250
JOHN
HOLLANDER
creepy, sullen or demented, but
being
so,
out there,
not imprisoned,
like me, inside what seemed to be a huge papier-mache head. But not
papier-mache; mind, rather, a confining chamber made out of what
I know, what I know I don't know, and what I know can be known.
I must have sat there, fretting and stewing, for hours. Being "under
observation," most safe selves feel, is a little like being, say, "beneath
contempt." I began to feel that it was more like being under water.
Standing under some pious idiot's gaze,
under-standing
the whole
thing at the same time, not being possessed of the comfy narcissism of
an actor or a singer, I felt completely helpless.
In the end, it was easiest to surrender to the whole idea of the
creep block. After a few hours, I became a creep, studiously and
lightheartedly imitating the behavior of those about me. For a while
I outdid even Spalding in scratching at my crotch and whistling
"Have you seen the muffin man?" Then I put my head in my hands
and fled from the
thingness
of everything. Then I discussed current
events with an aging urchin who had been picked up for soliciting
outside an orthodox synagogue, and was therefore deemed worthy
of observation. And so the afternoon passed merrily. I hardly noticed
supper when
it
arrived (more tidy slop, I presume) and even forgot
to be grateful when, at about seven-thirty, we were led out of the
big room into what I gathered were perfectly ordinary cells. I was
fortunate in having a private one, several prisoners having been
transferred just that evening to other institutions. It was easy to stop
being a creep, and to start wondering how I was ever to get out of
the clutches of the Los Angeles police. But I also realized that after
a few more days of this, de-creeping would get harder and harder.
"Institutions," mental, penal, religious all work wonderfully well in
urging people inside them to become each other. They have only to
look about them and learn, but in no sense that I would want gen–
erally to accept.
As
I lay down to sleep I was comforted by knowing
that crises like this one, which can distract one from the true path,
causing one to construct
all
sorts of implausible views of the way
things go in order to keep reasonably comfortable, don't happen
every day.
If
they did, peeping at things would be impossible, for
there would be no rich, quiet, eager darkness to peep
out of,
no dark,
insatiable mind to fill with glimpses, patches of phenomena, stabs of
the light of a true outside that nourishes and sustains.
