eros, logos: echo, echo

Monday, March 26, 2007

echo, echo

Ovid tells us that Echo was a mountain nymph, cursed to never speak until spoken to, and then doomed only to repeat the end of what is said to her. Thinking of this now, I realise that there are several Greek myths involving speech and the inability to speak--and all involve women deprived of the power of speech or of the ability to be heard and understood. In all cases it is a punishment for being an object of desire: some are punished by male gods for having resisted their advances, others are punished by female gods for having been raped or just desired by their husbands.

In one version of Echo's story, she rejects and flees from the god Pan and for this she is killed. She's torn apart (the Greeks have a love and a fear for this, death by dismemberment) and her bones are then strewn around the earth. Aphrodite loves her voice and preserves it, and it remains when nothing else does. Like what remains of her body, it's spread out everywhere and exists both everywhere and nowhere, and in no place entire or whole.

In Ovid's version, Echo's shade falls in love with Narcissus, and follows him in the woods. Separated from the friends he was hunting with, he shouts, Is anyone here? And Here! she answers. Here!
I'll stay here, he says, you come to me--and come to me, to me, she calls back.
Stay there, he says, confused, I'll come.
Come, come, she says.

What it feels like to me is like someone has walked down the corridor of my mind. All doors were open for him, and he has walked through and picked up each object. He’s handled each, turned it over, cradled it in those hands that have parted my thighs and lifted my legs over his shoulders, and I feel weaker now under those metaphorical hands than I do under the real. The subtle probing mind is so much more dangerous and seductive to someone like me than the gentle tongue, or the insistent thrust.

Ultimately though he’s left, or he needs to not enter certain rooms now. What it feels like is that these items, precious to me, were looked at and examined carefully and then put back carelessly, rejected. Everything is slightly in disarray, everything has been handled, and when I look at them now these things that were precious and seemed rare no longer do. They look like the unwanted items after a rummage sale, strewn about or at least handled and discarded. In my mind’s eye I see myself naked and splayed and him lifting himself off me, satisfied and contained, while I’m left raw and wet and exposed, still shuddering and gasping.

In these internal rooms now my feet echo on the floor, once again there’s no one here but me, yet somehow I am poorer. The rooms are suddenly too big and feel empty, and what’s in them now looks worthless. I wonder why I opened the door to his knock and why I gave him the keys. He still wants everything, or almost everything. Everything I am thinking or doing or feeling, but not what I feel about him. Us.

I wonder about sacrifice, and where the limits of it are. I think my heart has already been made stone, and yet it still does not suffice.
I don’t feel the pain I once did, and distance no longer has the same power to hurt me…distance feels natural now, as it must have to Echo, eventually.

Sex with him now is no longer with me, but with parts of me. Each part is worshipped but I am not there. Sex is dirtier now, even more explicit, harder, even more addictive.

What does it say about me that I need that even more now?

But it feels like I am a doll pulled apart and strewn around the room, and now each part is individually worshiped and commented on but it is not me. My ass, my pussy, my breasts–all are now in isolation and it is no longer me that is praised or wanted or adored. I’ve been dismembered and now my legs and arms and hips are lifted and commented on, my parts are moved and arrayed, yet I am no longer present–I am no longer seen, because he no longer wishes to see me entire.

If he did see me whole, he’d see how I tear and break under his hands.

Come, he says, and Come. Come, I answer.

More Ovid, here.

