An abolition of privacy

An abolition of privacy.  It would be something, whether a boon or a bane it is hard to say, if our thoughts about another could reach such intensity, could reach such a severe pitch of intention and be pointed so squarely in a particular direction, that the thought lands on the other like a wind, calm or harsh, or like a touch, pressing or light, or like a thought of his own.  And if he knew whence the thought comes, that it comes from you and not from the sky, nor from his own synapses firing or neurons communicating, you of all possible inspirations!  We wouldn’t have to fret as to whether a telephone call is received or whether it shall be returned, whether a letter made it to its recipient or whether we will open our own mailbox, hold the envelope in our hands, and read there the precious address in the top-left corner of the paper.  We would communicate with another, be in communion with another, as though in secret, because the thought shared between us would be like all thought in that, although we might be aware of its source, it is blanketed, always, in thick questions and ambiguities concerning its significance or even its character, for instance whether the thought should be welcomed and cherished or whether we should abandon it, like we abandon others, and move on to something else, some other enterprise, some other flight of imagination or deliberation as we move on to some other living flesh to be our lover.  That is, our very relationship with others would be as though in secret, since, when we come in close proximity with one another–the proximity where flesh so blatantly meets flesh, where flesh entwines with flesh–when there is no need for our specially questionable telepathy, first on our mind and at the foreground of our discussion with this special intimate, whose organization and chaos of ideas is somehow open to ours, would not be to share this specific transferred thought with him, nor even to bring this thought to mind, however vague it might be, however unclear it is precisely when the link occurred, or how it occurred.  Our highest intimacy with another could, as it were, lurk in the background, at least its thoughtful and sensitive foundation, the unspoken fundament of our bond with another, no matter what we end up discovering in the other’s more obvious company and closeness.  We wouldn’t have to worry over what we say to another or about another, because we would always, as it were, be with this other, as though alongside him but not, the other being, as we say, so far away, living, as we claim, his own life.  We would be yoked to others as we are yoked to the wind when in its stream, or as we are tied to being touched when it the thick of bodies, and the thread connecting us to this special other, with whom we share thought, would touch that most delicate plot of the landscape of ourselves, could consider himself, after long enough, a fulltime farmer of the land or explorer of the land, as we are of his, since along with any growth, any other ambushes of thought or long-pondered dreams, there would grow up inside him, as there grow up inside us from the other side, thoughts and flits of ideation from an absent interlocutor. 

            So much for privacy, then, at least as regards this one with whom we share the private realm.  At any time, we might stand open to his encroachments, if it happens that during the course of the day he comes to think of us with any power.  How far does this power stretch?  Is it so that it is only one with whom we may be so intimate, that the others are behind dense screens, the screens of their eyes and the screens of their skins?  Or can it be that our thought ever partakes in a thoughtful community, where doors are always opening and closing, where windows more than look out onto the world but are open to the world, so that a thought, thin thing, could sneak inside, or closed with whatever distraction or whatever clinging to autonomy so that the voice of the other on the supposed outside grows faint?  Passageways, doorways, windowpanes, all leading into and opening out onto the other, leading into and opening out onto ourselves.  Even if they are closed, even if bars are erected, the mere possibility is already and always there, the possibility of being invaded, being occupied, the thought of not having any thought of our own.  If it goes so far as all that, if we say nothing that hasn’t come, in the end, from some other communicating with us in his secret way, could we live with such an abolition of privacy?  What would it be like?  A transparency, if not of total clarity then at least of knowing we cannot escape one another, we might as well be open with one another, open to one another?  Would it be a paradise, this arena where we may shoot darts at another’s heart; or a hell, where the thrown arrows of thought above our heads must finally land somewhere, that is, past our flesh and into our flesh, past whatever defenses we had erected and into our permeable, so permeable, interior?