INTERNAL FLIGHTS

When I imagine myself in certain places, I catch a glimpse of a bliss so intense it's almost painful. While mystics aim to wake to Nirvana in the present moment, I prefer to conjure up an image of scenes that capture me then leave me momentarily racked with longing. I fantasise about these (usually sunlit) scenes nearly as often as I do about sex, only for seconds at a time, several times a day.

I was writing a card this morning when the intense blaze of scarlet on a tree pictured on the front (in woodland with a wooden house) transported me to one of the destinations – Autumn in New England. This is an idealised place with no cars, malls or deadlines. Probably in the time of the Pilgrims and charged with the thrill of playing in the woods of childhood. There is always a slight chill in the air and a deep blue sky to frame the bright leaves.

Music, most recently the shattered hazy guitar chord which follows Thom Yorke’s line “it’s going to be a glorious day” (Lucky, OK Computer) had a similar effect. Despite its occurring in the context of an ambiguous, slightly sinister lyric, the one chord took effect instantly - I was suddenly in my Long Summer Day in the mid-to-late 60s, perhaps seen from a London bus or in the “stoned immaculate” smile of a hippie girl in Golden Gate Park as she moves to the music…

On a rational level, I’m aware that a summer’s day is as good in 2004 and that a bus ride more often than not holds little excitement; it is because my destinations are by their very nature out of bounds that they are drenched with beauty.

Why is it that the most intense experiences are always bound up with the unattainable? Is this personal to me, widespread or universal?