Squishy, squelchy, unfun fun

Ha, I actually managed to write something about Oxford - well, not about Oxford itself, but about its caving club. This is a description of my first caving trip - down Swildon's Hole. Unfortunately caving isn't a very good pastime for taking pictures, so there's nothing I can attach to this text; but there are some cool photos of the place around the internet.

“It only starts being really fun when it almost stops being fun” – the oh-so-deep thought hit me in my third hour underground.

Actually, it was really fun from the very start, from the moment we put on our ridiculous caving clothes – the fleecy, one-part, baby-garment-like undersuits; the brightly coloured oversuits, blue ones like blue builders’ coats, yellow-and-red ones like yellow-and-red clowns’ uniforms; the wellies that were sometimes two sizes too large and from two different pairs; the helmets that I can conjure no humorous description of. So there we were, dressed in our ridiculous caving clothes, surreal specks of colour walking across a brown field in Mendip. And there we came to an inconspicuous hole in the ground. One by one, the specks of colour disappeared from the surface of the earth, entering a world whose surrealness rivalled their own.

And then it started being really, really fun. We waded in an underground river, squishing, squashing, squelching, splashing in squishy, squashy, squelchy, mushy waters. Water in our wellies, mud on our hands and faces and hair – a child is happiest when dirty, an adult is happiest when her resemblance to a dirty child becomes almost too uncomfortable to bear. It only starts being really fun when it almost stops being fun.

Down onto your face and cram your body into a tightly cramped tunnel, walls jam, ram, slam into you from all sides, you in a little tunnel of air surrounded by infinite expanses of stone. Unable to move your head, all you see are the wellies of your predecessor kicking furiously inches ahead of your nose, and on and on you crawl – nay, slither! – thrashing your legs about likewise. Then the scenery changes – velvety expanses of undiscovered darkness, spacious emptiness that fills your insides with shudders of awe. Below – a waterfall, trickling, murmuring, drippety-drip-dripping... Next to it a ladder, a spindly, frail affair, swinging to and fro as you come down, the water eternally rushing past, its wet, cool indifference deeply reassuring.

That emptiness, that something which turns your insides upside down, that something which is nothing, which is perhaps an illusion and is all the more powerful for it – that is the biggest treasure one can find in a cave. My feet begin to ache, I have bruises all over my elbows, I don’t know whether I am really enjoying myself anymore. But I know that when I come out, these will be the moments I shall remember as true happiness. “This is it, there is nothing else – and isn’t it the best it could possibly be?” I tell myself, and I think I know what I mean.

We scramble, scurry and scuttle up and down in the most ridiculous places and poses. Hands on rough stone, feet somewhere miles away, I carefully think of a way of getting down without falling. The caver’s motto goes: “Why use your hands and feet when you can use your bottom?” – indeed, caving is a wonderfully undignified game.

In that third hour underground I stop noticing things around me. It takes most of the effort I can muster to keep on going – I mechanically lift my feet, look for footholds, mechanically shiver in the cold underground stream. But I am so content, how good to feel so bad! That was the moment when it started being really, really, really fun.

And then came the moment most fun of all – the moment when it absolutely stopped being fun. The moment of the sump. Which is the technical term for a passage completely submerged under water.

First you have to lie down in the icy cold, frightfully freezing water. God, God, God it’s cold! Everything inside you tells you to get out and run away – instead, you search with your numb fingers for the rope by which you are to pull yourself through the water, and you submerge your helmeted, crazy head. Oh my God, oh my God, I’m gonna die... Long milliseconds... Can’t b-b-brrrreathe... Solid rock above me, what if I won’t make it?!... Made it.

“How was it?” “Oh. My. God.” Grins from ear to ear, shudders from tip to toe, we’re as happy and as terrified, cold and exhausted as can be.

But the scariest part was yet to come... A realization was shaping itself in my mind... “Are we going back the way we came?” Of course, I already knew the dreaded reply. Those fifteen minutes of further exploration, knowing that once we turned back I would have to go through that hell again, and that now diving was not a matter of bravery, but of necessity – now that’s what fear is...

The second time itself was much less scary than the first. Cold, in, out, shiver-shiver and time to leave.

When we came out after five hours, how amazing seemed the sky, by now specked with sparkly stars! How amazing the dry clothes, how amazing the fireplace in the hut and the tea, the hot, delicious tea! This is it, there is nothing else, hot tea is as happy as you can get.

Nobody there

A short story that was meant to be on the loose subject of "bodies" and ended up being on the loose subject of "bodilessness".

PS I promise I'll write something about Oxford at some point, but probably only after the end of term (December 5th).

I tried to remember what flowers looked like. Pink roses in the garden of my childhood. Deep, dark pink, a lot of them, simple and so obvious. Pink, pink, pink, it’s just a word now... It’s hard to imagine colours when you’ve got black film spread over your eyes. Your eyes...! I’ve still got my memories, but already they are fading away, the bright pinks and oranges washed away by the tears I can no longer cry, blurred to better match the surrounding darkness.

Tried to remember what it was like to cuddle up in an embrace. Soft, safe, still. Warm, solid arms around me. Tried even to remember what it was like to hurt my toe, to yelp in anguish and internally curse myself for being such an ass.

At least that I could still do. Except now there was no externality to limit and define my internality; being nowhere at all, I was within and without at the same time.

Tried to remember my death. That razor-blade edge where something became nothing, the point where I went around in a perfect circle and fell down from the abyss of highest pain into the heavens of emptiness.

