Dear ----,
I received your phone message regarding my response to this month's ---- event. I thought it might be easiest to forward the email I previously sent to ---- and ---- containing the complaint I mentioned to you. ---- responded that, with my permission, he would share the email with ---- and ----, but since you're the head of ---- and say you hadn't heard about it, I think I ought to inform you myself.
My complaint against ---- is, I realize, a serious one. As I told ----, I was at the point of dismissing the problem I had with her at school after our coursework was finished and some time had gone by. That might have been the end of it, except that in 2011, I did quite a bit of traveling and thought I saw ---- several times, though her
hair was dyed. The first time it happened was when I attended the ---- event in ---- and thought I spotted ---- in both downtown ---- and at the airport as I was leaving. I had done something I normally don't do and posted to Facebook in advance of attending saying that I would be there. I don't think at that point that I was even connected to ---- on Facebook, but the event invitation was probably publicly viewable. ---- is a large event, and it wasn't out of the question for someone from ---- to be there, though it struck me as odd.
Later that summer, I thought I saw ---- again, and I think it was in ---- at a concert. It looked like her, but her hair was different. Still, I believed I must have been mistaken. During the 2011 holidays, I even corresponded with nearly all of my classmates, including ----, getting and receiving cards from many of them, including her. I had no reason to think I was going to see most of them again.
The last time I communicated with ---- was in the spring of 2012 when another classmate emailed those of us who were completing our ---- to ask about attendance at ----. Because of the unsettling experience of the previous summer, combined with the problem I'd had
with ---- at school, I ultimately decided not to attend and emailed back saying I wouldn't be there. A couple of classmates, including ----, emailed me and asked why, and I indicated that I'd had peculiar travel experiences.
In the autumn, I drove to ---- from my home in ----; I saw ---- several times during the trip. Her hair was dyed, which altered her appearance, and she didn't acknowledge that she knew me, but I recognized her. This happened in ----, in ----, and in ---- on
the way out. I may have seen her on the way back, too, though I'm less certain
of that.
I have told a number of people about these strange experiences, and in many cases they dismiss it or don't know what to make of it. I can't, because it happened to me, and what seemed to be a case of harassment only got stranger when I tried to dismiss it. If I'm not mistaken, ---- works with young people as a ----, and I don't think it's appropriate at all for someone with such poor boundaries to be in a position of trust, especially with adolescents (or really, with anyone).
If you have any questions, I'll be glad to answer them. I expected some sort of response after I emailed ----, and simply to get a call from an intern asking if I intended to RSVP for the event after everything I had said in the email was not the response I was expecting. I should add that even after getting your acknowledgment that I was declining to attend, I got yet another call (from yet another intern) asking me for an RSVP. Her tone even suggested a certain amount of surprise that I wasn't interested in being there, from which I derive the reasonable conclusion that my complaint isn't having the proper effect. I hope that ---- takes the safety of its community (and those beyond its community) seriously, because to do otherwise would not only be irresponsible but negligent.
(Abridged version of original complaint follows.)
On ---- 2015, at 11:23 AM, ---- wrote:
I recently received an announcement about an event for ----. I believe a similar event was held last year in conjunction with ----. I didn't attend last year and have no plans to attend this year or in the future, and I thought it important to give you some feedback on my reasons. I place a high value on the academic and intellectual experience I had at ----, which is why I'm taking the time to write to you.
I'm sure that your office does good work in helping graduates. . . . The ---- event may or may not be beneficial to others, but I don't see it as likely to offer any
benefit to me as it seems to be more of a "vanity" event. It seems more useful to me to look beyond the ---- community in promoting my writing and thinking.
I have given one professional presentation to a ---- organization but felt that was only a first step. Last year I presented a paper at the ---- conference, which as you know includes scholars from a variety of fields. I believe communicating to a wider audience was actually a more fruitful experience than simply talking to others of a ---- bent. I actually had some correspondence with another presenter after the second conference; nothing of that kind occurred after the ---- presentation or has done so since then, in
spite of the fact that I published what I regard as a very good paper in the ---- journal. I've always believed in the interdisciplinary approach, which the ---- program certainly employed. Staying too narrowly focused seems to me unlikely to result in any new thinking.
