Look by Simon Bell

She closed her eyes and looked.

In all her years of seeing she had never looked quite like this. This was seeing.

The ‘accident’ was now over ten years ago, and she was resigned if not reconciled with the state of affairs. The impairment to her vision had been absolute. The ophthalmologist had been kind and empathetic but quite definite in her assessment. 100% sight loss and not a chance of recovery. The diagnosis was certain. And so, began a new life.

With any kind of set-back there are stages. The psychologist had talked her through them and emphasised her need to see them coming, know when they arrive and realise that they are not for ever. That conversation had ended badly. How dare the mind-nanny presume to place her unique circumstance into a framework! A bloody ‘model’ which fits all kinds of horror. A model where some fucked-up-turd of an expert could say in a condescending tone: “Ah yes, you are at stage 3 of the 7-fold model of grief”. Fuck off!

But there had been a process and she did see the pattern emerge. The period of denial was acute and painful. If this, if that, if only for god’s sake the other. None of it mattered and denial felt like a physical impalement, excoriating her from the inside out. In time the anger set in. Fury, rage at the injustice of an uncaring universe set out to make her less and less and less. She would not accept it. She could not. Her rage left her exhausted and a trail of broken friendships. Then she had begun to try to negotiate. She was not stupid, and she was not poor. She had a good mind, money and a determined will to put this right. Surely there were things that could be done. She would see another ophthalmologist, she would see 20 if she had to. She would find the one who could help her. There had to be a deal which could be drawn from the system to allow her to begin to regain all that she had lost. All that had been so cruelly taken from her. Months passed; the answer was always the same. The damage done had been irreparable and no reconstructive surgery had any chance of making a difference. There was nothing to reconstruct too. There was not a plan B or C or D. There was only weary and depressing plan A. Live with it. Tears, misery and then, tipping on the gradient towards the darkness, which was her daily life, depression. Deep as the ocean, remorseless as the unlit world she now lived in, unendurable nothingness. Only her most resilient friends and family now remained. The hopelessness was almost complete, and suicide was too good for her. Too much of an effort. To wish oneself dead is to make an affirmation of a willed position. She was beyond that. All she wanted was not to want anything anymore. End.

Fuck that fucking model. The day came when there was a twist, no not that definite, maybe a twistet! A slight movement from the quiescent emptiness of depression. She had the radio on and listened half-heartedly (was there still a whole heart beating in there?) to a programme about consciousness. The great mystery of it. There were three evolutions. The evolution of the physical world, the evolution of life and the evolution of consciousness. The expert being interviewed said that science had a good grip on 1, a starting position on 2 but not a clue about 3. The void consciousness emerged from and filled. This intrigued her. The unknowability of its morphology and its ubiquity to all people. The only way we know is to be conscious. To be intrigued by anything was a foreign feeling for her. She had not felt a passing interest in anything in six months. It struck her. She was conscious. She was.

She began to make the journey back to life and her means was the search for and the understanding of consciousness. She read audio books about it, listened to pod casts and engaged in chat groups (one of her few remaining friends set up a speech app on her iPad). The more she studied the more she pulled away from the bottom and began to float upwards towards what? Light? How does that work?

But it did and her work on consciousness, from the inside out, began to give her more and more pleasure.

In this working she was not. Not in the sense of being herself. A self. She was a broad plain of receptance. An ocean of acceptance. A surface on which the waves of incoming data played and danced. Sure, for most people one of those data sources was sight, the visual field. But there was so much more to it. Sound, taste and touch. Feel, heat and odour. These all came to rest in her ocean of consciousness. And then there was the numinous. The inner world of emotion, thoughts and conceptions. The eternal sea of meanings and emergences. The brightly lit uplands of received ideas. Blending all that she was conscious of; past, present and vision of future; her world was full to brimming and this told outward as she gathered to her minds of similar inclination. She, the broken self was gone. She the emergent field of conscious intention was in place.

And so, one day following many weeks and months of study, she sat in her accustomed place, closed her eyes and looked.

 

Simon Bell

Image by Rudy and Peter Skitterians from Pixabay

 

4 thoughts on “Look by Simon Bell

  1. Hi Simon,
    I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you have managed to get your first story onto the site. (Others to come folks)
    There was an old art teacher that we had and he asked us in every lesson:
    ‘How many times do you look but never see?’
    As a thirteen year old you just consider him a ‘daft auld duffer’ but as you get older you realise that line is not just about the visual, it can also be about perception and you could incorporate listening within the same idea.
    You’r story reminded me of this and I think once you have read this, there are many examples of our own lives that we realise that even though we have lived them, we have not truly given them our full attention.
    I love stories that are catalysts for the readers own experiences.
    All the very best my friend.
    Hugh

    Like

  2. Inner connection….. positive story.. the intriguing thing is “She” did this without connecting to others, except the expert on the radio. She also had a lot of determination and drive. Poetically written.

    Like

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