Psychosomatics

Here is how Kurt Vonnegut, jr. describes a combo singing 'That Old Gang of Mine' at a party on page 148 of Slaughterhouse Five: "the quartet made slow, agonized experiments with chords - chords intentionally sour, sourer still, unbearably sour, and then a chord that was suffocatingly sweet, and then some sour ones again." And here, in turn, is how Billy Pilgrim, the protagonist, experiences the music: "Billy had powerful psychosomatic responses to the changing chords. His mouth filled with the taste of lemonade, and his face became grotesque..."

Fortunately, our reactions to music aren't always quite that powerful. But, nonetheless, you can probably relate, on some level - for, as we're coming to understand more and more fully, our reactions to art are often visceral, or embodied. In fact, so too are our responses to the world in general: think of the acidic taste of fear, or the hint of iron in the throat that can accompany raw lust, or the queasy weightless tingling spurred by acrophobia.

If that's familiar ground for us, though, I wonder if it's also familiar to my toddler-in-residence. Certainly, Cleo, like most 2-year-olds, is deeply attentive to her body, constantly noting boo-boos, frequently digging for nuggets in her nostrils, and practicing tiny leaps, and dance steps. And, too, she can react vigorously, and physically, when presented with certain options; earlier today, a proffered cucumber prompted a hyperbolic shake of the head. But what does such a shake mean, exactly? I'm not sure, but my sense is that Cleo's disgusted by the thought more than by the actual taste, or its recollection. After all, she actually downed a healthy bite of the cucumber just a few minutes later. In other words, the shake of the head isn't psychosomatic as much as it is emphatic, or, if you want, expressive. It's a choice, more than a reaction.

So, sure, Cleo can make her face every bit as grotesque as Billy Pilgrim - and does, sometimes. But the underlying mechanism, I think, is different. Billy ultimately realizes that his extreme feelings are generated by a repressed war memory. Cleo, of course, has no war memories - and, similarly, has little in the way of comparative experience. She simply likes or doesn't like, while those of us who have been around a bit longer like and dislike less directly: we do it, you might say, through the lenses of history, and through the lenses of our bodies, which we've come to know so well. A madeleine, to Proust, is a door to a world of memories; a cucumber, to a toddler, is a chance to practice autonomy, or a temporary alternative to plunging finger, again, into nose.