Being Both Watcher and Watched
This sense of twoness
The Enigma
I am both watcher
and watched.
The woman walking in her garden
and the one watching her walk.
Two halves, back to back,
Both namer and named.
I am the cat in Schrödinger’s box
and the one lifting the lid.
Deborah J. Brasket, 2021
I came across this poem in a notebook I keep and decided to share it.
I’ve always had this sense of twoness. But the more I’ve learned about the nature of reality, the metaphysical as well as the quantum mechanics of it, the more comfortable I’ve become with it, the more comforting it seems. I rather like it now. This sense of unbounded being.
It wasn’t always so. It’s something I struggled with when I was young. A sense that I wasn’t quite normal, or even quite real. I felt like I was loosely “tethered” to reality. I was in it, but also floating a bit above it at the same time.
It was hard to be in the moment because I was always standing at the side of myself, watching. It was a bit like trying to carry on a telephone conversation when you hear the echo of your own voice at the same time.
I wrote a short story about that experience called “Fine and Shimmering,” which is how the protagonist Sheri experienced the “tether” that kept her somehow connected to earth, to reality.
Sheri was always tempted “to take that fine and shimmering thread between sharp teeth and snip it clean through. To drift aimlessly, like the merest wisp of cloud, a lingering trace of dawn, upon an otherwise immaculate sky. Awaiting that final dispersal, into the blue.” You can read more about the story in The Lightness of Being, Unbearable or Otherwise.
My actual experience of “twoness” growing up was nothing nearly so drastic or literal. Instead of letting go of it, I settled into it more comfortably by embracing the Zen notion of “not-two,” being neither I nor Other (watcher or watched) but something that embraces both. Now it’s the division between subject and object that seems more ephemeral and “not real.”
When that wall of “otherness” disappeared, I felt deeply connected to this ephemeral world. I felt a lightness of being that is “unbearable” only in the sense of being too sweet, too rich, too beautiful “to bear.” And so I didn’t try to hold onto it. I just let it wash though me.
I discussed an article in Scientific American called “Does Quantum Mechanics Reveal That Life Is But a Dream?” with my husband one day, and dreamed that night about several strange things taking place. So I turned to my husband, who was also in the dream, and said with amusement, “Maybe that article was right and this really is a dream.”
Only I didn’t know I was dreaming when I said that. It all seemed so real. Until I woke up, of course. Then it was like that old conundrum: Am I a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming I’m a man?
I rather like the idea that we could be both. And perhaps we are, or will be, when this wall of otherness finally does fall away. Maybe there is just “not-two.” Maybe the enigma is all there is.
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I’d love to hear what you think about this sense of twoness. I suspect it’s more common than I know. Or is it only introverts who feel this way? And would-be philosopher-poets who write about such things?
First of all, I love your poem, Deborah. I also love your essay and the beautiful painting you’ve paired with this piece. Everything you’ve written here resonates deeply with me.
In addition to the two-ness I’ve inherited as an African American, a la W.E.B. Du Bois, I have also felt the psychic push-pull you’ve described so well here.
When I came across the Buddhist concept of not-two, I found it enormously helpful. But as a writer, I’m fascinated by the conundrum of divided consciousness. For the past week or so, I’ve even been working on a short story centered on this idea. It’s astonishing to come across your poem and essay at this particular time. Truly, we are all connected!
I love this and your short story, Deborah. You pose interesting questions, and it made me think of a few things I have experienced.
Many years ago, I stopped smoking marijuana because I had the strange and unsettling feeling of being hyper-aware of my physicality within my surroundings. I also had a highly refined awareness of my internal, psychological, and emotional being that made me feel quite paranoid. It was no longer an enjoyable experience to smoke, and I knew it was no longer for me. One time, in particular, that I vividly remember, years ago, I was at a concert and somebody passed a joint. It was unbearable to be on the crowded floor. It was akin to an out-of-body experience where I felt I could see myself surrounded and watched by everybody. I had to eventually remove myself and stand at the back, near the mixing desk, while everything played out in front of me. I knew then that it was my last puff.
But, I have often had lucid dreaming experiences where I am strangely conscious and aware that I am dreaming yet enjoying the narrative and allowing it to continue to try and influence it. Is this the same thing?
And, reading both this post and your short story reminds me of the wonderful Marc Chagall painting 'Over the Town,' where two lovers float above their village. Is he dreaming of whisking her away (I use "he" as the artist was male), is it a metaphor for their floating, weightless and love-drenched hearts, and is their love so passionate and wonderful that they are above the harsh realities that lay below? The "otherness" of their love flight compared to the "reality" of their life back on the ground.