From Middle English taken, takenn, from Old English *tacen, *ġetacen, from Old Norse tekinn, from Proto-Germanic *takanaz, past participle of Proto-Germanic *takaną (“to take; grasp; touch”); equivalent to take + -en.
With the Beloved, that is
"I'm thinking of asking that person out." "You can't-- they're taken."
An interesting reality/illusion, to which I'll return later.
"I am completely taken with you."
Now that is the language of enchantment. It's a great metaphor, because that's how it feels. I've been grasped, touched, abducted, even with the extra connotation of the taking happening by force, but not in any way related to sexual violence. More like simply being flummoxed to the core and not having a damned thing to say about it. The experience sometimes has an element of emotional violence, at least from the clutching, structuring, controlling standpoint of what (for the sake of convenience) I'll call the ego. Being a fool for love is definitely an affront to that kind of dignity.
I have sometimes wondered if the little dog is saying "Watch out!" or "Go ahead! Jump! Wheeeee!"
It's not unexpected that "take me" is not only an imperative indicating one wants to accompany someone. It's a lot sexier than "do me," in my humble opinion. Although asking to be done, doing and being completely undone-- nothing wrong with those takes.
And this lens goes either way-- one could look at the overwhelming and discombobulating experience of falling in love, of being completely taken with another human being, as the Great Enchantment, or one could see it as one of many possible enchantments. Both seem to work, depending on context. I know I have been taken by paintings, music, wildness in the wilderness, sunsets, "long walks on the beach", food, poetry and fiction, films. The finest moments of my life have been largely in the experience of being taken. I could be at least partly described as a thaumatologist. Or an experiencer of awe-- with a concomitant sense of wonder, with all of those numinous dimensions. I think the flummoxed, immediate and completely unguarded experience of being taken, being numinously in awe of, is the core of my spirituality.
I do not believe in God. I do believe in awe.
And it just might be some measure of the sorry ass status of our spiritual lives that "awe" used to mean "terror," and now, well, it's either awful or awesome, both of which are kind of meh.
I agree with Jung that my alcoholic and drug addicted experiments for decades were aimed at manufacturing and managing this experience of awe. For many years, this worked. Toward the end, as alcoholism sank me deeper and deeper into darkness and I no longer cared about or was even actively avoiding union with the divine, it was all failure to enchant-- not even dark enchantment. Just disenchantment.
A very rare pic of Percy, in disguise as a dark kind of Dionysius, on one of his past trips through Hades-- a photobooth in Penn Station in Philadelphia, back in the Reagan years
Last night, while I was out getting some awesome frozen yogurt, in the awful Arizona September heat and humidity, I noticed, as I often do, several couples (dessert places make for very interesting couple and family watching-- I am quite often the only weirdling single person there-- what kind of a pervy, misfit loser goes out for dessert alone?). One of my favorite games is to tell my imagined story of each couple I see-- first date, still "dating," partnered? Happy? Abusive? One person more into it than the other? Looking for the exit? Cheating or not (that is, either cheating on each other or having an affair with each other)? That kind of thing. Of course, it's all in my head, by necessity. But for some reason, I find it a very enjoyable game. Maybe because it balances my writerly and storytelling instincts with my being a judgmental bastard? No idea.
Anyway, there was a couple that really caught my eye. They were probably in their early 30's and I decided they had been married for about 4 years. They were conversing well enough, seemed to interact pleasantly enough. There was a familiarity with each other they acted out physically-- a kind of comfortable knowledge of each other's tempo and sense of physical space. Each in turn was talking about his or her job (yes, I am a shameless eavesdropper). They offered each other the usual consolations for outrageous boss behavior, or encouragement for a project completed, or sympathy for something coming up that they dreaded.
And, by my lights, they were not even slightly taken with each other. I wondered-- had they been and were no longer? Could they be again? Did either one or both care? They seemed happy enough.
And, of course, for all I know, they went home and tumbled into several hours of ecstatic conversation in utter fascination with each other, and were taken by each other and took each other, and came undone.
But-- and here it comes down to one of the central questions-- is friendly or even mutually supportive conversation over frozen yogurt all there is? Tongue planted firmly in cheek, yet half-serious.
More on this, going forward.
RAPTURE
ReplyDeleteI can feel she has got out of bed.
That means it is seven a.m.
I have been lying with eyes shut,
thinking, or possibly dreaming,
of how she might look if, at breakfast,
I spoke about the hidden place in her
which, to me, is like a soprano’s tremolo,
and right then, over toast and bramble jelly,
if such things are possible, she came.
I imagine she would show it while trying to conceal it.
I imagine her hair would fall about her face
and she would become apparently downcast,
as she does at a concert when she is moved.
The hypnopompic play passes, and I open my eyes
and there she is, next to the bed,
bending to a low drawer, picking over
various small smooth black, white,
and pink items of underwear. She bends
so low her back runs parallel to the earth,
but there is no sway in it, there is little burden, the day has hardly begun.
The two mounds of muscles for walking, leaping, lovemaking,
lift toward the east—what can I say?
Simile is useless; there is nothing like them on earth.
Her breasts fall full; the nipples
are deep pink in the glare shining up through the iron bars
of the gate under the earth where those who could not love
press, wanting to be born again.
I reach out and take her wrist
and she falls back into bed and at once starts unbuttoning my pajamas.
Later, when I open my eyes, there she is again,
rummaging in the same low drawer.
The clock shows eight. Hmmm.
With huge, silent effort of great,
mounded muscles the earth has been turning.
She takes a piece of silken cloth
from the drawer and stands up. Under the falls
of hair her face has become quiet and downcast,
as if she will be, all day among strangers,
looking down inside herself at our rapture.
--Galway Kinnell