Lastly, I have to say that the ---- lost most of its credibility for me when I heard about last year's recipient of ----, ----. I consider her character and ethics to be highly questionable, having experienced harassment from her for most of my years at ---- and knowing of an instance in which another student believed she had ----. I was willing to believe after I left ---- that I might have imagined some of what I experienced as a student, but since then I have seen her several times at places she had no business being, to the extent that I now feel I've actually been stalked. I'm sure that doesn't coincide with the image many people at ---- have of her, nor would I have imagined that possible of her when I first met her. I'm really only speaking for myself right now, but I believe others have also had negative experiences with her.
Since she represents ----, I feel obligated to tell you about what happened to me. In my
experience, she is completely lacking in boundaries and morals and not at all
someone I would want representing my organization. I attended some programs at ---- within the first few years of graduating but no longer feel safe doing so knowing of her involvement with you. I regret that that's the case, but it is.
Very Sincerely.
Wednesday, January 27, 2016
Thursday, January 21, 2016
What's With All the Beards?
What passes for a typical day in the life of a blogger/mythologist? You may be wondering, in case reading my blog has ever made you think of trying out the lifestyle for yourself. Just in case, as a public service, I'll share some of my experiences with you so you can decide if it sounds like something you'd ever want to do. (If you do, I'm going to be shocked, but I'll let you make up your own mind.)
Might as well use today as an example. I don't always get online first thing, but today I did, since I had an email to answer and have also been keeping an eye on my wireless connection, which--for reasons the telephone company cannot explain--keeps getting dropped. I was glancing at the Internet news headlines, reading articles here and there, when I saw a Reuters item about the investigation into the death of Alexander Litvinenko, the former KGB officer who became a British citizen and was working with authorities to uncover the activities of the Russian mafia. You may remember that he died in 2006 after drinking tea poisoned with polonium-210, which he said was the work of Russian agents.
In terms of human interest, that story stood out. According to the article, the British government believes his claim was true, that he was in fact murdered, and that Russian authorities are responsible. I got a little lost after that because, even though Britain is acknowledging that this man was murdered in cold blood, there doesn't seem to be any big move to arrest anyone due to the political situation vis-a-vis Syria, the importance of Russia's role there, etc, etc. Russia is making noise about how pushing the matter is going to poison the waters (pun intended, I guess), but if there's such a thing as international law, I don't see how that prevents British authorities from arresting the men they say did it and pursuing justice. That's if they're as committed as they say they are to punishing the guilty. For the sake of argument, let's assume they are.
Well, that's a disturbing story. Actually, it put me in mind of how, a few years ago, I seemed to have all of these Slavic-looking neighbors upstairs. There were two couples, both consisting of a short blonde woman and a tall dark-haired man, and for the longest time I thought there was just one couple, since they were similar in appearance and both had dogs. That was around the time things got kind of weird in and around my building, back in 2010, and I had to go up several times to ask the one couple (who lived above me) to cool it with the excessive noise. Asking did no good, but eventually they left on their own, sometime the following summer.
Going up to complain is how I found out there were actually two couples. Once I was up there talking to the man, and I could see this little blonde chick through the crack in the door, standing behind the man, though she didn't show herself directly. I had seen the other woman in my hallway once, talking to someone on her cell phone about, of all things, 9/11. She had a rather rude and peculiar manner in my brief encounters with her. Actually, she reminded me a lot of--well, I guess I shouldn't mention any names. I'll just say she reminds me of someone connected with the Western branch of my family. They could actually be sisters.
But I'm getting off track a little. Today, after reading the news, eating lunch (a pear salad with yogurt, a hard-boiled egg, cottage cheese), and taking a shower, I got ready to go out. I was dusting off my snow boots--which hadn't seen action since last winter--in the hall and decided to go back in for my lint brush. When I went back out into the hall, there was someone in the vestibule at the other end, knocking and smiling for all she was worth, and gesticulating that she needed to get in. I proceeded to ignore her. Our door is opened by a security code known to all residents, and if she didn't know it, my assumption is she didn't need to be here. (I couldn't tell if she looked Slavic from where I was standing, but heck, who knows who's keeping track of people reading articles about former KGB agents. Ha, ha--just a little humor!)
I wasn't going anywhere unusual today--just Starbucks. We're expecting snow armageddon, or something close to it, and I had decided to go today because the weather is predicted to make travel risky for the next couple of days. Before leaving, I tried the phone company again to let them know that their re-set of my channel hadn't helped my connection, and I was asked if I have a microwave (I don't) and then told that for a fee, I could get additional technical assistance. Huh? You want me to pay extra to get to the bottom of a problem with the service I'm already paying for? I told the service guy, Ron, that that wasn't my idea of a solution. I guess now I'll have to write to someone on top of making the phone calls--but we'll leave that aside for the moment.
