Author: mark_cleaveland

Emotions, like any category of perception, are not unitary things. Let’s hold up grief. We use the word “grief” to describe a state that has a range of causes and functions. Discombobulated tears might accompany the death of a loved one, or appear for a parent during a child’s wedding. They might occur when one is alone, or they might occur only when surrounded by others. And a psychologist would use these differences to suss out the causes and functions of grief. Is it a behavior that strengthens social relationships? Does it prune painful memories via an associative process? Is it a by-product of a homeostatic process? Does it follow a regular time course. Does it follow culturally bound display rules? 

This is the science of grief where there is no single “grief” in the same way that vision does not exist to perceive a single object. There are depths, shapes and colors — all actively working away within the nest of vision. So it is with emotions. They are collectives, not singular things, to which the buzzing of science (itself a collective) applies iteself, bending the universe towards a place of prediction and control. The logical. The rational. The process-oriented.

But is that all there is? Does that miss anything of value? 

There is a reason why the logical, rational, and process-oriented approach of science feels so alien in relation to our emotions. To feel is to live, after all. “Are you a robot or a human being?” Emotions are just processes. Emotions are just functional states. True. …And? Isn’t there more to be said? Are they not also something felt? Don’t they possess a qualia? They are how we know we breathe, these feelings. They are how we know we are awake, are headed towards purpose. So, what would death be, but an absenting of all feeling? 

Again, let’s hold up grief, because if anything stands in opposition to the void, it is grief — that assertion of the unique living moment, or friend, or future, or loved one, or self, in the face of loss. It is the bulwark against the contaminating encroachment of dissipation and mere time. There is a reason why it shares so many qualities with disgust, another emotion centered on the purging of poisons. Grief purges, but within a different digestive realm, the realm of the historically accumulated, subjective self, the subjective identity layered as an associative thicket. 

With that in mind, I’m going to take a slightly different approach with this post. To try and consider grief on its own terms. Not pinned down in a scrapbook. Not to make a point, or rather yes, to make a point, but in the same way that the emotions that reside within us make their points: indirectly, lyrically, and laid out like the tesserae of a mosaic. It is ironic that I am going to use words to do this, because the language of emotions is not that of words. There is a reason why emotions and music reside conceptually together rather than emotions and language. But we use the tools we have. 

***

So, what does grief tell us — that feeling of convulsions and dry heaves when the world sleeps, and a voice (your voice) blurts out, “No! No, no, no, no, no, …” It is as if identity itself were a corporal force intent on the impossible — an expulsion of absence. The self again and again convulsed and emptied. Emptied yet again. Gasps and then being crumpled into a respite, only to be convulsed and drawn fetally to the floor once more. It is a feeling more complete than any after-party black out. Except here it isn’t a stomach’s attempt to empty out poison, but the body coming to the rescue of mind — it’s the body’s hand reaching into the mind’s darkness to pull out that which is missing. Grabbing and clenching it scrapes away for a thing that can’t be found, shuddering as the breaches appear again, and again. 

When I was younger I thought that there was only one way to turn grief into meaning — that grief had but one act. The solution was to cordon it off from language and lock it down. To express trauma was to belittle it. To express grief would be to dissect “it” (that necessary “it”) from the body, and wound’t this just compound loss with but another loss? Unspoken, at the very least, the necessary presence could remain, in the same way that the ink of an etching carries in it the impression of the now-absent wood. It is the room left unchanged when the children go off to college. It is Iago at the end of Othello declaring that from this point forward he will say nothing. A defiant flag planted as an ode to darkness — that shadowed landscape in which motivations and their contingent wreckage have no comprehension or sense within the breath of living. The burned images left behind after the bombs took away the living. There is that. At least there is that. A preserved totem pointing to an empty chair. To speak would be to share, and to share would be to re-experience loss by handing it over to others who can only nod, and mm-hmm, and then eerily go about their own busy lives. As eerily as robots. Here, at least, kept within the shadows they remain, ever pointing to that which was lost.

