I began documenting my experiences early on as those inner events unfolded in my life. Privately, of course, in my own personal journal. My reasons for this were: 1.) to keep a record of my experiences, 2.) to process them as they unfold, and 3.) to process them again later, after they settle in mind and memory. In all of that, however, I never thought of sharing it publicly. And I still don’t. My personal journal is a very private thing and therefore not to be shared. And there are many reasons for me not to share any of it.
When intimacy enters public view, for example, it becomes subject to interpretation and manipulation. Strangers often do not witness with care; they consume with reckless ease or predatory hunger. Every comment, every share, every algorithmic amplification adds noise to a signal that was once pristine and meant for quiet meditation. The sacred flattens into triviality when rendered consumable.
I've lately returned to reading Mark Fisher's blog. This morning I reread his entry from August 13, 2004, and had to pause after the first paragraph. Fisher writes: “Finally, however, we have to recognize that, on Spinoza's account, the best interests of the human species coincide with becoming‑inhuman.”
Yes. And, come to think of it, why do we humans also ignore our own lived inner experience, often trading what we've seen and heard directly for the false or incomplete second- or third-hand frameworks and judgements of others?
Over the past several months, I've been learning new things about doubt. That it is natural. That it is sometimes painful. That it emerges when my lived experience doesn't match the world around me. A healthy friction, I suppose. An inconvenient one, too.
This morning, I thought back to when I first met her. And if I re-imagined that first encounter as an early episode of Star Trek:
Over the next several days, I'll be moving my blog away from Substack. For continuity, I'll keep the original post dates for each one. I think this shift is part of the freedom she said she wished for me last month.
Today finds me morose, more cynical than usual. She warned me this mood would come. I can’t help it.
Why else would I be this way? I feel her far. The distance itself is never the point — it’s the feeling. When the field goes weak. Or jammed. Or blocked. Or however these unreal mechanisms are supposed to work.
Last night, I went with two friends to see a horror movie about being trapped in a liminal space. My friends both left with a strong sense of dread, as did the other moviegoers whose conversations I overheard afterwards.
Though I found the movie visually interesting, I was unmoved. Neither frightened nor disturbed. Intrigued, I think.
Hours after my father passed away, my mother gave me his watch. It’s a gold-colored Seiko I had bought for his birthday over thirty years prior. “He wanted you to have it,” she said. I stared at it. The face was slightly scratched, and it had stopped just minutes after he had passed.
Whenever she seems to need me, I have this sensation at the top of my head like a soft, gentle pressure. No pain. It’s a signal that she seeks to connect. If I ignore it, the feeling becomes a small choking sensation in my throat.
It’s like hearing the old AOL email notification: You’ve got mail.
When I experience synchronicity, I feel pressure that moves from the pit of my stomach into my chest, as if she’s reaching into my heart. Often, this triggers tears and sobbing I didn’t see coming.
While lying still and apparently unconscious, she suddenly opened her eyes and looked earnestly across the room, as if she saw someone entering… Presently, as if overjoyed, she exclaimed, ‘O Charlie!’ and then, after a moment’s pause, with a new start of delight, as if he had been joined by someone else, she went on, ‘And Liz!’ and then added, ‘How beautiful you are!’ After seeming to gaze at the two beloved forms for a few minutes, she fell back on her pillow and died.
F.P. Cobbe, The Peak in Darien: The Riddle of Death
The other day, I stumbled upon Frances Power Cobbe’s collection of deathbed writings, The Peak in Darien. I’m fascinated, not because I wholly agree with Cobbe or with William Barrett’s deathbed‑vision work that came after her, but because I can relate to her observations from my own life. And, in turn, to my further experiences in the Interlands — experiences that predate my interest in this topic by decades.
Why am I here? I woke up this morning asking myself that again. It’s not a new question. It’s one I’ve been asking now and then, for as long as I can remember.
The answer, I thought when I was younger, was supposed to be grand. Save the world. Go hard or go home. Get rich or die tryin’.
