February 28, 2002
In my younger and more vulnerable years, as well as in my older and even more vulnerable years, the phrase from Samuel Beckett, “imagination dead, imagine” is capable of striking fear in my heart more readily than any description of fire and brimstone, any passage of Paradise Lost, any portion of Dante’s Inferno. I mean, it’s the end isn’t it? Real death as opposed to mere oblivion, of which the latter actually seems like a deeply desirable state at this strange corner of the year. Iatrogenic is a word applied to medical treatments whose side-effects are more unpleasant than the symptoms of the condition being treated; it seems to cover a vast array of medical regimens. I’ve been availing myself of some iatrogenic medicine recently which has resulted in days made tidal with waves of nausea and immobility. Thankfully, the tide seems to be in retreat as the body, once again, shifts to accommodate another poison. The thing that remains is the reminder of how certain conditions are a threat to the imagination, nausea being one of them. Nausea obliterates all of the senses replacing it with one sensation. One vast cloud of heavy gas weighing out all of the faculties, bleaching all colour, disarming the imagination. But even in the midst of this debilitating bout there was one recurrent image that persisted with me like a morbidly funny talisman reminding me of the existence of imagination and of humour: I put on a shapeless wool coat and wrap it about myself, a body that in my state I perceive as an amorphous and pale lump, and stagger outside. The landscape is a hybrid of poor video and something more romantic, Lawrence Olivier as Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights in that Hollywood version of the Yorkshire moors. My tottering steps lead me to a narrow path running parallel to a cliff. I shuffle along against a headwind until I fall over the cliff in something that is both a bowling pin collapse and a lemming-like dive. This image, which a fretful doctor might define as suicidal ideation, actually managed to make me laugh each time it re-ran in my mind. So, Sam, I suppose what I have to say is that I can’t fully imagine the dead imagination, not yet anyway, and thanks for your beautiful irony.
Suicidal ideation, I love that phrase. It sounds so pretty. Prettier than iatrogenic treaments anyway. Hope you feel better soon. An herbal treatment for the nausea, maybe?
The image makes me laugh too, thanks.
I know you've been suffering with these meds, but it isn't apparant from the outside. You look fantastic these days.
Rachael are you ever coming back?
where do i find info
where do i find info
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In my younger and more vulnerable years, as well as in my older and even more vulnerable years, the phrase from Samuel Beckett, “imagination dead, imagine” is capable of striking fear in my heart more readily than any description of fire and brimstone, any passage of Paradise Lost, any portion of Dante’s Inferno. I mean, it’s the end isn’t it? Real death as opposed to mere oblivion, of which the latter actually seems like a deeply desirable state at this strange corner of the year. Iatrogenic is a word applied to medical treatments whose side-effects are more unpleasant than the symptoms of the condition being treated; it seems to cover a vast array of medical regimens. I’ve been availing myself of some iatrogenic medicine recently which has resulted in days made tidal with waves of nausea and immobility. Thankfully, the tide seems to be in retreat as the body, once again, shifts to accommodate another poison. The thing that remains is the reminder of how certain conditions are a threat to the imagination, nausea being one of them. Nausea obliterates all of the senses replacing it with one sensation. One vast cloud of heavy gas weighing out all of the faculties, bleaching all colour, disarming the imagination. But even in the midst of this debilitating bout there was one recurrent image that persisted with me like a morbidly funny talisman reminding me of the existence of imagination and of humour: I put on a shapeless wool coat and wrap it about myself, a body that in my state I perceive as an amorphous and pale lump, and stagger outside. The landscape is a hybrid of poor video and something more romantic, Lawrence Olivier as Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights in that Hollywood version of the Yorkshire moors. My tottering steps lead me to a narrow path running parallel to a cliff. I shuffle along against a headwind until I fall over the cliff in something that is both a bowling pin collapse and a lemming-like dive. This image, which a fretful doctor might define as suicidal ideation, actually managed to make me laugh each time it re-ran in my mind. So, Sam, I suppose what I have to say is that I can’t fully imagine the dead imagination, not yet anyway, and thanks for your beautiful irony.
- rachael 2-28-2002 6:09 pm
Suicidal ideation, I love that phrase. It sounds so pretty. Prettier than iatrogenic treaments anyway. Hope you feel better soon. An herbal treatment for the nausea, maybe?
- jimlouis 2-28-2002 9:35 pm [add a comment]
Yes, the herbal treatment works a treat, thank gods.
- rachael 3-01-2002 6:13 am [add a comment]
The image makes me laugh too, thanks.
I know you've been suffering with these meds, but it isn't apparant from the outside. You look fantastic these days.
- steve 3-01-2002 2:08 pm [add a comment]
Rachael are you ever coming back?
- sarah 8-02-2002 4:41 am [add a comment]
where do i find info
- anonymous (guest) 12-13-2002 8:46 pm [add a comment]
where do i find info
- anonymous (guest) 12-13-2002 8:46 pm [add a comment]
what sort of info?
- rachael 12-14-2002 5:03 am [add a comment]