Applying "The Being Interested In Everything" Towards The Face Of A Person

So I trust you have all been looking, as if all on some very pure hallucinogen, at more things, the every-things, the all-things, searching for the waves, the connections, all that jazz.  As Huxley said in The Doors of Perception: 

"To be shaken out of the ruts of ordinary perception, to be shown for a few timeless hours the outer and inner world, not as they appear to an animal obsessed with survival or to a human being obsessed with words and notions, but as they are apprehended, directly and unconditionally, by Mind at Large — this is an experience of inestimable value to everyone and especially to the intellectual."

I like very much this idea of Mind at Large - a bit like Carl Sagan's Spaceship of the Imagination, the Mind at Large whirls around the alleyways, bumping into things, having a nice analytical squeeze, and then moving on.  We are so bound by our corporeality, our need to piss or our desire to cry or our desperation for a sandwich, to be taken seriously, to be loved, to be remembered - that we forget how free the Mind at Large can be.  (Perhaps the kind of bright-pink-vomiting, ankle-shattering-heels, freshly-fake-baked Joop! cloud that sprawls across city centres every Friday night, and which is so excruciating that I feel obliged to apologise to all foreign taxi drivers on their behalf, perhaps that is the "freedom" of the Body at Large.) 

As Michel de Montaigne (1533-1592) said, "Au plus eslevé thrône du monde si ne sommes assis que sus nostre cul." (On the highest throne in the land we are not sat but on our arse) - we so rarely get the clarity of thought of being perfectly balanced, being well-fed, well-rested and not needing to go to the toilet, but when we do we should be ready to pounce.  

We have only our minds really, and it our human duty, as I have already said, Captain Kitchener style, to feed and water and change the straw of the hutch of our brain.  

And yet, I have thought recently that this is a very lofty but very lonely pursuit. It is much nicer to have someone who you can ricochet your ideas off.  I think that we have lost sight of the fact that a relationship, in its most profound and useful sense, should be someone who you can roam about in your Minds at Large with, and try to flesh out a worldview based on your considered findings.  This in no way sounds as exciting as finding your soul mate, The One, your lobster, or any of the various misleading titles we have given to our imagined Other, and which are liable to cause us diabetes for being so sugary.  I understand that Love also has a lot to do with the prosaic things - with convenience and chemical impulse to mate and shared debt and history and jokes and fear and fear and terror and fear of being alone - but beyond all that is the exquisite chance of ending up with someone who can sherpa you through the sierras of sight, the mountain passes of memory, the sand-dunes of smell - reality itself.  Then, "Wonder into wonder, existence opens" (Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching) 

I have never understood why people think that to argue with someone is a bad thing, a destructive thing.  I have to argue in order to understand.  If you're doing it for the right reasons, then it hurts because your version of reality is being challenged, which is disconcerting and destabilising.  Your guideropes to reality are twanged and everything teeters for a moment.  But, if you and your co-pilot in the Mind at Large are sailing  for the right reasons (more of a Beagle than a Black Pearl) then you find something approaching a mutual truth which will have been tested, rather than a dogmatic truth that only has value because it has never been questioned.  

Sexy, you might think, love is nothing more than having a science lab partner.  

You're wrong for thinking that.  I'm disappointed in you.  

Huxley himself said:

"We live together, we act on, and react to, one another; but always and in all circumstances we are by ourselves. The martyrs go hand in hand into the arena; they are crucified alone. Embraced, the lovers desperately try to fuse their insulated ecstasies into a single self-transcendence; in vain. By its very nature every embodied spirit is doomed to suffer and enjoy in solitude. Sensations, feelings, insights, fancies — all these are private and, except through symbols and at second hand, incommunicable. We can pool information about experiences, but never the experiences themselves. From family to nation, every human group is a society of island universes." 

This pooling of our Minds at Large, whatever that process ends up creating, is the only thing you can do, the only monument to your life, that you can make, before it all gets blown away by time:

You can make children to keep yourself immortal (Shakespeare's first 17 sonnets speak of nothing but, as do the vast majority of ancient literature - all of Brad Pitt's dialogue in Troy is essentially, "Ma, my legend will last through the ages, won't it, Ma?" and so on), and you can spend the rest of your days attempting (in vain, yes, but all the best things are in vain in the end) to pool our experiences, or to reconcile the fractalised universes that we all inhabit:

And while you're in the pool, have a little look at all the waves, just for continuity's sake.