Sunday, February 6, 2011

Day 29

This is about something I see out of the corner of my eye. The background image to this blog. About my search for something to believe. Which lets feeling have its say. Something I seem to see, something I half-believe, half-feel. Something uncanny. But not the 'numinous'. There's no room for god or gods here. Only myself, and the world. This is between the world and I, something we have to sort out together.

The world is the dumb partner in this dialogue. But what the world lacks in the capacity for speech it more than makes up for in other ways. That feeling you get when... I felt it back then. I was
...holding my head in my hands on the stairs, in a swoon. I date this as the time I first became aware of the world around me as a world. Our house, the street, the suburbs of London, the Earth and sky spread endlessly out to the stars. As my head spun, I had a fleeting memory image of a girl with blue eyes and black hair, standing in front of a school desk holding a large square piece of red paper. We used a lot of coloured paper at school. Cutting it, sticking it, folding it into models. I have never been able to discover the true connection between the image and the feeling of a world revolving dizzyingly around me. Was it maybe the panicked thought that everything, the world, myself included, is just made of different coloured stuff?
(Glass House Philosopher My philosophical life)
That was my best shot at describing the experience, written in 1999 for one of my American students. It was sort-of true. The girl with the blue eyes and black hair holding the red paper, I can see her now. I know it wasn't about her. But it wasn't about becoming 'aware of the world around me as a world', or things 'made of different coloured stuff' either. Nice try, but it wasn't that. I don't think so. Not then.

It had something to do with memory, but what? The uncanny presence of something absent. Or maybe my becoming aware of time. I also didn't mention that I'd had this experience several times. And each time I knew it was the same — the same memory fragment, the same unnameable feeling, just like Wittgenstein's diarist with sign 'S'. The giddyness would come over me. What was it?