Did you know you were coming alive? Did you know, as you opened your eyes that Noam Chomsky had his hands inside you? I think I knew. All conceits aside, my first spoken word was “door.”
Now the trouble with doors is this: they take and give throughout a life. Bachelard: “How concrete everything becomes in the world of the spirit when an object, a mere door, can give images of hesitation, temptation, desire, security, welcome and respect. If one were to give an account of all the doors one has closed and opened, of all the doors one would like to re-open, one would have to tell the story of one’s entire life.”
Chomsky had his hands on my baby brain. There’s a pre-born door, a neurologic portal if you will, and it has nothing to do with the bardo or birth canals. I can say it has silent hinges.
The spirit also accounts for Noam. And our wiring. Accounts for hostile doors, the portcullis.
“Unscrew the locks,” Whitman said.
Try to picture both sides of a door at once. (A paraphrase from the poet Marvin Bell, who asks us to do the same with the umbrella.)
Remember your first door if you can.
Old Chomsky again…I don’t believe death has a door, only a sequence of numbers.
That is of course an elegant joke.