Labels: Echo, metamorphoses

posted by O @ 04:25


25 Comments:
At 26 March, 2007, Anonymous said… "Sex now is not with me, but with parts of me. Each part is worshiped but I am not there. Sex is dirtier now, even more explicit, harder, even more addictive." While your (beautifully written) post deals with a more personal level of careless violation, the above paragraph spoke to me as one in the midst of exploration of her sexual self, and one of the unusual side-effects that it has had on me. Making a choice, as a woman, to have a more experimental and exploratory attitude to sex is unusual, if not unheard of. Removing the emotional backbone from the act, and dealing only with the physical is so different, so far removed, from everything that went before for me, that i find myself, on occasion, feeling disembodied. My voice is inherent in my emotions, which i do not allow into the arena of my sexual exploration, and is therefore suppressed into being a separate and removed entity. Much like Echo. Thoughts of this nature have been floating around my head with relentless abandon. Your post helped me crystallize the notion. Now, mental filing done, i can move even further forward in my quest. Thank you. At 26 March, 2007, Anonymous said… Ovid was brought to me (or I to him!!) by Mom when I was 13. I instantly fell in love. Ars Amatoria is my favorite. As for Echo, she always touched my heart. But not as much as you, my dear. That one person can write so eloquently, deeply and sincerely, just pulls the breath out of my body and leaves me suspended, shocked that the Gods have gifted us with you. There are writers and then, there is you. Vous...êtes une déesse parmi nous. -p At 26 March, 2007, Anonymous said… How beautiful and sad your words are, O. And how very selfish I feel at my relief to find you speaking here again. Your stories about Echo's fractured speech and body reminded me of Lavinia too, her body in pieces, her tongue cut out, the horror of her fragmented body and her silence. In Shakespeare's telling, her father mourns for her loss of speech by insisting that he "will wrest an alphabet" from her gestures and signs. Though you feel like Echo, your words here seem whole to me. I am so glad that you have found your voice again. I am sure I'm not alone among your readers who have tried to wrest an alphabet of your silence. Your lines about feeling like a broken doll are astonishing, beautiful and terrible. They remind me of so many blazons, praising this body part and that, as if the sum of those praises could even come close to conjuring a whole. I am optimistic that, with your voice and your pen, you can write your way to wholeness, and I look forward to reading more words from your exquisite alphabet. -J At 26 March, 2007, ArtfulDodger said… Allow me to ask what comes to mind upon your words, and that is the core question, why do you feel so torn and shattered? Is it an internal or external force that shapes such thoughts? I ask because I want to know of course, for we all, from time to time, feel as if we are only pieces of a whole that no longer fits together. Of perhaps that is just me. In finding the source, perhaps we can better understand the cure? At 27 March, 2007, Miss Syl said… O, I just want to say this: You are not a remnant. I am sad if for even one minute something or someone makes you feel as if you are. You are still there, beautiful and whole and wondrous. It's the other person who isn't choosing the whole. Not you. Please don't let his story of you become your story for yourself, because your story is what is real. And anyone who doesn't see that, or chooses to ignore that, is quite simply a fool. I don't mean to insult anyone you care about, but I can't help it--I'm all indignant on your behalf. At 27 March, 2007, learn said… Strange, I was talking with a friend today and he joked ruefully, quite out of the blue: "No more fabrics of my very existence..." To which I added in my head: ...for the rending thereof... This post reminds me of that. And of women as mirrors again. Like in your piece with Pygmalion. It makes me ponder a lot of questions too. Is it possible he only ever ultimately sees himself? Or does he really choose to, as you've suggested? Or are you asking him to? I wonder who is avoiding whose pain, and for whose sake. Anyways, these are not questions I bring up to have you answer me. Just wanted to let you know what it made me think of. It's so good to read your gorgeous writing again! Take care hon! Love, learn At 28 March, 2007, Tom Paine said… No one owns the poetry of loss and regret like you do, O. Women choose their lovers, men compete for their attention. Women can make poor choices, sometimes by design. I once tried to romance a woman who told me she liked married men because they were emotionally and often physically unavailable, and because "I don't have to wash their dirty socks." At 28 March, 2007, Gracie said… my darling, darling, O, the sadistic side loves your tears and pain. yet the human side feels the rag doll effect. i feel for you i cry out for you and i wonder if anyone will hear my cries. i still feel dismembered as i try to find the hiding pieces. but, i know when i am put back together again, i will never be the same...never. hug G At 31 March, 2007, alphagirl said… O, I am moved beyond words by what you have written here. I have read and re-read your beautiful painful words over and over the last few days trying to find words to ease your pain of the betrayal of your mind. Unfortunately, I don't think there are any... I find myself disconnected and somewhat violated in the way you describe...angry that I am a necessary part of his life but that the other part - well, that part always comes first. So he pokes and prods and keeps me "hooked" both emotionally and physically and most times it is not enough...and after 8 years I wonder. Is it time for us to just be done? Your heart is not made of stone nor is mine - but your mind might be turning away from him as mine is... Take care of yourself alphagirl At 31 March, 2007, anna said… That was so beautifully