Ok
Taco, so other than summarising one of your favourite movies in
around two-hundred words and thus doing it probably the greatest
disservice imaginable and ruining it for anyone interested enough to
have read this far, what is your point? Well there Mr hypothetical
questioning character used as literary device, my point is as
follows: I have always loved that movie more than the other Guy
Ritchie films because of the point it makes at the end which has
always seemed so relevant to the world outside of the film. It seems
so accessible and real, and ever since the first time I watched it
the central idea – that the only enemy that has ever existed is an
eternal one, and that it is not external, but in fact hides in each
of us, behind our pain – has never been far from my mind. Much like
the movie itself though, (which contains numerous plot holes and
inconsistencies) that idea is neither completely coherent, nor fully
formed... so I've often spent time contemplating how I might harness
this powerful idea and put it to practical use. A few events in the
past couple weeks have got me thinking about it again, and I'm going
to try and lay them out here for the sake of personal clarity, and
maybe afterwards, something will become clear. What something? Who
knows. Is this blog entry going to be very interesting for anyone
that isn't me? Probably not.
So
the other day I wrote a story called 'Coping with Depression' that
mocked a book that I found at the Salvos store I was briefly employed
at in Adelaide. Basically I was having a laugh at the book because it
was old and the idea that a book, a tiny, insignificant, poorly
written book like this could 'cure' someone of depression seemed
laughably ridiculous to me. I was then approached, however, by my
main man Philly P about this and he basically told me to get my head
out of my ass because I've never been through depression and how the
fuck would I know if this book couldn't help someone. These ideas
were reiterated to me by another friend who basically told me that,
while the conflict with Phil had been extremely stressful for me, it
probably wasn't nearly as stressful for Phil. She put this down to my
deep-seated hatred of having my ideas challenged, saying, “what you
hate, more than anything, is being challenged, because you can't
differentiate between your ideas and yourself as a person so when
someone is telling you that you're wrong, you see it as them
attacking you, even when that isn't the case.” The conversation
with her also left me pretty shaky – like physically worn down and
fragile, which is a completely fucking gay thing to say I know but
there we have it – and I left feeling defeated, but thankful that I
have friends in my life who know me so well.
It
got me thinking about Revolver though, and more specifically the
scene at the end when Jason Stratham's character goes to the casino
mogul's mansion and shows his that he's not afraid of him by coming
to his house as he sleeps, waking him up, and then walking out
without doing anything – the ultimate show of contempt. Mr mogul's
greatest fear is that the people around him won't be afraid of him,
so this display rocks him to the core and he comes down without
getting dressed and freaks the fuck out at old J-Strath, finally
collapsing in a pathetic ball of nerves and desperation in the lobby
of his own mansion... well this is how I felt as I walked back to my
car that night. I felt defeated, and broken, but I remembered the
scene from revolver and it made me think that it wasn't me who had
been defeated in this instance, it was my ego. The greatest enemy
that we will ever know will hide in the last place you would ever
look... inside of me. And the greatest trick he ever pulled, was
making you think that he is you... I'm starting to sound a bit wanky
and broken like a career hippy recounting acid trips from the
seventies, but this is exactly how it feels, and as much as taking
philosophical lessons from cool indie films isn't exactly an
iron-clad guarantee in success class 101, if the boot fits... and fit
it does.
So
in the days after that crazy experience at the hands of two of the
people who know me about as well as it's possible to know a person, I
thought and thought about this. I thought about my state of mind
leading up to my writing the story about depression and fancied that
I had been arrogant and stupid to dismiss someone else's idea of a
helping hand... but simply flagellating myself with a psychological
cat-o-nine-tails for a few days afterwards isn't enough. That's just
the easy way out - “if I feel bad for long enough about this, that
makes it ok, and I promise I won't do it again”. Such simple
thoughts are no way to self-betterment. The idea that it wasn't me
making these arrogant moves wasn't going to be sufficient either,
because regardless of whether or not I can see my 'ego' as inexorably
tied to my 'self' or not... like even if I can make that conceptual
leap and say yep, ok, the things about myself that I don't like –
my 'enemies' if you will – exist because of some other force within
me that has hidden itself behind my greatest fears... even if I can
somehow accept that, (and I'm not sure that I can at this stage)
other people are still going to see my actions and attribute them to
me, and if I have control over them, then it's still me fucking up.
No one else is sitting behind the control panel in my brain pulling
levers...
Then
a few days ago I read a short story by F Scott Fitzgerald in the
compilation of his short stories that mummy bought for me to read a
few months ago. It's called 'The Four Fists' and it's basically about
a guy who goes through life doing what he wants and allowing the gut
feelings he has at any particular time guide his actions, but on four
separate occasions in his life this philosophy leads him into trouble
and he ends up getting punched in the face. After each punch he
realises straight away that what he was doing was basically a dick
move and he readjusts his ideas and way of life accordingly. I
thought about this with regards to my situation; once again I related
this to what had happened and how I had been challenged and forced to
reassess my ideas surrounding depression... the similarity between my
situation and the situation depicted by Fitzgerald is that in both
accounts, the protagonist only changes his ways after being
confronted head on with their error. I had only been able to see how
wrong I was when I was directly shamed and my greatest fear was
realised... but I should be able to see what other people would
consider wrong, and evaluate those ideas against my own fully-formed
ones without
having to get 'punched in the face' so to speak.
So
what is it to be? It is very likely that being punched in the face –
or in my case, being confronted, head on, with my own arrogance and
wrong assumptions – is a valuable event in itself. To try to
pre-empt those punches would be to act on behalf of the enemy, the
ego, and give in to the eternal trick that he does not exist, and is
only a part of myself. I don't know how I can possibly act on this,
but I am sure it has something to do with trying to catch myself as
often as possible, as I slip into the uncontrolled self-confidence
that has, for as long as I can remember, led to many of my lowest
moments. Stay vigilant, I guess. That's the lesson to be taken from
this. But don't be afraid to make mistakes? God damn it... there goes
the truth again. Slipping through my fingers like translucent green
jelly... that's it for today I think, I've been sitting up against
his bed-post for far too long... my washing must be dry by now.
Peace,
Taco.
No comments:
Post a Comment