Hey Guys, just hoping for some feedback on a practice context piece.
“We can never attain a fully objective view of reality because we remain trapped in the prison of our own subjectivity.”
Throughout this piece of writing, I aimed at exploring a number of ideas evoked by the prompt. These include the uncertainty associated with the existence of an objective reality, the nature of subjectivity as a trap limiting our perception of an objective reality, and the implications of such a trap. Often times, these quite broad concepts were discussed through nuanced undercurrents I aimed at instilling in my piece.
The key message of the piece itself was that there is no objective reality. This was explored dually, firstly through the context of the protagonist, George’s psychological experience as a sufferer of Alzheimer’s syndrome, which was incompletely treated, resulting in a fictional psychological disorder, Dresden syndrome. The perceptual and cognitive anomaly experienced by George, namely his inability to separate any one moment of time, from any other, leads the reader to observe the world through a distinctly different lens. George adamantly believes that his perception of reality, is not only different, but also more accurate, than that of the general public, who are constrained by their unwillingness to face the reality in which they are placed, and rather, shy away from it, and observe it through a peephole, which George believes differs from one person to another, limiting the possibility of shared beliefs, and a common truth, and therefore objective reality.
I have drawn from another text in trying to explore these ideas, namely Kurt Vonnegut’s “Slaugherhouse Five”, which explores the same notion of being ‘unstuck in time’, though instead through the context of post-traumatic stress disorder, and its impact on the psyche of the protagonist, Billy Pilgrim. This piece was purely imaginative, because this form most effectively allowed me to put forward my ideas, without being chained by the yoke of convention.
Dresden
While Billy Pilgrim sat in his own basement, at the same time as lying in the fifth slaughterhouse, as well as standing and watching Derby being killed by firing squad, and simultaneously standing in the glass dome on display in the Tralfamadorian zoo, I too have became unstuck in time. Not so much unstuck, as it were, but more, wiggled loose, like a baby tooth. Unstuck, my doctors informed me, was not exactly the same, as what was happening to me.
I am the escapee of Plato’s cave. Shadows are all that were there before. Of course, I know that before is now. But so is tomorrow, and three days ago. Sometimes you just have to specify – to make things simple.
***
They’re calling it the “Dresden Syndrome”. I’m not sure I like that name. They’ve been documenting it since the beginning. Sitting in the stretcher like a man on his deathbed, I answer the ceaseless questions, as my mind wanders in front of, and behind the now. But the now, the here, and the current… they are all the same to me as the past, or the future.
I really don’t care.
***
“Alzheimer’s?” murmurs Rosalie, my wife, the tears welling up in her eyes. They’ve glazed over.
There’s a small stain on her collar. Mustard, I think. She must have been making Tommy’s lunch.
“Yes honey. Did you notice the stain on your collar?” I say. I can’t take my eyes off it. It’s nagging at me, like a loose tooth.
“But… but… is there… what are we going to do?” She is looking at me, straight in the eye. The first tear drips down her cheek, like a glistening liquid diamond. I feel her hand gripping mine tightly, almost as if she thinks that the floor is going to fall out from under her.
***
“I’m going to soccer practice now pop”, says Tommy. It’s yesterday. Well… yesterday compared to where I was last. The liquid diamond tear of my wife seems a century away, but I know it’s happening right now in the other room. She’s crying, and I’m holding her, thinking about the mustard stain.
“Okay son, have fun.” I answer.
Tommy looks at me with a funny look. But smiles anyway, and walks out. “You’re getting old pop! Dad’s away in London remember!” He smiles again, and picks up his bag and walks out.
***
The Dresden Syndrome. It’s named after the work of some writer, Kurt Vonnegurts, or Vortengurt or something. I read his book. I mean, I did read it a year or two ago, if you were to curl up my time into a thread. The Dresden syndrome…
I’ve Alzheimer’s you see. And not the good kind either. But something is different with my Alzheimer’s – new experimental drug trial. Apparently it’s supposed to buy me time. I almost laugh at that.
