The beginning of terror

Having an imagination is useful in the work I do. By an imagination I mean the part of the mind that allows me, and everyone else, to form ideas, images and concepts about things that are not right there under my nose.

The imagination is morally neutral. As well as the enigmatic Mona Lisa, for example, Leonardo Da Vinci was also able to imagine methods of slaughtering people more efficiently, with prototype tanks and machine guns.

Like everyone else, my imagination has its dark side: the hypochondria, the panicky daydreams in tube trains and planes and so on. In fact I am not completely in control of my imagination. But then a tamed imagination is no imagination at all. This means that, like many, my imagination has caused me to suffer.

Creative people, however, must consciously encourage their imaginations in a way that an accountant or surveyor may need not do. This half baked notion of exploring my imagination justified my decision to take LSD when I was a student. The truth is I took LSD only once – in what proved to be a strong dose – but the experience has resonated ever since.

The trip felt like an excursion into another world. I drew fish on white paper and watched them swim around the page. I went into a pub in Leamington Spa, which seemed completely Tolkienesque with its weird stuffed stags heads. I walked through the park at night, seemingly able to sense leaf buds vibrating with growth. Music became a wondrous new dimension and, in a friend’s bedroom, I felt I could enter his poster of Van Gough’s café terrace, step away from its golden light, and gaze up at the powdery stars.

But then my imagination turned on me. At one point I felt my mouth become full of blood, my teeth seemed to loosen and drop out, and I was trapped for what seemed like hours of an escalating hellish panic of the imagination.

At the time I was reading the Rilke’s magnificent Duino Elegies, in the translation by J.B. Leishman and Stephen Spender (and still my favourite version). A line from the The First Elegy is translated as:

                                   For beauty’s nothing
but beginning of Terror we’re still just able to bear,
and why we adore it so is because it serenely
disdains to destroy us. 

This line was on repeat in my head as the undeniably beautiful LSD experience became a terrifying ordeal. These 13 hours opened a Pandora’s box in my imagination, and I would never be the same again. It expanded what I was able to imagine, but afterwards I believe it contributed to the panic attacks I experienced for over a decade.

Naturally, I have thought about this experience. The attraction of LSD is that it crosses the border between what is subjectively inside you, and the outside world. So that a pub can seem as if it were an Inn from The Lord of the Rings, which I had read many times. The barrier between what was subjectively inside me, and the outside world was ruptured by the drug. And this is exactly what happens during a panic attack.

Panic can be triggered by many things. For me a fear of being trapped can become attached to being stuck in a tube train tunnel. The barrier between my imagination, and the mundane reality of a train being slightly delayed in a tunnel is broken. My imagination then leaks into the carriage, and everything has the potential to become quite scary.

While not trying to generalise from my own neurotic tendencies, I do think creative people have to guard their borders. By all means plunge into the imagination, play with it and set it tasks, but beware it is a two way street. It can have its designs on you too.

L’Ange du Foyer by Max Ernst

Island Madness

Have just started to re-read Tim Binding’s Island Madness, and I will upload a section to the Anthology of Guernsey site shortly. Again, and at the risk of sounding like a one trick donkey, a vastly more rewarding book about Guernsey than the Potato Peel Pie effort.

Its first chapter has stayed with me very clearly from when I first read it ten years ago, shortly after its publication. The opening section where a German plane flies over the south coast is beautifully written. But also this bit, which repeats the word concrete, which I find reminiscent of Dickens use of the word fog in Bleak House. The use of ‘Him’ to denote Hitler is also intriguing, like some sort of unnameable Antichrist, or Sauron figure in Lord of the Rings.

All through that winter men had been pouring in, onto the island: engineers from Belgium, skilled construction workers from France, men laden with theodolites and drills who bored holes and tapped rocks and drew their indelible marks in the sand. There seemed no end to them. Down in St Peter Port the harbour was jammed with trawlers and tugs and great floating cranes, their necks bent double in search of their prey; metal rods, barbed wire, timber, and cement – always cement, the essential dust of His creation, cement in the flat-bottomed barges which wallowed their way from Cherbourg, cement stacked twelve feet high on St Julian’s Pier, cement hauled round the island on the narrow-gauge railway built from Cherbourg, to be mixed and poured and moulded into the fertile shapes of war. A military chastity belt of His design had been fitted around the island’s most tender regions, so that like a jealous lord He could prevent any violation of His fresh, plump property. But still He wanted more: more concrete, more guns, more men. In all of Western Europe there was nothing that glittered in His mind eye more brightly than the Channel Islands. Inselwahn, they called it. Island Madness.