The sensation of drowning can be just a real in dreams and fantasies as it is in water (or so I tell myself). By ‘sensations’ I mean life, living, and/or the general state of being aware. By ‘dreams’ and ‘fantasies’ I mean exactly the same thing.
The ‘drowning’ part is just a graphic way of saying ‘overwhelmed’ or beyond relief. It may or may not be conquered – a lesson half-learned from William O. Douglas, Of Men and Mountains – https://archive.org/stream/ofmenandmountain000038mbp#page/n117/mode/2up – insert ‘religion’ for wilderness, fear, society or law). By the way, Douglas narrates the sensation of drowning in such vivid detail, I find myself kicking my legs in sympathy as I re-read the chapter, Deep Water.
That ‘religion’ would be referenced does not mean that I’m complaining about the intractable nature of such fantasy (Freud), but rather the overwhelmingly inescapable heavy hand of the thing others call religion (as in, being incurably religious).
That’s enough then… for now…
Help Me, I’m Drowning
Help me, I’m drowning
in a shallow pool of witticism,
slogans capturing paranoia of
the other, this jingoism without
cloaks reinforces the lowest of
common fears, and heads nod
in faith’s assent bravely denying
all that’s true in favor of Truth
unchanging, everywhere and
always for all; now we’re
instructed to repeat a word,
Impossible, say it, again, Im–
poss-i-ble; impossible not to
have it any other way; and
I’m drowning and cry out
for help – I’m in the second
pew from the back on the
right – please hurry.
Aroused at meridian to a brilliant dismay,
mentation unfettered from eremitic seclusion,
banishing juvenile primum non nocere,
no longer pursuing the illusory conclusion.
Analogies abound in the world of intension,
reference revered in the present symbolic,
authors contest with readers’ intervention,
creating the occasion of receptive frolic.
Burrow wide and well in channel virginal,
render again and anew the company kept,
embrace untried manners regarded novel,
sequestering fantasy and religion except.
Construed for current contentment,
the extant subscriber seeks to narrate
hermetic theft of meaning’s attendant
tomorrow’s uncertainty day gestate.
I forgive myself for being human,
just as I have God for being God;
birth is no defect, no dimness of lumen,
just being’s not worthy of saying flawed;
no longer do I demand, no longer cry for
life without what makes it more trying,
if Job could argue and Moses invite more
I’ll gladly enjoy joy as well as my crying;
without blaming God for my deflection
I now in turn say the same of myself,
forgetting, remembering all affection,
and taking sin’s mirror off every shelf;
no need for theodicy’s happy fault,
no tale from which a good God is saved
Great Oz needs no defending assault
and I’ve no need to be so enslaved;
the solution lies in refusing the priest
who demands to be needed at worst,
divinity needs no dark cultic feast
if redemption’s a grace not coerced;
this forgiving means religion’s dead,
or at least it’s tottering to an end,
no lack of efforts to supply its sted
but I now am surely God’s friend.