Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Fragmented reflections…mirror, mirror on the wall, part 2…
Flatness is nowhere to be found…the linearity of our existence is a displacement that facilitates an otherwise uneasy relationship of our personal narrative with the multidimensionality of life. When looking at our reflection we catch an instance and try to mentally freeze it in time, to place it on that vanishing line of our personal history. But reality is in the folds, the creases, the weaves. Reality is in the transitions, the changes, the individualistic and unpredictable turns. Perception of our ‘reality’ is incomplete when traced in the isolated, self-sufficient units; it is in the scattered, fragmented, interdependent and often antithetic versions of an ever evolving glimpse of ‘reality’ that we see who we really are. Something from our distant past can meet our present reflection and complete our reality. We just patiently wait for that fragment which will inflict us the fatal blow of complete understanding.
to be continued...
to be continued...
Monday, February 14, 2011
Corrigendum: Mirror, Mirror on the wall…
Late last night, and in a daze, I was removing the day off my face. This routine is the scene for my theatrical monologues that serve as a diary and very often as substitute for any kind of company. The routine takes place in front of one of my bathroom mirrors, usually the one over that sink closer to the door. I like that particular mirror. A mahogany, 19th c. frame flatters my complexion and the rather dim light on top of it hides any signs I prefer to remain hidden. I call the mirror, my ‘Ionic mirror’ as opposed to the more masculine one over the other sink. A third one is on the opposite wall and serves as a ’back mirror’ that helps finalizing my dressing each morning.
So last night, back from a modest Saturday night at the movies, I was in a daze. The events and thoughts of the past month were all asking for resolution. The hardest month I could remember in a long time was weighting on me and the first signs of a break-down were sneaking into my daily routine and threatened to expose me. Now in front of my mirror, everything made sense. I had just watched the ‘Black Swan,’ an indirect silent suggestion by the one who somehow always knows when I need one.
My mother decided to die (editor's note: but she did not :)xxx). And I accepted it. A very aggressive cancer asking for a very aggressive treatment found her at a moment when she was ready to end her life. When everyone was trying to persuade her to give herself a fighting chance, I was the only one to fully support her decision to let things happen. The easiness of my decision scared me and ignited a series of soul searching journeys. Why was I so ready to see her go? Don’t I need her anymore? Am I so tolerant to the wishes of those I love? The immense guilt that was waiting behind the curtains was pushed into the dark backstage and I reasoned with my deepest instincts. Deus ex machina thankfully showed up, deciding for us, and my mother chose to go through a brief treatment, followed by yet another change of mind which was met by my promise to her that this would be the first and last effort and that I will stand in the way of anyone who would try to force her into more treatment. I am exhausted: physically, psychologically. And confused.
Confused for wanting my aging version of myself to cease, and at the same time wanting her to be happy in the life she and destiny has created for her. All this is so ridiculous, as if I can classify, organize and manage a fragile life! As if what I feel can determine what will happen. All this western European logic, consequence and regularity that affected my thinking was at the same time challenged on a historical level. The marginal societies, tacked away by the ‘strong’ west were now changing their ‘predetermined’ course, deciding an alteration in the route of their history, transforming themselves into peoples they have envisioned themselves to be. The west was caught by surprise believing that the laws of history do not apply to us. The history that led strong empires to their end, always with the same motif: the unpredictable, marginal periphery deciding to transform. Always the same motif, yet always the empires were caught off guard.
It is the astonishment of the unsuspected explorer who for the first time saw the unbelievable black swan in the Australian waters and could not classify them. Swans are pretty, elegant in their predictability, and white. This black version is illogical, irregular, unpredictable, unexpected. A flaw in the well-crafted tapestry of nature, dangerous thus alluring, must be kept out of borders because we do not know how to control them. We tie ourselves on the ship mast and close our ears to the enchanting and seductive voice of the Sirens. The all-knowing Sirens who will just offer you the pleasure of one song before they kill you. The creatures that share the same destiny with all those that do not fit into the western logic. Yet, the black exists, and for some of us our life choices bring us in front of them. It is when we are asked to divert from the stereotypical, accepted normality, whichever that is. It is when we are confronted by a reality that does not correspond to the identity that is either given to us or we, in the course of our life, choose for ourselves. But we know that history and civilizations proceed only when they clash with their regularity. The white swan that we are, obeys the rules and accepts the stereotypes. But some hide the black within us or maybe we encounter it and immediately bond. It is when we break away from boundaries that we realize our full self.
To be continued…
So last night, back from a modest Saturday night at the movies, I was in a daze. The events and thoughts of the past month were all asking for resolution. The hardest month I could remember in a long time was weighting on me and the first signs of a break-down were sneaking into my daily routine and threatened to expose me. Now in front of my mirror, everything made sense. I had just watched the ‘Black Swan,’ an indirect silent suggestion by the one who somehow always knows when I need one.
My mother decided to die (editor's note: but she did not :)xxx). And I accepted it. A very aggressive cancer asking for a very aggressive treatment found her at a moment when she was ready to end her life. When everyone was trying to persuade her to give herself a fighting chance, I was the only one to fully support her decision to let things happen. The easiness of my decision scared me and ignited a series of soul searching journeys. Why was I so ready to see her go? Don’t I need her anymore? Am I so tolerant to the wishes of those I love? The immense guilt that was waiting behind the curtains was pushed into the dark backstage and I reasoned with my deepest instincts. Deus ex machina thankfully showed up, deciding for us, and my mother chose to go through a brief treatment, followed by yet another change of mind which was met by my promise to her that this would be the first and last effort and that I will stand in the way of anyone who would try to force her into more treatment. I am exhausted: physically, psychologically. And confused.
Confused for wanting my aging version of myself to cease, and at the same time wanting her to be happy in the life she and destiny has created for her. All this is so ridiculous, as if I can classify, organize and manage a fragile life! As if what I feel can determine what will happen. All this western European logic, consequence and regularity that affected my thinking was at the same time challenged on a historical level. The marginal societies, tacked away by the ‘strong’ west were now changing their ‘predetermined’ course, deciding an alteration in the route of their history, transforming themselves into peoples they have envisioned themselves to be. The west was caught by surprise believing that the laws of history do not apply to us. The history that led strong empires to their end, always with the same motif: the unpredictable, marginal periphery deciding to transform. Always the same motif, yet always the empires were caught off guard.
It is the astonishment of the unsuspected explorer who for the first time saw the unbelievable black swan in the Australian waters and could not classify them. Swans are pretty, elegant in their predictability, and white. This black version is illogical, irregular, unpredictable, unexpected. A flaw in the well-crafted tapestry of nature, dangerous thus alluring, must be kept out of borders because we do not know how to control them. We tie ourselves on the ship mast and close our ears to the enchanting and seductive voice of the Sirens. The all-knowing Sirens who will just offer you the pleasure of one song before they kill you. The creatures that share the same destiny with all those that do not fit into the western logic. Yet, the black exists, and for some of us our life choices bring us in front of them. It is when we are asked to divert from the stereotypical, accepted normality, whichever that is. It is when we are confronted by a reality that does not correspond to the identity that is either given to us or we, in the course of our life, choose for ourselves. But we know that history and civilizations proceed only when they clash with their regularity. The white swan that we are, obeys the rules and accepts the stereotypes. But some hide the black within us or maybe we encounter it and immediately bond. It is when we break away from boundaries that we realize our full self.
To be continued…
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