I put on my newly brushed boots, bundled up, and went out to meet the cold. The sun tried briefly to come out while I was cleaning the snow from my car, and it wasn't much, but it was nice to see a little brightness. I drove to Starbucks on streets that were pretty clear but kind of dirty, especially near campus, and had to detour around a traffic jam on Euclid Avenue. Starbucks was less crowded than usual (I was surprised, as it seemed like the kind of winter afternoon tailor-made for a long coffee break) but no complaints about that from me.
I do have to observe that, as is often the case, there were a number of what I call "characters" hanging around. As much as you might want to sit with normal people and just enjoy a simple cup of coffee, the atmosphere there often goes against it. I jokingly refer to the place as the CIA Starbucks (inspired by an article I read about an actual Starbucks in the DC area)--and there certainly is a markedly international flavor to the place.
Hey, I'm not there to make any political statements; I usually just opt for any open seat. Today, I had the misfortune to sit near someone, who, I don't know, struck me as a little out of place, but what do I know? I hadn't been there long, sipping my coffee and looking out the window, when he tried to get my attention. I tried to ignore him, but he persisted, and when I finally looked at him, he said, "Is my music too loud?" (What music?) I pointed to my ear warmers, which I hadn't taken off, and said, "I can't hear anything." I thought of pointing out to him the illogic of asking someone who's obviously not responding to you whether or not you're bothering them, but in the interest of not prolonging the interaction, I decided not to.
So I read a little, watched the world go by, drank my coffee (which I trust was polonium-free), and enjoyed, so far as possible, a little fresh air in the hope of warding off any cabin fever that might ensue over the next couple of days. After that, I came home, fixed dinner (a scrambled-egg panini), and jumped online to check my connection (still not working properly). The rest of the evening will consist of: proofreading my blog, washing the dishes, fixing a cup of tea, and possibly watching a few more sessions of The Fall of the Pagans, the latest Teaching Company course I've been enjoying, before going to bed.
So, a day in the life of a blogger. Not my ideal life (far from it, actually), but I try to record things as they are, not as I wish they were. If you've been eaten up with envy, thinking, "Wow, I wish I could be just like Wordplay--she must have it made!" maybe this will serve as a reality check. I count my pennies and worry about the future. I've always lived a fairly ascetic life, but this is getting into monastic territory. There's very little glamour to it and a lot of aggravation. I enjoy blogging, but it doesn't pay much.
As for the world events mentioned here, I'll point out that I do have an unusually high number of readers in Russia (as I've said before), so I'm not unnaturally taking an interest in them. If I wanted to write a spy thriller in the current climate (I don't want to, but if I did), I might start with the Russian royal family--remember them? The Romanovs. Nicholas and Alexandra were cousins to half the European royals, including George V of England. I learned long ago in World History that they all died, but what if there had been a surviving member somewhere? That would be the stuff of real international intrigue.
Perhaps it's the feeling of living a secluded life that gives me a little sympathy for their final plight. Nicholas was not, apparently, a capable ruler, and as an American, I have no admiration for inherited power. We may not always do well by our leaders, but at least we get a chance periodically to change them and give someone else a try. What makes an accident of birth suitable qualification for leadership? Nothing that I can see. To me, it's a little unseemly for Americans to get too starry-eyed over royalty, when we fought a revolution to get away from all that and to start over with the premise that all men are created equal (glaring failures to put it into practice notwithstanding). Never forget what a quantum leap forward that was. If other countries have a different view of things, that's up to them to work out.
It's probably the fact of all the Russian beards I keep seeing that brings all this to mind, along with those mysterious neighbors of mine and the news in general. The Russian look seems to be very much in vogue these days, and not a day goes by when Russia isn't in the news. I don't write the news, but I do read it. And sometimes I blog about it.
Might as well use today as an example. I don't always get online first thing, but today I did, since I had an email to answer and have also been keeping an eye on my wireless connection, which--for reasons the telephone company cannot explain--keeps getting dropped. I was glancing at the Internet news headlines, reading articles here and there, when I saw a Reuters item about the investigation into the death of Alexander Litvinenko, the former KGB officer who became a British citizen and was working with authorities to uncover the activities of the Russian mafia. You may remember that he died in 2006 after drinking tea poisoned with polonium-210, which he said was the work of Russian agents.
