A dream, it seems. Triggered by an
earlier experience? Perhaps. But may be just a dream.
But, this has me thinking about death,
because B. wrote the poem and now I have to. There have been some moments when
I was close by a death, but I’d rather keep them to myself.
Here’s how I want to think about
death right now: The poet/artist Willliam Blake was with his brother when he
died. He saw his spirit leave his brother’s body and rise up and out of the
room—smiling and clapping his hands with joy. Blake, like most people of his
time, was a firm, no-doubt believer in eternal life after death. This wasn’t
just belief, this was a vision. He saw it. Blake had the gift, they say. On my
trip to England last summer, we visited the Tate Britain gallery. I had wanted
to see the Pre-Raphaelite paintings, but that wing of the gallery was closed
for some work under way. I was disappointed. But what I didn’t know was that
Tate Britain has a William Blake room, which more than made up for glimpses I
was able to steal of the Rossetti paintings we originally went there for. Blake
painted in watercolors, so they’re delicate and light-sensitive. Tate rotates
them—a brief showing then back to the dark for years. By total chance, I got
to see both of my two favorite watercolors by William Blake: His portrait of Isaac Newton,
which was thrilling in itself, but even better was the portrait of the ghost of a flea,
which is one of the creepiest images you’ll ever find anywhere. Blake was quite
an amazing figure.
I’m not quite ready to uncritically
swallow Blake’s vision and its message that fleas are inhabited by human souls who
had possessed a bloodthirsty nature. There are more fleas alive in the world right
now than humans who have ever lived anyway, so some of those bloodthirsty
spirits would have to be doing double and triple duty inspiriting the fleas of
the world. Blake himself was surprised by the image, though, with its monstrous
human form, holding a cup to receive the blood he drinks. But so many people
are convinced about life after death.
I have a good friend, an academic
and writer and critic, who studies Appalachian folklore. She got to go to Paris
as a grad student and present some research she had done, stories she had
collected, about the common experience so many people have had of being visited
by a loved one in a dream, especially a parent, once they’ve died. I had this
experience as well, and I can say that it gave me a lot of comfort. My father—in
the dream—is with his mother, my grandmother, and they’re at peace and they’re
happy. There’s a doubting part of me that can still chalk this up to some kind
of psychological self-hoodwinking, where the ego assuages its grief at the loss
of a loved one with myths of an afterlife with God and other loved ones passed
on. I’ll have a hard time ever totally letting go of this. But that hasn’t
taken over either. A few dreams I’ve had have been more than the
run-of-the-mill phantasms of the night our brains churn out to try and put our
chaotic lives into some semblance of psychic of order. This was more. He told
me to take care of my mom, and he was not sad or unhappy. Quite the opposite. I
do kind of think after that that mom will join him one of these days—doesn’t
have to be soon. He’s not experiencing time like we are if his spirit is indeed
still consolidated in the afterlife, so he’s not in any hurry. Her life is
lively as ever, perking along with energy and engagement. (Happy Mother’s day,
Mom!) I don’t need to believe one way or another—we will die and our
psychologies soothe that terror with myths of eternal life. Or, we live
eternally. I can hold onto both for now.
Blake had no doubts about it.
Neither does B., at least on the surface. The body is cold, and to touch it,
even in a dream, is shocking. But he also states flat-out that “Christ waits.” The
spirit will leave the body behind. That’s the problem for me: Eternal life
absolutely supposes that those things of the spirit, the human aesthetic and
the spark of empathy, the you-who-you-are reading your computer screen through
your two bright eyes, these things are fundamentally apart from the body? I’m
not quite so sure. Keats called it “negative capability,” the ability to hold
two opposed ideas at the same time. In his words: “That is when man is capable
of being in uncertainties. Mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching
after fact and reason.”
So enough with the irritability of
reason tonight. Blake painted Newton doubled over under the pitiless burden of
his reason. Blake saw the ghosts of fleas walking the night, and Blake’s newly
dead brother rose to heaven in ecstasy. In dreams, we drift to a place halfway
between heaven and flesh.
No comments:
Post a Comment