Within that refusal there is a type of purity, or a solitary imprint of purity crystalized against the tides of convenience. That is is the purpose of each convulsion. The loss will stay within, and to carry those remains, space must be made. All must be jettisoned, hollowed, and extracted. To do otherwise is to lose even more, and to lose is to no longer be. Holding on to the emptied space within is existential. As the mind laments, the body comes to the fore.

“Breathe taking.” We use the phrase to describe an encounter with that which defies language — those bones thrown out as augury when the stars and darkness impose their weight. Maybe it is the way her form once weighted itself next to you. Maybe it was the bump of shoulders on a walk in the woods. Maybe it was the furniture to be assembled and placed within the living room of a future. Maybe it was a voice — that voice — her voice — doing a silly sing-song over the telephone. “Breath taking.”

Maybe this why you gasp and shudder. A body plunging into the dark water where all else is silenced in the long sub-surface swim. The body holds its breath in the only pontomine of living that remains. At least it is something. Words? They are not breath taking. The are breath giving. A camera set back in motion. The house sold to a new family. The furniture replaced. Bulldozers brought in to build a subdivision where the orchard once spread. The large trucks arriving to cart off the detritus to time’s indiscriminate heap.

Words? They are slippery, changeable things. Breath held? This is grief’s first act. Give me silence of such weight that the  record skips and the earth ceases its turning. Time grinds to a halt to a point where loss can have no meaning. The images remain. The voices remain. They will remain.

***

When I was in my 20’s the book The English Patient made an impression on me. The title character was burnt beyond recognition – his only identity held within the echoes of Herodotus’ Histories. Its pages interleaved by his own clipped and glued additions and added observations. In the book, his is the negated vortex — an intensity existing solely within its essential absence.

Give me a map and I’ll build you a city. Give me a pencil and I will draw you a room in South Cairo, desert charts on the wall. Always the desert was among us. But… our room never appears in the detailed reports which chartered every knoll and every incident of history. (p. 145)

The English Patient is a “breath taking” book. That is its gravitational center – the collapsed weight of a grief so total that nothing now remains but the husk of this patient now restricted and compartmentalized to a hospital bed while the battle lines of WW 2 pass forward and into the distance. Detritus, that is the English  Patient. A book centered on the unpacking of a loss — which is grief — but it is also a book of the singular individual still there, alive in a hospital bed — a tangle of words that leave behind the dewed webs of morning and no spider found. Because grief is not for the generic, but the particular. And how can we account for the particular but through words?

You used to be like those artists who painted only at night, a single light on in their street. Like the worm-pickers with their old coffee cans strapped to their ankles and the helmet of light shooting down into the grass (English Patient, p. 55).

Yes, it is a dilemma. There is indeed a noble purity in grief’s first act. There is a beautiful rebellion. A refusal to give in to the “decay” and the loss of the valued particular — that  single entity made possible by her, by him, by this. There is a courageous refusal in grief to bend to the universe’s authority by letting go of the now-gone. Grief is Hamlet’s declaration that he will hold on to that which is more than, purer than, and more essential than the “windy suspiration of forced breath.”

Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief, that can denote me truly. these indeed seem. …But I have that which passes show. (Act 1, Scene 2)

To hold on to that purity, Hamlet will famously refuse to act. And that is the endpoint of grief’s first act. 

***

Here is “Hamlet” contacting the real estate agent weeks after being told that the woman he had built his life around needed another man. She wants Hamlet, she tells him, but needs to do this for herself. So, why then is he visiting the real estate agent? What delusion is he holding on to? 

Here is “Hamlet” making a picnic – crackers, cheeses, frois gras, and cold drinks to take on a hike that is the agreed upon first-time-in-a-month. They have been practicing distance and limiting calls — being friends. So why the picnic? Because the next day is the Qixi Festival. He won’t say that he knows, and in their chatting… their perfectly friendly chatting, it is never mentioned, neither by him, nor by her. He doesn’t want to ask if she knows. He doesn’t want to hear that she might not.

