Comments on: The Religiosity of Icons http://www.glendicrocco.com/phlac/2002/03/04/the-religiosity-of-icons/ by Glen DiCrocco Thu, 29 Jul 2010 21:48:56 +0000 http://wordpress.org/?v=2.7 hourly 1 By: Kelly Cuvar http://www.glendicrocco.com/phlac/2002/03/04/the-religiosity-of-icons/comment-page-1/#comment-2634 Kelly Cuvar Mon, 14 Apr 2003 21:14:20 +0000 http://www.glendicrocco.com/phlac/2002/03/04/the-religiosity-of-icons/#comment-2634 I think that it is interesting that the first time--at least that I have seen in your journals--that you are discussing death and your fear of death is prompted by reflection on objects. There are religious objects, and decidedly un-religious objects that are discussed. Is the construction of meaning in your life constituted through objects? Or are you questioning your relationship to objects as being primary, as being the locus of meaning? I remember you said that you don't like to own things; you don't like to acquire possessions. You are saying the same thing in this journal, but I think that you are scared of the weight that other people are giving these objects, and afraid of the way that they seem to concretize their being. People filter their lives and their understandings of their lives and their very relationships to themselves through objects that are without them, seemingly reflecting the unattainable meaning within them. I think that a lot of people want to know what it is you believe when you are sick. And that's ironic to me: there was never a time when I really didn't believe anything. I didn't know what it was that was happening to me, so I couldn't even begin to tell them what they wanted to hear. There was never a time when I was less aware of meaning, and less aware of how and what and from whom meaning was derived in the process of life, in the delicate, desultory process of living as a human being. Was I praying? No, I wasn't praying. I was doing my best not to throw up every moment of every day that I was conscious. Was I spiritual? No, I was too busy aggrandizing the work of my doctor. I knew that was the only way out of this. Likewise, for you, it was Stanford V. It's real: the only thing that *is* real to us, the evidence of medicine, of trials, of tests, of bodies that came out whole and working again. A body of evidence certainly bereft of a sacred purpose. And it gets even more strange. Here is this experience that you have nothing to do with, that you didn't think up, that you didn't get yourself into, and it is the single most important thing you will ever do. Where is the meaning in that? It is impossible to find, fumbling around in a new life that is characterized by the words your doctor tells you about what is happening to you. It is trying to describe yourself in a foreign language, in a foreign country, with a foreign body destroying the parts of you you thought to be invincible. Meaning is hard to come by, hard to produce, hard to derive. You talk about your new awareness of your ego and the need to exert your ego, how you need to do things on your terms, in your own time. It is understandable. You need to be in control for the rest of your days. You had nothing to do with the biggest experience you have ever had. Instead, you had to believe in chemotherapy, in doctors. There was no room for anything else. Certainly nothing spiritual. This is my favoritite of your journals, and a beautiful vignette of an important experience. I think that it is interesting that the first time–at least that I have seen in your journals–that you are discussing death and your fear of death is prompted by reflection on objects. There are religious objects, and decidedly un-religious objects that are discussed. Is the construction of meaning in your life constituted through objects? Or are you questioning your relationship to objects as being primary, as being the locus of meaning? I remember you said that you don’t like to own things; you don’t like to acquire possessions. You are saying the same thing in this journal, but I think that you are scared of the weight that other people are giving these objects, and afraid of the way that they seem to concretize their being. People filter their lives and their understandings of their lives and their very relationships to themselves through objects that are without them, seemingly reflecting the unattainable meaning within them.

I think that a lot of people want to know what it is you believe when you are sick. And that’s ironic to me: there was never a time when I really didn’t believe anything. I didn’t know what it was that was happening to me, so I couldn’t even begin to tell them what they wanted to hear. There was never a time when I was less aware of meaning, and less aware of how and what and from whom meaning was derived in the process of life, in the delicate, desultory process of living as a human being. Was I praying? No, I wasn’t praying. I was doing my best not to throw up every moment of every day that I was conscious. Was I spiritual? No, I was too busy aggrandizing the work of my doctor. I knew that was the only way out of this. Likewise, for you, it was Stanford V. It’s real: the only thing that *is* real to us, the evidence of medicine, of trials, of tests, of bodies that came out whole and working again. A body of evidence certainly bereft of a sacred purpose.

And it gets even more strange. Here is this experience that you have nothing to do with, that you didn’t think up, that you didn’t get yourself into, and it is the single most important thing you will ever do. Where is the meaning in that? It is impossible to find, fumbling around in a new life that is characterized by the words your doctor tells you about what is happening to you. It is trying to describe yourself in a foreign language, in a foreign country, with a foreign body destroying the parts of you you thought to be invincible. Meaning is hard to come by, hard to produce, hard to derive. You talk about your new awareness of your ego and the need to exert your ego, how you need to do things on your terms, in your own time. It is understandable. You need to be in control for the rest of your days. You had nothing to do with the biggest experience you have ever had. Instead, you had to believe in chemotherapy, in doctors. There was no room for anything else. Certainly nothing spiritual. This is my favoritite of your journals, and a beautiful vignette of an important experience.

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