Lights Off, Eyes Open
Treading a trail through the dark matter of communication and understanding.
In his landmark text Of Grammatology, French philosopher Jacques Derrida (1930–2004) wrote, “There are things like reflecting pools, and images, an infinite reference from one to the other, but no longer a source, a spring. There is no longer any simple origin….The reflection, the image, the double, splits what it doubles….One plus one makes at least three.”
Like a cryptic envelope whose contents arrive disheveled or missing, what we receive nearly always contrasts from what is offered, in part because our minds bear their own fingerprint, the sending and receiving both muddied and muddled in the process. Yet Derrida, accused apotheosis of obfuscation, ostensibly sought to be understood. Any artist — any communicator — seeks to convey meaning, if not feeling and representation and a whole host of other implements of creativity and expression.
I have often wondered how to be fully understood, for words to travel mouth to ear, page to eye — brain to brain — and retain their authorship in some semblance of facsimile. Is this not what italics and parentheticals are for? I don’t often wonder if I communicate (it’s likely you don’t either). Approximation works in most cases, verbally or otherwise. Think of fiction: do we envision twin worlds, imagine identical characters? We connect where it counts; when we don’t, red flags ascend. As David Mamet opines, “We don’t always say what we mean, but we always say something intended to get what we want.” How beautiful it is, then, when we are met with comprehension.
When I was younger, I was known as the lord of prefaces, a fiefdom whose spirits linger to this day. I wanted — and often still do — my audience prepared to absorb my intention regardless of the words themselves. But this quickly grows wearisome for all parties involved. Like most addictions, I’ve tried quitting and quit trying. Similarly, recovery starts with admission.
“Hi, my name is Neal, and I’m a prefacer.”
“Um, hi, there, welcome to the group,” the moderator begins. “Before we write your name in the log, let us please say that we don’t know how yours is spelled, nor do we have a particular preference in mind. Neil Armstrong and Shaquille O’Neal are both equally valuable orthographic inspirations, as is Paul O’Neill, though this is certainly not an complete set of the possibilities…”
You can see how the compounding of exhaustion blossoms.
Communication is full of dark matter, and this makes sense, because so is everything else. The universe is quite possibly 85% shadowy remnants, invisible to the naked eye, that we don’t understand. The brain, for all we know, is a place of organized chaos, the seat of consciousness whose true provenance is still clouded in mystery, not to mention free will. Consider even our own oceans, the depths of which we have yet to fully explore: there are more underwater species discovered every single year, and by some estimates, as much as one- to two-thirds may not yet be described at all.
This is staggering to me. For a species so proud of our achievements (and I’m not arguing this is unwarranted), we still have so much to learn about the world and about ourselves.
Marilynne Robinson (the inspiration for this present piece, with her use of dark matter as metaphor) and Thomas Nagel both say, as do others, in as many words, that we aren’t quite bright enough. We lack sufficient bandwidth. The neurological service providers throttle us, individually and collectively. As such, there will always be blind spots. We may be aware of them, but we can’t quite squint our way through them, scientifically, linguistically, theologically, epistemologically.
For now, I happen to agree.
Some see further or more vividly, but no one views from nowhere (cf., Nagel). As one (in)famous Good Book says, “Faith is seeing without believing.” This may be true, but that does not make all beliefs justified by faith justifiable or true. This is self-evident to me, but it bears repeating, as it applies to our methodological prowess as much as anything else.
The truth is — I believe — that some form of trust is required for most any thought or action or belief, in oneself, in perception and comprehension, in our own collective abilities. The darkness is too thick, too pervasive, as we wade through the black waters. We simply do not have the right equipment to be assured of what’s circling beneath our flippered feet. As Voltaire said, “Uncertainty is an uncomfortable position. But certainty is an absurd one.”
Can we rule out brains in vats and zombies (of the philosophical variety) and eight minute universes and solipsism and Cartesian devils? Probably. Bertrand Russell thought so, and that’s pretty decent company. Reality can be obstructive, but it isn’t ordinarily obtuse. (Tell that to the quantum physicists.) The simplest explanation is often the right one, but rules were made to be excepted. (The quantum physicists will tell that to you.) We must maintain this balancing act between knowledge and trust. I am what I am, but what am I? And the same goes for you and the universe, too.
This balance is simpler asserted than achieved, but not by much (cf., James Joyce). We attempt to reach into each other, tempt ourselves past returns are evidence of future success, and when we reciprocate, well, that is the crux of it all. I personally do not buy that cellphones have made this any more difficult. Attention spans have deterioriated, They say. But distraction is not some new beast. Laziness and fear aren’t either. They’re par for the course — or at least hazards along the way. I can be distracted by something you say as much as I can by my Facebook or email notifications.
My point — if I have one — is that knowledge and communication are open-ended between us, upended by us, that reach exceeds grasp, that we can know and share, only we might not always do so completely, though we must always make the attempt. Trying and failing isn’t really failure after all. It’s caring enough about someone or something to hold your breath, dive deep through the wavering reflection, and return with whatever your lungs could handle. When you break through and suck in that first gulp of air, you’ll look in the palm of your mind to see that what you got was treasure, if only partial.
The single requirement is that you try, that we try together. And you’ll want to go back down again as soon as possible, because the trip is half the prize. I guarantee it. I think that’s one of the truths Derrida wanted us to know. C’est la vie, but life is also what we make of it. Delve deep, and though you may not always fully connect, even the briefest of glimpses are flashes of lightning to the dark matter of the soul. Choose to give a darn about the people and ideas and world around you and see what happens. In a word (or two): build bridges. It’s one of many things that makes life worth living, and I believe it’s at the heart of all the rest.