Here is “Hamlet” purchasing two tickets to see a show in a month. He is alone at home now, and she lets him know that she is seeing another. She tells him that she’s sorry. Again, and again she uses that word. And he does hear it, and he does understand. She means what she says. There is no malice. But it is a form of grief that makes him buy those two tickets — the phantom limb still felt when the eyes alight on absence. Except, how can it still be grief when grief was once his act of defiance — the dark grip tightened against dissolution?

Now it begins to sink in to poor “Hamlet” that his acts of defiance are less an assertion, and more a dissipation. The held-on-absence now eating at the holder. A Polaroid slowly bleaching itself back into a void. His acts have now become an emptying of self, not a protection of the other’s purity.

“Wasn’t grief’s gold,” he asks no one, “to hold on defiantly to the unique against contingency’s encroachment? Wasn’t it that heroic insistence that denoted me truly?”

Yes.

A simple whisper now, grief.

Yes.

But that was only the beginning, dear Hamlet.

If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart
Absent thee from felicity awhile
and in this harsh world draw thy
breath in pain to tell my story. (Act 5, Scene 2)

Here we see “breath taking” giving way to “breath giving.” The importation from grief (Hamlet) to speak. The graved object granted a new living. Awkwardly at first. Breath held for so long must begin with gasps — the faces of the audience perplexed. But the attempt must be made or else that which has been lost, will only sink with the swimmer.

Read him slowly dear girl, you must read Kipling slowly. Watch carefully where the commas fall so you can discover the natural pauses. He is a writer who used pen and ink. He looked up from the page a lot, I believe, stared through his window and listened to birds. Some do not know the names of birds, though he did… Think about tithe speed of his pen. What an appalling, barnacled old paragraph its is otherwise (English Patient, p 94).

Yes.

In the suspirations of weeping one will find grief’s second act. The curtain slowly rising to reveal the actor returning to account. A calling of the nightingale against the eternal slumber.

***

Once Upon a Time

Once upon a time…

Once upon a time from outside the window, far below the cricket players set up their pitch. And the commuter train rattled out its clockwork. She was this. To him she was this; as well as birds in the wood and water that spilled over moss-covered rocks next to a hiked path. She was the dusk view from the fire tower and the scramble back to a car as darkness settled. She was breath taking and breath giving. Words. And words, and words, and words passed back and forth between them, sitting on the carpeted floor with a spread of dishes, and faces inches away, and in the passenger seat of a road trip, and disembodied while carried over the Pacific ocean, bouncing between satellites.

Once a blizzard thickened over the highway, and they slowly retreated their increasingly helpless car to a small parking lot. And there they sat. A thickening of specked white on the windshield and windows. The flashing light of bulldozers clearing the lots of the nearby stores. Until they decided to risk it, together, white knuckled and attuned to every slip, every utterance, every turn and dip. From her phone she declared, “We just need to make it another mile, and then it should clear.” And later, hours later, while walking the bricks of a city street, they would feel connected and impressed by what they had come through together. 

So it was. It was always a hunt with these two. Returning to a neighborhood to look for the black cat with white paint it its fur. Entering a phone booth in search of the secret entrance of a speakeasy. Once the correct number was dialed, a back door opened to reveal bookcases stacked high up to a ceiling, cushioned chairs, and candles. And there were ciphers and scavenger hunts that began with Tarot cards and ended with a gifted pair of socks hidden in a lab’s operant chamber. And maybe that, indeed, is a story worth telling. A ridiculous, wonderful story.

For, once upon a time… 

It was her birthday, and they traveled into the nearby city. She wore a new dress that sparkled and he wore a tie. And through a window, the stacked lights of the buildings stood like trees. And later in the nighttime they hurried across the city to catch the last train, running through throngs in the station, holding hands and laughing. And when the train’s doors closed, and seated, they weighted against one another as the compartment rocked and clacked the two of them, and, the other tired revelers, who when the station arrived, dispersed themselves breathless and breath-filled into a summer evening.