they shut the plastic cage just above your face with a few clicks, then slide you into a narrow tube for about an hour. the noise of the mri goes on continuously. what happens with your head during that hour is partly in your power to control, partly uncontrollable. dozing off, dreams, visions, thoughts. revived scenes from the book you are reading. gratuitous ideas.
in the state of semi-somnambulance while in the mri a few days ago, an unannounced thought came into my mind. 'you should turn everything into sentences, every idea, every vision that arises before your mind's eye.' i was not completely sure what this instruction meant, or where it came from. the essence is probably that i should translate as much of my experience as possible into language. this urge has not been unfamiliar to me. i was eight when i started writing my first diary. but why did the thought crystallize in my mind during this medical examination? as a consolation (for it did feel consoling) or as a reminder that my way in the world is through words?
i wish i was a writer, i wish my words were impeccable. and i do write from time to time, but when my words come out they may sound amputated, banal, strained. i would like to breathe words, to reap words. i would like to give away words as presents. my words should be me, but they are not. they are flimsy bridges, largely unreliable, from which one easily falls into the abyss between essence and expression. maybe the thought that crossed my mind during mri meant that i need to hunt wider and fish deeper for proper words, because they probably do exist hidden at some secret place.
one of the greatest gifts in life is the ability to find the right words. i might keep trying. i might even succeed, but the current reality is that i do desire the right words, but they are still escaping me.
in the state of semi-somnambulance while in the mri a few days ago, an unannounced thought came into my mind. 'you should turn everything into sentences, every idea, every vision that arises before your mind's eye.' i was not completely sure what this instruction meant, or where it came from. the essence is probably that i should translate as much of my experience as possible into language. this urge has not been unfamiliar to me. i was eight when i started writing my first diary. but why did the thought crystallize in my mind during this medical examination? as a consolation (for it did feel consoling) or as a reminder that my way in the world is through words?
i wish i was a writer, i wish my words were impeccable. and i do write from time to time, but when my words come out they may sound amputated, banal, strained. i would like to breathe words, to reap words. i would like to give away words as presents. my words should be me, but they are not. they are flimsy bridges, largely unreliable, from which one easily falls into the abyss between essence and expression. maybe the thought that crossed my mind during mri meant that i need to hunt wider and fish deeper for proper words, because they probably do exist hidden at some secret place.
one of the greatest gifts in life is the ability to find the right words. i might keep trying. i might even succeed, but the current reality is that i do desire the right words, but they are still escaping me.
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