The title is reputedly what the intellectual swashbuckler and psychological pioneer William James found he had written down during a drug-induced revelation of ultimate truth: “Overall there is a smell of fried onions”.
In his essay “Subjective Effects of Nitrous Oxide” he wrote:
“only as sobriety returns, the feeling of insight fades, and one is left staring vacantly at a few disjointed words and phrases, as one stares at a cadaverous-looking snow peak from which sunset glow has just fled, or at a black cinder left by an extinguished brand.”
We descend from ecstasy to the ordinary world as if “Whatever goes up, must come down” applied equally to airplanes and inspiration. Emotionally and psychologically it is as if Newtonian physics rules our inner lives. If there is a version of gravity in there I think it’s the inevitable return to the linguistic/rational level of human reality where we conduct all our business with each other. The human mind surfaces here when submerged and re-lands here after being elevated. This is the homeostatic balance of our kind, the default neurological coordinates of return from highs and lows. Notice that highs and lows aren’t being critically evaluated, merely suppressed as not conducive to social intercourse. The default settings for humanity are designed to function as the center of a common Venn chart, an area where we all overlap despite other differences.
This realm of normal life is completely dominated by words and concepts as if they were the fundamental atomic forces and structure here. Concepts and words (within a general logic framework) are everything here from the solid ground to a breathable atmosphere. The human community is contained within this verbal\conceptual structure but only a few even recognize its existence: Water isn’t perceived by the fish. Within this domain, we don’t usually feel limited or cramped but only realities that can be sealed inside words or concepts can exist here. These can be considered, shared and exchanged, but only, like a nerd’s action figures, if still sealed in the original container. Flatland is a reality composed of things with no objective reality, it is equally Plato’s Cave and Keanu’s Matrix.
I’m like a ridiculous little boat, tossed about by my own weather, and praying the storm will end.
Everyone is an assembly of voices, and inner life is their discussion. Our flaws and weaknesses are the voices we listened to more that we should have. Now, when they speak we mistake their voice for our own. These are the voices that confidently led us into every catastrophe. You can slowly change by recognizing this, and opening talks with the ignored and forgotten ones.
When longing is unbearable it becomes a prayer.
The facet of a child that has been damaged beyond the natural repair of time doesn’t grow up but freezes there. It is nonetheless bound unbreakably to the grown-up responsibilities it was always destined to bear. This is the source of the mysterious, exhausted crying you can sometimes silently feel coming from the heart of someone nearby.