I also knew what I was going to be told. Knowing was an 'illumination'. During the last weeks of craziness and timelessness I 've had those moments of 'knowing' one after the other, yet there is not way of putting this sort of knowledge into words Yet these moments have been so powerful, like the rapid illuminations of a dream that remain with one walking, that what I have learned will be part of how I experience life until I die.It is the forms that I have the most issue with in it. Are they that sacrosanct? Maybe, we have no need for total anarchy, but do we have to distill everything, including our existence, to just preservation of the forms? In effect, what are we striving to achieve -- the upper hand in a perpetual battle with the self or the preservation of the forms? Or, as it is very much possible and dreadfully too, are the two just way too incredibly intertwined like a dual headed monster?
Words. Words. I play with words, hoping that some combination, even a chance combination, will say what i want. Perhaps better with music?
But music attacks my inner ear like an antagonist, it's not my world. The fact is, the real experience, can't be described. I think, bitterly, that a row of asterisks, like an old-fashioned novel, might be better. Or a symbol of some kind, a circle perhaps, or a square. Anything at all, but not words.
The people who have been there, in the place in themselves where words, patterns, order, dissolve, will know what I mean and the others won't. But once having been there, there's a terrible irony, a terrible shrug of the shoulders, and it's not a question of fighting it, or disowning it, or of right or wrong, but simply knowing it is there, always. It's a question of bowing to it, so to speak, with a kind of courtesy, as to an ancient enemy: All right, I know you are there, but we have to preserve the forms, don't we? And perhaps the condition of your existing at all is precisely that we preserve the forms, create the patterns -- have you thought of that?
May 22, 2005
After years and years of trying to put into words what I have felt like about the ghosts, not the ones that are born out of personal experiences, that we live with, finally, I come across something that puts an end of that quest. I do not think I can ever come up with a better way of putting it. And strangely, as the passage itself says, you can't understand it till you have lived it, a certain state of altered consciousness, without which it is all just fancy gibberish. Anyway, without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, the wonderful passage by the amazing Doris Lessing from her book: The Golden Notebook.