written, as so many of your posts are. However, it was unclear to me. Are you happy to feel this way or is it unfulfilling to you? If you are happy, then I am happy for you and I wish you continued happiness. If it is unfulfilling, then I encourage you to seek fulfillment. Life is too short to do anything else. At 01 April, 2007, O said… Juno, I'm glad if something in here was useful to you. Th issues you mention are difficult ones I think. For a number of reasons women are encouraged to see sex as something that has to occur, if at all, in the context of a very typical monogamous relationship, etc. Fuck someone you don't 'love' and expect the words whore and slut etc., to be applied to you. One effect of this is that women can have a problem feeling or expressing physical desire by itself and for itself. I think this is very wrong, and it leads to all kinds of crap. Physical desire is a hunger like any other, or should be, and should be viewed as all physical pleasures are: the gratification of them is a celebration of our physical selves., and I abhor the dualism in the culture that tells us spirit is more than flesh and would call the experiences of the flesh dirty or lesser. I think there's nothing wrong at all with fucking for the sake of fucking; in fact it's celebratory and wholesome and revelatory. But I also think that it isn't the path to wholeness, to fuck only for that. We're flesh but also more, and I think the ideal situation allows us to be both. This doesn't mean love, necessarily, but an acknowledgement of the Other. The total removal of all emotions from the sexual realm isn't a solution either, though it's a good and useful exploration. I should write something about that at some point; I'm not expressing myself well here. Thank you as always for giving me much to think about-- love O At 01 April, 2007, O said… P, You are as ever too good to me. ;) Why am I not surprised you read Ovid so young? --we have much to speak about , as ever... always, O At 01 April, 2007, O said… P, ps: how I wish I'd read Ars at that age! I didn't read it til much later....it's highly instructive. At 01 April, 2007, O said… J, You are too kind to me, especially as I suspect I owe you a letter from long ago. thank you for this. I haven't ever read titus andronicus, though I have to say that I love Jule taynor's movie version, with all its stylization. I have felt mute and would try to wrest my own alphabet here despite the difficulties i find in doing so...it makes it worth it to have you read. Thank you, O At 01 April, 2007, O said… Art, I need to email you; forgive my absence. I've been pretty abstract here, I realise. I'm sort of circling round my subject. I've found writing difficult for a number of reasons. I'll write you. And thank you , belatedly, for your valentine's mention and the thinky award this week! I'm very grateful for your friendship love O At 01 April, 2007, O said… Miss syl, I know I'm not a remnant...You're really kind to feel such indignation on my behalf, and i do appreciate it, but I also don't really deserve either indignation or sympathy--I'm choosing my situation after all. But i still appreciate your kindness and your sympathy for me best O Dear V, Thank you. xo O At 01 April, 2007, O said… PS--V, I liked the petrarch allusion. Of course part of my intent in writing about Ovid is to imagine what words the 'objects' themselves would have. Have often wondered what laura or dante's beatrice might have said---somehow I think they'd be resentful At 01 April, 2007, O said… Learn, You always do have this way of cutting right to the heart of things, especially the things I leave out: I wonder who is avoiding whose pain, and for whose sake. it's a very good question and the one I have been pondering. I don't have my own answer yet. Love O At 01 April, 2007, O said… Dear Tom, Well, you're always about the common sense. ;) I admit I like not having to deal with anyone's dirty socks apart from my own. very best O At 02 April, 2007, O said… Sorry--interrupted--i'll be back At 02 April, 2007, Anonymous said… Flowers line the corridor Gardinia and jasmin shape the air Succulent spikes guard delicate blooms Precious treasures abound The eyes drink heartily from the cup Nothing is touched though a yearning burns on For everything, and nothing The treasure entire, complete and resplendant Come... At 03 April, 2007, Anonymous said… Ev'n here, where frozen chastity retires, Love finds an altar for forbidden fires. I ought to grieve, but cannot what I ought; I mourn the lover, not lament the fault; I view my crime, but kindle at the view, Repent old pleasures, and solicit new; Now turn'd to Heav'n, I weep my past offence, Now think of thee, and curse my innocence. Of all affliction taught a lover yet, 'Tis sure the hardest science to forget! How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense, And love th' offender, yet detest th' offence? No, fly me, fly me, far as pole from pole; Rise Alps between us! and whole oceans roll! Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me, Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee. Thy oaths I quit, thy memory resign; Forget, renounce me, hate whate'er was mine. Fair eyes, and tempting looks (which yet I view!) Long lov'd, ador'd ideas, all adieu! At 03 April, 2007, Anonymous said… I'm afraid I've had to tag you with the "Thinking Blog Award". I'm sorry for any inconvenience this will cause you - but, damn it, you make me think a lot! Hugs, rg At 06 April, 2007, T - Another Geek Girl said… Hello-lo-lo-lo Yep. There's an echo alright. That's so sweet of Remittance girl! Your think is as beautiful as your kink. Almost as gorgeous as your bodacious breasts... almost. At 09 April, 2007, Anonymous said… I have been meaning to read this since it popped up into my reader. But I always skipped it. I have learned that I need to be ready to deal with truth before I read you. I always feel exposed by your words. I love your blog. I have missed your writing. It makes me choose to be courageous. Thank you.
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