I
Allocthon: as I understand it, it’s a rock that has been displaced from its original location by some fault action- but what it means for geologists, whose work is always forensic (and thus, narrative) is that they must use what they know about the allocthon, and what they know about the place to which they believe it belongs, to tell a sensical story about how it arrived there. Their story must use cause and effect to explain the thing that is obviously not where it should be, the thing that appears out of place.
The “appearing out of place”-ness of the allocthon is what pulls the story out of the rock, or the geologist, or the past. Yet without the geologist to interpret it there is only the rock in some place- a body, alive with history, but without a catalyst to narrativize it. The story of the rock is unactivated- unknown, unseen, invisible.
There’s an aspect of the investigation of the self that can take on a forensic nature- how did this get here? What needed to be the case for this to be the way it appears to be? Allocthons represent big breaks, ruptures in the smooth, contiguous surface of the self that smiles and is introduced at parties. Allocthons are anomalies, only able to be noticed when the instruments fail, when the predictions are wrong, when what should be isn’t, when there is sufficient knowledge of the background to detect an inconsistency. And they are big breaks because they provide a hand hold in the unbroken, frictionless plane of the self that answers “Always” “Sometimes” or “Never” on surveys. Allocthons of the self are a hidden door that appeared to be panelling in the wall only a second ago.
What could an allocthon of the self look like? Something surprising- an action or belief that, on close examination, doesn’t fit in, or comes from a different place than the rest. Looking at that action, belief or quality may help you piece together moments of its creation for which you have not accounted, or were absent (as a young child, for example, or that you don’t remember, or have blocked out).
Examples may include: telling a surprising joke, reading some account or philosophy that resonates, impulsive decisions, behavior in a totally new situation, images in dreams or automatic writing, breakthroughs in therapy, feelings about feelings, mood swings or emotional instability, patterns of habit or thinking that change over time, a new habit that inspires other shifts in life, love feelings in a new relationship (or just intense feelings in a new relationship), learning a new word or concept that feels immediately useful, something that used to be easy is hard, or vice versa, strong reactions in low-stakes situations or conversations- or vice versa, prophecies and predictions, injuries and illnesses.
How to investigate an allocthon: let’s start with the first example, telling a surprising joke. What is it made of? How is it’s material different from the jokes you found it in/ it is surrounded by? What conditions needed to be the case for you to think of it/tell it? If you can identify what it’s made of, does it feel like there is more of that material somewhere nearby? How did it get from there to here? What kind of shifts in perspective, mood, social conditioning, expectations, assumptions, logical and illogical reasoning dislodged it? Now, tell the story.
II
What if the whole story about allocthons covers up another, deeper story of the self? What if every aspect of the self was an allocthon? The closer you look at behaviors or ideals that, at first glance, seemed of their surroundings, natural products of their environment, the more they appear subtly alien. Not exactly random- a product of some environment, surely, but somehow not so obviously the product of the ecosystem of you.
And what about that ecosystem? Parcels had fit together quite nicely, like a patchwork of fields seen from above. Now, suddenly, these pieces don’t click, wobble precariously when you try to stack them one on top of the other, a hodgepodge of mismatched tupperware containers each holding some now-estranged opinion or identification. At first there is still a feeling of ownership, though distant- the way one feels about a box of things destined for the free pile. But the sense of identification with the whole environment weakens as the threads that comprise it are methodically plucked. At the very edges of the ecosystem knots have untied and are beginning to fray, giving way to gaping holes in the fabric of the self-narrative- holes that may, now that you think about it, have been there all along.
When you identified the allocthon in question it was something obviously out of place- you were trying to explain the presence of an emotion you’d never felt before, or a reaction that surprised you. Now, the original object of your inquiry falls away and the background catches your attention, has you asking questions like, but how did I end up with that idea? and, But why should that be right either? Like Bugs Bunny pulled through the fourth wall and onto the blank page, the familiar scenery dissolves, and with it all sense of scale and direction. You’re still holding the rock that got you started, but it feels different somehow, like a relic from another time, an ancient world where actions still had meanings and the self was a handmade garment you could expect to last you your whole life. Now what were you wearing? Hand me downs. Clothes made of droplets hanging in the air. Pure light, giving itself freely to everything, plentiful, formless, cold.
Evelyn C. McLean 