Sometimes, if you stare too closely at something for too long, it loses its shape and becomes unintelligible. On a recent weekend in Cold Spring Canyon I fixated upon the green nubbins of a tree-covered slope from the canyon rim opposite, and my gaze transformed the distant slope into a massive carpet of moss. It was a psychedelic effect created by my brain's pattern recognition software working within the limitations imposed by the wetware of my eyeballs.The word "psychedelic" dates from the 1950s and is a neologism derived from Greek, an ancient and supple language from which much of the subtlety has been stripped by modern usage. Psyche (ψυχή) in the Huxleyan sense is often translated as "mind," an anachronistic simplification of its original meaning which was closer kin to "soul" or "life," and when used as a philosophical term of art referred to the animating force of humans, animals, and the universe itself. Delos (δήλος) in its simplest sense means "visible," and in common ancient usage bore with it the additional context of clearing the mind, or something that was made manifest.
So the lysergic-dropping crowd were referring to the effects of their favorite drug as "mind revealing," which suggests that the chemicals were exposing the ingredients of their own neuronal soup. Digging deeper into the word's past reveals another possibility, which is that the substance brought about the manifestation of qualities possessed by the world outside their skulls. Exogenous chemicals aren't necessary: trees at a distance can look like close moss, given a willingness to reframe your view.
So the lysergic-dropping crowd were referring to the effects of their favorite drug as "mind revealing," which suggests that the chemicals were exposing the ingredients of their own neuronal soup. Digging deeper into the word's past reveals another possibility, which is that the substance brought about the manifestation of qualities possessed by the world outside their skulls. Exogenous chemicals aren't necessary: trees at a distance can look like close moss, given a willingness to reframe your view.
It's an entirely different matter when that process happens with language.
You might have had the experience of a common word suddenly "looking weird," as if some part of your brain's language centers has hiccoughed for a moment. If you've got a dictionary handy you can look the word up, confirm that it's spelled correctly, and it will look normal again. I've been experiencing something similar with entirety of language. Not just with words in themselves, but with sentences, paragraphs, whole arguments. I say "something similar" because it's not a matter of incomprehension or the words looking weird. It's an acute sense that no matter what the common, agreed-upon definitions of words are, there's no way for me to be completely sure that the writer shares the sense of meaning with me. Not without a lot of work.
An example, in broad strokes: any conversation about "God." One syllable in English, three small letters, with literally millions of pages written about it. I'll watch people fling discussion about God back and forth between them, and it's clear to me that they're arguing in the leaves. That is, they're debating the shape and color of fluttering foliage, not knowing whether they're on the same branch, or even in the same tree.
That's simple enough, and I've long been aware of the effort that it takes to conduct a proper conversation about any metaphysical or transcendant subject—to establish agreed-upon first principles, to make no assumptions about the meaning of key terminology, and so on. But in recent months, that awareness has expanded to include almost any subject of any importance. A sad and recent example: discussions that involve the words "assault rifle." So many people running amok in the tops of trees, talking past each other.
Language now appears to me as a clumsy and imprecise tottering structure of wildly disparate meaning and flawed understanding, built with badly forged and poorly wielded tools. More to the point, my increasing sense that language is an artificial construct that has nothing whatsoever to do with reality has made me question the possibility of any genuine communication whatsoever. I even question the point of making the attempt. Considered together, all of this feels like a loss of faith.
Instead of a brief moment during which my gaze shifts and the forested slope becomes like a mossy stone, I'm in the midst of a prolonged transition. On the one side is ψυχή, the self of the universe. On the other is language, a structure in my mind. Like the memory of the mossy stone, language is supposed to be similar enough to the universe that we can transition between the two, and perceive the similarities between it and reality in the same way that we can see the similarities between a distant forest and a small patch of moss, or the spiral of a nautilus shell and the whorls of a hurricane. For me, that process has stalled, leaving the one superimposed upon the other, rendering the world ghostly and vague.
Which, of course, raises the question of why I sit here writing this.
I really don't know.
Which, of course, raises the question of why I sit here writing this.
I really don't know.
splendid piece! wetware indeed! God indeed! Language does suck in its myriad of limitations, doesn't it though? "Love" for instance. What gives? Me, I'm awaiting that psychic 6th sense thingie where we just express our thoughts interfractally. I really haven't lived until every life form in the universe knows when i fart.
You don't really expect me to waltz through that barn door you've left wide open, do you?