Photographs: December 2007 Archives

As much as I have thought and thought about it, as much as I have clambered down into it and examined the walls and ceiling, and pondered its resemblance to Alice's rabbithole, I am still surprised by how little I understand the human heart. Most especially my own.

I didn't think I was going to write about this, here, in a public forum, but I find myself thinking again and again about my subway epiphany of several weeks ago.

So here is the tale, for what it's worth. First, the scene: Picture to yourself the long line of benches, peopled with a row of humans, each looking down or straight ahead or staring off into space. Most have white headphone cables trailing from their ears; some of these are bobbing their heads to the music.

Everyone has a slightly glazed look in their eyes.

I am sitting on one of these very benches, glancing from one to the other, thinking how we all look like self-contained pods, thinking that I can almost see the balloons of their thoughts, like a cell membrane floating above each head. Thinking about how strongly we try to connect, and how equally strongly we try to shut one another out.

And the train rushes on through the next tunnel, and with its motion I can feel the big wave coming. I am about to get one of those realizations that will ravage me a little, that will give me gooseflesh and make my hair stand on end.

It comes like water; I feel the edge of it before the full wash. And then there it is, and I think:

Do we strive so hard to reach one another because when we are not alive in human form, we are in some form where we connect more easily and fully than language and art allow, and we miss that? Or is it because when we are not here we cannot connect at all, and this is our great chance to bridge the gap with our inexact words and images and sounds?

"Everybody dies alone." - Captain Malcolm Reynolds

It's true, and it's equally true that at some level, everyone lives alone, too. No matter how many people they spend time with, or how close they may feel to their loved ones. We are separated by more than just the edges of our physical bodies. We are little bubbles of consciousness, we are thought amoebas, we are single-celled entities. It is hard to describe, because I am limited by words, by the need to make some kind of sense to the person on the receiving end, and that challenge is just exactly what I am talking about.

I get the illusion, from time to time, of almost breaking through that barrier. Boywich and I have, on many occasions, experienced psychic flashes - he reads my mind, I read his. He guessed, for example, with uncanny precision, the last name of the blonde. His only clue: my offhand comment that it was a common name. And he got it right, first try, and -even weirder- knew that he'd gotten it right, felt it in his bones. And we laughed and laughed and laughed, and creeped ourselves right out the door.

But for the most part, Mal is right. We die alone. And we live alone, in our little fleshy containers, pressed up against each other for warmth and reassurance. I guess I am mostly okay with that. But it surely is the impetus behind all art, and specifically behind my need to write, and paint, and take photographs, and sing songs, and dance the dance of living beings. And I have to tell you, it is lonely sometimes.