Buying me time. As if I don’t have enough of it!
***
He’s saying something, the young doctor. I think his name is Abraham. Some mumbo-jumbo about complications and impact on perception, and cognition.
“What does that mean, psychological and cognitive disturbances?” demands Rosalie. She’s angry now, looking furiously into the face of the young doctor, like a cat eyeing down a threat.
“The treatment we used has stopped the progression of the disease, so far as we can tell. But the nature of the disease is such that it completely decimates hippocampal and medial temporal neurons in a matter of months.” The glare of the clinical fluorescent lights reflects off his glasses. I can’t see his eyes. Father is telling me, that to judge a man’s words, check his eyes.
“The special case that George is experiencing, is because the time at which we blocked it, it had only begun to spread from his medial temporal lobe, to his hippocampus. He has only just begun to feel the effects of Alzheimer’s, but the effects it wreaked upon his ability to perceive time were profound. Just from an initial account, we think that George is experiencing some sort of perceptual distortion, which results in his inability to perceive time linearly. Nor is he able to control his train of though to stop himself from reminiscing… it’s almost as though he’s experiencing all the events in his life that he can ever remember, simultaneously.”
They’re looking at me, both of them. Rosalie is worried. But the doctor, I can see a twinkle of excitement in him.
***
Darkness again. No more light. Just total, complete darkness. I think it’s around 12 am. It doesn’t matter to me any more. As I lie there, and everywhere else I’ve ever lay, I think, how funny it is that people always say that I’m trapped. I’m the one that’s trapped they think! Ha ha!
I don’t think so. But I’ve given up trying to explain. I’m the escapee of Plato’s cave. I’ve seen the light, but the shadows were all there was before. But before is the same as now, and tomorrow. So it doesn’t matter.
I don’t know how they can’t see it. I’m reading the line from Vonnegut’s book now, where Billy Pilgrim became unstuck in time. Imagine if you could only ever see through a cylinder with a pinhole poked through the end, experiencing only a single glimmer of light at a time. You’d never be able to conceive there was so much light out there at all.
You’d think that all there was, were these singular glimmers, which changed from time to time, and told some deeper story, which you could see if you arranged the glimmers together in order of seeing them. But now imagine that the world is the observer, and the light is time.
There is no chronology in time. There exists beyond the cylinder all events that happen simultaneously, and yet they deceive themselves into believing the cylinder is the only peephole we have. We’re not trapped in this cylinder, sentenced to a thousand years staring through the measly peephole. But rather we trap ourselves. Cause and effect – they make us feel in control. But we’re all puppets. I’m just a puppet that’s seen the strings.
The best any of them can hope to achieve in that cylinder, is the most objective view of the outside world. But they can never have a true vision of any thing.
Ever.
But the funny thing is, not only does everyone have a cylinder, but everyone’s peephole is shaped differently, by their own thoughts, feelings, memories, behaviours, and attitudes. And yet they think there’s a truth. They think there’s fact, and un-fact, and that these are separated by some funny little line, and if you step to the left, you’ll be in fact, and if you step to the right you’ll be in un-fact.
But there is no truth. Fact is the same as un-fact, just that more people believe it. Funny that the same people who put lines and boxes around things on what they call ‘principles’, base the principles on their own view of things through the peephole.
That’s the trap. Not the belief that everyone has their own view of the world. But the belief that there is some common view we can all hold.
***
I’m holding her. Rosalie. She’s sobbing, and I’m holding her. And I’m listening to Abraham talk about the Dresden Syndrome, and I’m saying goodbye to Tommy, who’s going out to soccer practice. I’m at the dentists, and I’m saying goodbye to my childhood at the same time, and I’m cleaning off that mustard stain afterwards, when Rosalie has gone to sleep.
George has become unstuck in time.
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