Very dark outside this morning; inside too, if I shut the lights off. Very condusive to odd thoughts when one is questioning the reality of space and the bodies within it, as I started once again to do this past weekend.
I went out into the garage with a cup of coffee and a lit cigarette. I sat down on the kitchen step and realized I didn’t have hands—or legs, or any other part of what I formerly believed was “me.” Where I believed my physical self was within the space, was not to be seen at all! A bit worried, and puzzled because I knew I was there, I began to explore.
What I realized was that, no longer able to depend upon visual confirmation, I (the I that was thinking, somewhere in the area of where my head was, behind my nose that I usually can see) slowly became aware of my self in various bits and pieces. My back was achy, so I think it’s somewhere below and behind the “I” of my brain. My feet (or at least what I think are my feet) are stopped at some point which I think is a floor, and my ass is flattened on the wooden step. I hold out my right hand, and I see the bright tip of what must be a cigarette about a foot and a half away from me. But I don’t know that for sure—at least by visual confirmation. At this point, I must depend upon memory imprint to decide, guess exactly where my hand is, as well as the rest of me. There is no delineation, no separation between my fingers, my hand, and the blackness around me. I’m guessing that I “end” somewhere at this point that I can only imagine in the darkness.
Can I depend upon this “memory” to establish myself here, in this space? Or am I really where I’m supposed to be, on the living room couch studying for a Stat exam? This would be better, and I’d like to believe it’s true. But with the absence of visual confirmation, and unused to depending upon the other senses for this information, I really can’t be sure.
Ah, I go back inside, into a brightly lit kitchen, and there I am! At least for now, and luckily I didn’t lose myself in the dark. But my eyes have lied to me before, let me down out in that dark garage. Can I really trust them when they seem to see my hands?
The Great Lettuce Head is discussing Borges, Barthes, and the fictional “I.” this morning. I think I may have a glimmer of what he means.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology