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Diving

Night Dive in Cozumel – Reaching My Threshold of Panic

I’ve had two previous near-death experiences, one when I was a three year-old during a day out at the beach when I rushed into the sea and was immediately knocked over by a wave and pulled under the water, the other was a few years ago on the M40 when my daughter and I were caught up in an horrific high-speed pile-up. Despite only being three years old at the time of the first incident, I have a really vivid memory of inhaling a mouthful of water, and suddenly realising that I couldn’t breath, and then being overcome by sheer panic. Luckily a family friend had spotted me and quickly waded in to pull me to the surface. I’m not sure that I had any understanding at all of my own mortality at the time, but I certainly grasped what it meant to not be able to breath and what it was to nearly drown. Those early memories of nearly drowning as a child seeped back into my mind again, like hooded dark acquaintances, as I was being swept out of control by raging current down at 18 metres in the pitch black depths of the ocean last night here in Cozumel.

Last night Siobhan and I took the short boat trip from Cozumel to the dive site known as ‘La Francesca’. The dive site is known as a relatively shallow one, with usually only a reasonably gentle current. However, we had already dived the site the same afternoon and the current seemed quite strong, so we were expecting the conditions to be about the same, which we judged to be manageable. Both of us had only completed two previous night dives, both in totally calm and relaxed waters, one of them being no deeper than seven metres. But we felt prepared and ready for what would be our third night dive, and were looking forward to seeing octopus, nurse sharks and eagle rays out hunting. However, the conditions had changed from the afternoon, and as we jumped from the boat and quickly descended with the four members of of our group and our divemaster we were suddenly aware of how strong the current had become. As our divemaster descended he immediately headed, against the current, towards a protected space behind an outcropping of reef, signalling with his torch that we should also do this. As I descended and tried to follow him I found swimming against such strong current really very tough. By the time I had reached the point where he was we realised that it did not in fact offer any such protection from the current and I was swept away. In the pitch blackness illuminated only by seven torch beams I had lost sight of Siobhan, and I felt I was unable to hold myself together with the other members of the group. Two minutes into the dive and I was already heavily out of breath and heaving on my regulator, so I first tried to grip my fingers into the sand on the bottom and try and stop, but the current was too strong and I was slipping in the sand and was then swept further away. I then tried to find something larger to hold on to, like a piece of rock, but I was going so fast at this point that I just couldn’t find anything to get any purchase on. So, despite being near to hyperventilation I decided to turn and try to swim against the current in order to allow the others to catch up. This in fact worked, and the others came closer and then passed by me, so I moved around and rapidly drifted with the current, but by this point I was very breathless and quite disorientated. I couldn’t identify the divemaster or Siobhan. This pattern was repeated for several minutes. I would occasionally glimpse Siobhan, and could see that she was also struggling with the current and was trying to find something to hold onto. Several times, through no fault of their own, the other divers would clatter into me, some quite heavily, further disorientating me. At other times I was pulled some distance from the other divers who were quite dispersed. After a few minutes I checked my depth gauge and saw we were at 18 metres. I then checked my air gauge and saw that in just a few minutes I had already consumed almost half of my air supply. This is the point at which my head began to go wrong. I realised that my strategy for coping with the dive was not working, that I was becoming increasingly out of breath, severely fatigued, disorientated and now was faced with the prospect of running out of air in only a few more minutes. I remember saying to myself that I should end the dive now, that I should try to find the divemaster and signal to him with my torch that something was wrong and that I needed to go to the surface. But I decided to try and continue, fighting against the current in the dark, and try to orientate myself and get the dive back ‘on track’. At this point I still thought, OK, in a minute the dive will be back on track and everything will be OK. But this didn’t work. I only succeeded in becoming more and more, exhausted, anxious and disorientated. At this point I reached the threshold of panic, and then I knew that it was all going very wrong and it was now very serious.

At this point those old childhood memories suddenly surfaced, and all I could think about was that this was it, I was going to die down here. I was going to drown. I tried to fight this panic, and to think calmly. I had received enough excellent training to know that the very worst thing to do is to panic and lose control of your mind underwater. It is important to try and engage your mind methodically and systematically, and to try and stay calm. But, as I discovered last night, this is an astonishingly difficult thing to do when your mind is literally screaming – “you are going to die…you are going to drown…alone, here in the dark”. I knew that I had to end the dive quickly or something very very bad was going to happen right there. I desperately searched for the divemaster with my torch, and suddenly I could see him a few metres away. I wagged my torch beam in front of him furiously and then held my hand in the beam to signal that something was wrong. He immediately swam over to me and held onto me, and he could see straight away that I was on the verge of panic. I signalled to him that I needed to surface. My breath was completely out of control, and I could not seem to do anything to bring it back. All I wanted to do was go to the surface. At this point Siobhan was able to swim over, and together with the divemaster she held onto to me and kept me calm as he deployed the surface buoy. I moved ever so slightly away from the threshold of panic, and was able to bring my thoughts back under control to some degree, but I still wanted more than anything else to end the dive and come to the surface. My mind was replaying those old childhood memories of nearly drowning, and images of my daughter, and how I wouldn’t ever get to see her again. I found Siobhan’s arms around me immensely reassuring. In fact I don’t think I’ve ever felt more reassured in my entire life before than by her simple embrace at that moment.

Once the buoy was deployed Siobhan and I started to a make a slow ascent up the buoy line, in the raging current. As we ascended I will never forget looking down on the vast cavernous dark of the ocean, illuminated by just a few beams of light growing ever more distant. It seemed to take an age for us to reach the surface, but I knew it was imperative not to rush the ascent as I was not in any immediate danger. But the mind is a terrible thing. The whole time going up the line my mind was still telling me that I was going to die. Once on the surface I felt horribly shaken but elated. I was still alive, and the memories of my childhood experience of near-death receded.

My second near-death experience, an accident on the motorway which happened a few years ago, gave rise to a very weird experience, one that has haunted me ever since. The accident involved six cars, and about ten people in total. No one was killed, or even injured, despite the fact that it was an horrific pile up that spread wreckage for a hundred yards and closed the motorway. Afterwards, when the police and ambulance had arrived, all ten of us, including my daughter, lined up beside the motorway while they cleared away the wrecked vehicles, and I vividly remember looking at my daughter and the other people there and thinking, is that it, are we all in fact dead. Did we actually die out there on the motorway? What are we all waiting here for? It was a very uncanny experience. And it was the same last night. The experience of near-panic at 18 metres, apparently alone in the dark in raging current, was suddenly all over at the surface as we waited for the boat to come and pick us up, and I was left thinking, did I actually die down there. Is this it? Did I drown? I went back in the water again today here in Cozumel, and the conditions were beautiful. After the first dive of the day, I felt my confidence return, together with the knowledge that no, I didn’t drown last night. I’m still here, and I’m still diving. A little bit wiser perhaps, and certainly more experienced, having had a little insight into my own limits.

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Art

Marina Abramovic: The Row About “Nothing”

There has been some controversy, reported in the media during the last few days (see here and here), concerning Serbian-born performance artist Marina Abramovic’s proposal for a new exhibition entitled “512 Hours” at the Serpentine Gallery later this month. The performance involves her doing “nothing”. Abramovic’s most famous recent work is her 2012 performance at MOMA, “The Artist is Present”, a 736-hour and 30-minute static, silent piece, in which she sat immobile in the museum’s atrium while spectators were invited to take turns sitting opposite her.

Part of its notoriety, in the popular media at least, stems from the fact that visitors to the performance included the popstar Lady Gaga. (Abramovic later stated that – “The public who normally don’t go to the museum, who don’t give a crap about performance art or don’t even know what it is, started coming because of Lady Gaga.”) In this performance the presence Continue reading

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Affectivity, Art, Books, Claire Morgan

Claire Morgan: The Slow Fire

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“That everything is on fire, slow fire, and we’re all less than a million breaths away from an oblivion more total than we can even bring ourselves to even try to imagine, in fact, probably that’s why the manic US obsession with production, produce, produce, impact the world, contribute, shape things, to help distract us from how little and totally insignificant and temporary we are…” ( David Foster Wallace, The Pale King)

The catalogue for Claire Morgan’s new exhibition in Cologne, The Slow Fire, is being published next week. This beautiful catalogue contains some stunning images of Claire’s most recent sculptures and drawings, together with my latest essay on her work entitled “A Vibrant Silence”. This essay has also been translated into French, German and Italian for the catalogue.

“The ceaseless flow of time and place that marks the life of all living beings is halted with an acute poetic minimalism. The stillness produces an almost impenetrable sense of mystery. Each sculpture choreographs a strange imaginary confrontation between animality and the artifice of culture. These weird meetings bring the wounding severance of humankind from nature back to the surface. The disastrous consequences of our ongoing sublimation and degradation of nature through religious dogma, ideological obsessions, and technological possession are repeatedly enacted through acts of collision.” (Darren Ambrose, “A Vibrant Silence”)

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‘If you turn outside yourself – to the birds and animals and the quickly changing places where they live – you may hear something beyond words. Even humans can find silence, if they can bring themselves to forget the silence they are looking for.’ (John Gray, The Silence of Animals)

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‘My work is related to my own processes of coming to terms with understanding our relations with animals and with my own feelings of discomfort at everything in life being impermanent. All of my work eventually leads back to ideas about life, death, and the human condition. We are never really secure in any way, yet we yearn for the security of permanence in our lives.’ (Claire Morgan)

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Affectivity, Bresson, Dogs on Film, Film, Violence

Dogs on Film – Part 1

Some of my friends know that I have been threatening to write a lengthy book about dogs on film for quite some time. The idea originally came to me when I was writing my earlier book about film nihilism and belief. When I reflected on films, or specific moments in films, that had deeply affected me over the years, I realised that many of them involved dogs. I recalled my childhood obsession with the Lassie movies through to my deep love in later years for the anthropomorphized dogs in the remarkable sequel to Babe, Babe: Pig in the City (a criminally underrated film in my view!). Beautifully strange sequences haunt my memory like the dreamlike vision of the dog from Tarkovsky’s Stalker

Or the bizarre hallucinogenic sequence from Jodorowsky’s Holy Mountain where the running dog takes the spirits of those seeking the holy mountain Continue reading

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Affectivity, Art, Philosophy, Prehistoric Art

The Affectivity of Prehistoric Art (Part 3)

The arguments presented by those archaeological and anthropological theorists discussed in Part 2 are obviously deeply flawed, and these flaws need to be exposed. Between their different ways of thinking we are in danger of being herded into a space evacuated of aesthetic intensity and affective response.

An overarching assumption (or presupposition) dominates this type of thinking – i.e. that when one associates an experience of aesthetic affectivity with a particular non-Western or prehistoric artifact, one is merely uncritically applying (wholly subjectively) a late Western construct linked to individualism, taste, and decoration. Our concern with experiences of aesthetic affectivity solicited by different visual and material cultures is consigned to being a peculiarly post-Rennaisance form of cultural embroidery that is an entirely inappropriate frame for approaching prehistoric, non-Western or hunter-gatherer visual culture and crafted artifacts. Little or no consideration is given, however, to the view that aesthetic affect is an ongoing trans-historical and transcultural cognitive and existential feature of human beings. Each of the thinkers assume consideration of aesthetic experience to be nothing more than a late Western cultural product, and, as such, totally inadmissible when considering Paleolithic images. Any derivation of aesthetic affect generated from one’s experience of works from prehistory is always an unwarranted projection and an unjustified supplement to the work itself. It is just a superfluous and entirely unnecessary feature that should be eradicated from the ethno-archaeological pantheon for good. If one succeeds in evacuating Paleolithic images Continue reading

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Affectivity, Art, Books, Film, Reviews

The Great Beauty (Paolo Sorrentino, 2013)

Some of the great works of literary impressionism – Proust’s A la recherche du temps perdu, Zola’s Germinal, Madox Ford’s Parade’s End, Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, Celine’s Journey to the End of the Night, Joyce’s Ulysses, Woolf’s To the Lighthouse, Lowry’s Under the Volcano – harness the individual as a confluence of disparate sensations driven by a powerful and often only vaguely expressed desire. Often these kernels of desire are associated with feelings of love, regret, nostalgia, loss, disappointment, and death. All of these writers opposed the old literary fiction where the novel voiced by an omniscient spectator of the human scene is resisted in favour of the emergent unreliable spectator who is as confused by the whirlwind of events in life as everybody else. This is an individual who isn’t even certain anymore of what they are or if they are even an individual, who scrabbles around and searches for meaning in the flurry of disparate sensations, the ruins of time’s passing and death’s ever-present face. Here all ‘real’ experience is presented as elusive, fragmentary and irreducibly sensorial in nature. The world is suddenly no longer made up of stable things, including stable point of view, constructed upon a steady and linear flow of time. The extent to which it ever did being only the illusory effect of literature. With these writers time is fragmented and broken, qualitatively differentiated and non-homogenous, composed of different perspectives, orders of speed, folds, repetitions and echoes, echoes and silences. For them, quite simply, this hallucinogenic fragmentation and kaleidoscopic condensation of sensation is the ‘true’ nature of reality, as it was for impressionist painters like Monet, Manet, Cezanne, and Renoir. The fragmentary yet vividly coloured impressions through which we pass the fragmented temporality of our lives are more ‘real’ than any of the fabulated linear narratives and coherent sense we might wish to impose. Yet, is it possible that the literary assemblages composed by any one of these writers be any less fictional than any of literature’s previous forms? According to Celine, in a passage cited at the very beginning of Paolo Sorrentino’s 2013 film The Great Beauty, it cannot, simply because the life that we experience Continue reading

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Art, Books, Finnegans Wake

‘A Knot of Coherent Nonsense’: Reading Joyce’s ‘Finnegans Wake’…Again

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This week I decided to have another go at reading James Joyce’s massive book Finnegans Wake, and bought an old second-hand copy from a beautiful antiquarian bookshop here in Wellington, NZ. Since I’ve been away traveling in the past few months and living minimally out of a rucksack, this will pretty much be the only real book I’ll be carrying around with me (the rest of my books are on my Ipad!). I’ve tried to read Finnegans Wake a number of times before and I’ve always failed to get much beyond the first handful of pages. I really have tried. The book itself is notoriously and willfully obscure, consisting of dense pages of seemingly senseless neologisms, streams of total nonsense, puns, and mysterious geographical, historical, and literary allusions. And this is absolutely unrelenting for each and every one of its 628 pages.

I first read Joyce’s Ulysses back in college after being partially inspired by reading and enjoying Malcolm Lowry’s stream-of-consciousness masterpiece Under the Volcano, Virginia Woolf’s modernist novel To the Lighthouse, and Samuel Beckett’s Absurdist play Waiting for Godot. I had also been intrigued by the figure of Joyce himself in Tom Stoppard’s play Travesties, where he is a cypher for genuine artistic creativity and integrity in the face of the Dadaist Tristan Tzara’s nihilistic iconoclasm. In fact, I think Stoppard’s characterisation of Joyce made a deep and lasting impression on me, as I’ve always subsequently held Joyce in the highest regard. At the age of seventeen, in the midst  of devouring pretty much any difficult and challenging Continue reading

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Dreams, Uncategorized

A Dream of Alien Hands

Last night I had a dream in which I assisted in the deliberate and consensual mutilation of a man’s hands. We were sitting together at a workbench in a dimly lit workshop. This resembled my father’s shed from when I was a child. There was a smell of gasoline and dust. The man handed me a cleaver and asked me to hack off both his hands at the wrist. He is a large faceless man in a brown suit who sits in the semi-shadows beside me. It is ambiguous as to whether he is wearing some kind of a mask. I don’t know him, but yet somehow in the dream I do know him. I acquiesce to his demands, willingly. I cannot seem to say ‘no’. This acquiescence is out of weakness and I am ashamed. The removal of his hands is part of a much larger and diabolical story in which I have long been complicit. I am involved and Continue reading

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