1 2 3 4, 1 2 3 4... Adagio, allegro, andantino? Had it been a day? A month?

What do you fill eternal emptiness with? Memories you will inevitably lose, thoughts that cannot be inspired by anything outside yourself? Can you create a story now, can you discover mathematical ideas?

“What was it like to look at a flower?” The thought was so different, it hurt. It came with the image of ghastly purple hyacinths, pulsating in and out of focus, and a sense of despair mingled with awe in proportions I had never previously experienced.

Following this head-on collision with an alien entity, my previous train of thought was knocked off its tracks completely. It plunged into the black pools of despair, full of rebounding echoes of reflected hyacinths, wrinkled menacingly by passing waves of sorrow.

I held on to a strand of awe, by which I pulled myself out to the shore and shook off droplets of pain. Thereupon I found a realization:

“There must be others! Others who think of hyacinths! I am not alone, there is a point!”

“Can you hear me? I am here, I am here, I am, I am...” I thought as loudly as I could. But of course that didn’t make the thought any louder.

And once again there was only me, for a very long time. The possibility of human contact temporarily kept my spirits high, but you can only dwell in future imaginary lands so long, and eventually I had to accept that I might never be able to communicate with another being.

At this point it would have been very easy to give in to a feeling of despair, had it not been for the sense of awe that now seemed inseparably bound with this feeling. How terrifyingly amazing, that I should be here!

A course of action soon presented itself to me. I shall create something – I must, must be able to. But first let me have a look at the resources available to me. There is no one else; so let me introspect. What do I remember, what do I know, who am I? Given all this time, let me begin by segregating the contents of my consciousness; and doing it well.

There were the personal memories; and there were the snippets of books, paintings, symphonies, mathematical proofs. Music posed a particular difficulty. I struggled to recall even small parts of Schubert’s fourteenth String Quartet – pam, parapampam, I got stuck in the first measure, the maiden stuck forever in her coffin, pounding on the wooden lid in a distant echo of sounds that would be endlessly beyond her grasp.

I concentrated as hard as I could. No, I was losing it, concentrating on the concentrating, not on the music. And then...

It took me a while to realize that this was actually it. It wasn’t just that it was a different interpretation on the part of the musicians. It was a different pair of ears that interpreted it as well. The climatic point was somewhere to the left of where I was used to hearing it, I hardly noticed that favourite part of mine that had always obscured everything else, and the whole had a rather more reckless feel to it.

Presently I became aware of visual stimuli as well. I looked up to the stage of that memorable concert and gasped. No, no, no, that is not the right colour for a violin! But in a way it was the right colour.

Then it all went very quickly. I would be overcome with inexplicable feelings, experience alien visions and memories, all in rapid succession. Then they would begin to overlap to the point where you could not tell where one ended and the other began; you could not tell where I ended and someone else began.

There was just the one clear vision. I lifted the knife repeatedly, and stabbed and stabbed. The shriek filled the entirety of the space around me, pushing into my ears and every corner of my consciousness. The anger, my anger, followed in its tracks, finally overcoming and silencing it.

***

I think that was the end of her. Oh yes, there was still the Essence – the memories, the point of view – but it had been blended with other Essences beyond distillation.

The unity of souls, the Universal Mind, the goulash of consciousnesses, dissect, cut out, rip, shred and mix well...

In the end, there is only death.

grayishly glum

Disclaimer: I started writing this text a few months ago and it in no way reflects my current state of mind. At Oxford I am actually impossibly happy most of the time; but as my blog tends to err on the side of optimism, I thought something slightly darker would do it no harm.

Prologue: Wye River Greens, or Recipe for a Brighter Day

Take a piece of grayishly glum sky. Place it behind a dense mosaic of leaves. Watch it erupt into silver sparkles.

Take a broken piece of your soul. Place it in front of a dense mosaic of leaves. Watch them shine with endless hues of green.

Take a dense mosaic of pieces of your soul. Wash them in a clear mountain stream. Watch them shine with endless hues of the rainbow.

Take a piece of grayishly glum sky. Dip it into a clear mountain stream. Watch it slowly swim away.

***

What if amazement doesn’t come?

(A piece of grayishly glum sky behind some ridiculous leaves and nothing, nothing, nothing...)

A hint of a something inside. Oh, ooh, ah, unhappiness. Do let’s give in! Such a comfy place, this border of insanity. No point to anything, no reason to wake up in the morning. Stuff yourself with chocolate, you know sooner or later each thing that “always cheers you up” will fail for the first time.

(Broken pieces of your soul – but there are no souls – leaves can’t make you leave sadness behind.)

O what joy to discard each lifeline that you encounter! I will not start a conversation, must pass everyone with head bowed down, I’m shy I’m shy I’m shy. I will not notice beauty, must ignore, I cannot, cannot, will not appreciate it.

(So many rainbows in a life, all the same, how can that be enough, red orange yellow green blue indigo violet I think I’ll throw up.)

What if amazement doesn’t come? You can’t write blog posts then. By the time you’re alive enough to sit down in your little contented chair and start to write, you don’t understand anymore. You can’t imagine what it means to be unhappy. You put on your rational, ironic mask and think you can prove only happiness makes sense.

(Take a piece of grayishly glum sky. Dip it into a clear mountain stream. Watch it slowly swim away.)

You know sooner or later something or other will cheer you up.