes in. Not that I wished or had the 'intention' to write in a particular style or using a specific format. The authority first and last was for the 'text'.
The 'text' was autonomous. In as much as that I could not overcome my linguistic self-consciousness. Not more than that by any means.
That I should have kept this strictly personal, that I should have kept this experience a private matter, for there is no point in sharing it, I think amounts to cruel and unusual punishment.
That I should be judged for the decision is one thing, but to be censured because I expressed myself, now that is preposterous.
That I should be judged because I indulged in my sorrow and brooding, is definitely a cruel disposition. For I am then denied the relief of self-expression and the comfort of human compassion.
I don't think any of the readers would agree to something of this sort.
This space will be 'subverted' in whatever creative way I think necessary. No one can police my thoughts or ideas. And I shall not allow it either.
Not in this blog, no!
Those who are familiar with the contemporary music canon will recognize that the references used for this title are compiled from several songs, by the eccentric Icelandic singer, Bjork. A former arch nemesis for myself. But one that I learnt to appreciate under the influence of my Taurus gentleman.
Again a play on 'texts'. In a futile attempt to escape the burden of the meaning, of the memory, to mitigate the impact of the thoughts and ideas invoked by the 'text'.
I shouldn't have let him into my 'hidden place'? For this was treacherous, nefarious 'emotional landscape' and I should not have allowed myself to be "taken into" the formidable landscape, engulfed by it and driven into this 'state of emergency'.
But I admit, in truth, that I do long for my Taurus gentleman. And that given the choice I would have done the same thing again and again. I would have 'gone into that hidden place' again and again. I would have allowed myself to get lost in that 'emotional landscape'. And this state, this state 'of emergency' I am in right now is completely justified.
And yes, yes I would love nothing more than to have this 'communion', this heightened state of 'relatedness' with this person again.
I admit this in little or no doubt. And in a significant and majestic amount of pain.
The pain that seems to offend those with little fancy for the glory of loss and the inspiration of sorrow.
That I was severed from the one person that stirred this much feeling, that invoked/revealed this much meaning, is a fact that seem to create a dilemma for many. Myself included?
That I should display a broken heart with such verbal audacity, with such confident boldness seems to mystify and "annoy" a number of individuals.
It took Jala al-Din al-Rumi only one encounter with Shams ed-Din al-Tabrizi to compose over five thousand lines of ecstatic poetry.
This is a consolation. This is the raison d'etre of this feeling.
I think of the profound intensity of Rumi's verses, and think this was for one person, one person he encountered once, and where the entire universe was born out of this moment. This state of ecstatic, beautiful, beautiful agony.
People for over eight hundred years or more are celebrating that encounter, this ecstasy. And the so-called misery.
This encounter, that only God knows how long it lasted and what transpired between the two, is exalted, beyond imagination.
My encounter was not as 'sacred', not as 'transcendental' as Rumi's was, however, it was one of the moments in time where the world reveals itself, completely, in the most extraordinary of ways.
A question of my gratitude to this chance, this marvelous opportunity should be little considered. That I got to witness this much significance, this much depth, is something to cherish nonetheless. Even if accompanied by horrendous pain.
Even if it destroys the shallow semblance of meaningful existence that I have.
What was borne out of this encounter was a tree, a splendid tree with pain as fruit and thorns for leaves. Formidable, foreboding like a stunning freak of nature: grotesque yet picturesque, agonizing yet tantalizing, horrid yet magnificent.
And in the place where I keep all those feeling concealed, where I keep them hidden from the world, that tree, that magnificent tree grew overnight, bloomed, bore fruit, like the one in the Garden of Eden.
With the same consequences.
The fruit is the fruit of knowledge. It is the kind of knowledge that transforms and destroys. That alters the essence of you.
And now you have to face a new existence. One that is informed by the ideas/ideals of loss and pain.
A tree, to grow, it took a little of me. One has to give for this 'life' to thrive. It takes a little of you. And in the shadows of memories, the thorns dies, a little, the fruits dry out a little. And the tree dims, loses life-force little by a little.
Thoughts are like streams running to a river. This river, this river was composed by the streams of musicality, wistful reminiscence and wishes unfulfilled.
Rivers run deep.
And navigating the human mind is a treacherous journey.
These words were my attempt to present 'the river', the 'trees' and the world in between….
Comments
And navigating the human mind is a treacherous journey.
These words were my attempt to present 'the river', the 'trees' and the world in between…."
WoW! Coudn't help but wonder, do our thoughts (our rivers) represent our needs?
My thoughts normally fade away when my needs are being met! Strange, I shall say. But I guess that's the thing about needs! You get them met, you don't NEED them anymore!
I love your work! Keep it up ;)
xx