In terms of human interest, that story stood out. According to the article, the British government believes his claim was true, that he was in fact murdered, and that Russian authorities are responsible. I got a little lost after that because, even though Britain is acknowledging that this man was murdered in cold blood, there doesn't seem to be any big move to arrest anyone due to the political situation vis-a-vis Syria, the importance of Russia's role there, etc, etc. Russia is making noise about how pushing the matter is going to poison the waters (pun intended, I guess), but if there's such a thing as international law, I don't see how that prevents British authorities from arresting the men they say did it and pursuing justice. That's if they're as committed as they say they are to punishing the guilty. For the sake of argument, let's assume they are.
Well, that's a disturbing story. Actually, it put me in mind of how, a few years ago, I seemed to have all of these Slavic-looking neighbors upstairs. There were two couples, both consisting of a short blonde woman and a tall dark-haired man, and for the longest time I thought there was just one couple, since they were similar in appearance and both had dogs. That was around the time things got kind of weird in and around my building, back in 2010, and I had to go up several times to ask the one couple (who lived above me) to cool it with the excessive noise. Asking did no good, but eventually they left on their own, sometime the following summer.
Going up to complain is how I found out there were actually two couples. Once I was up there talking to the man, and I could see this little blonde chick through the crack in the door, standing behind the man, though she didn't show herself directly. I had seen the other woman in my hallway once, talking to someone on her cell phone about, of all things, 9/11. She had a rather rude and peculiar manner in my brief encounters with her. Actually, she reminded me a lot of--well, I guess I shouldn't mention any names. I'll just say she reminds me of someone connected with the Western branch of my family. They could actually be sisters.
But I'm getting off track a little. Today, after reading the news, eating lunch (a pear salad with yogurt, a hard-boiled egg, cottage cheese), and taking a shower, I got ready to go out. I was dusting off my snow boots--which hadn't seen action since last winter--in the hall and decided to go back in for my lint brush. When I went back out into the hall, there was someone in the vestibule at the other end, knocking and smiling for all she was worth, and gesticulating that she needed to get in. I proceeded to ignore her. Our door is opened by a security code known to all residents, and if she didn't know it, my assumption is she didn't need to be here. (I couldn't tell if she looked Slavic from where I was standing, but heck, who knows who's keeping track of people reading articles about former KGB agents. Ha, ha--just a little humor!)
I wasn't going anywhere unusual today--just Starbucks. We're expecting snow armageddon, or something close to it, and I had decided to go today because the weather is predicted to make travel risky for the next couple of days. Before leaving, I tried the phone company again to let them know that their re-set of my channel hadn't helped my connection, and I was asked if I have a microwave (I don't) and then told that for a fee, I could get additional technical assistance. Huh? You want me to pay extra to get to the bottom of a problem with the service I'm already paying for? I told the service guy, Ron, that that wasn't my idea of a solution. I guess now I'll have to write to someone on top of making the phone calls--but we'll leave that aside for the moment.
I put on my newly brushed boots, bundled up, and went out to meet the cold. The sun tried briefly to come out while I was cleaning the snow from my car, and it wasn't much, but it was nice to see a little brightness. I drove to Starbucks on streets that were pretty clear but kind of dirty, especially near campus, and had to detour around a traffic jam on Euclid Avenue. Starbucks was less crowded than usual (I was surprised, as it seemed like the kind of winter afternoon tailor-made for a long coffee break) but no complaints about that from me.
I do have to observe that, as is often the case, there were a number of what I call "characters" hanging around. As much as you might want to sit with normal people and just enjoy a simple cup of coffee, the atmosphere there often goes against it. I jokingly refer to the place as the CIA Starbucks (inspired by an article I read about an actual Starbucks in the DC area)--and there certainly is a markedly international flavor to the place.
Hey, I'm not there to make any political statements; I usually just opt for any open seat. Today, I had the misfortune to sit near someone, who, I don't know, struck me as a little out of place, but what do I know? I hadn't been there long, sipping my coffee and looking out the window, when he tried to get my attention. I tried to ignore him, but he persisted, and when I finally looked at him, he said, "Is my music too loud?" (What music?) I pointed to my ear warmers, which I hadn't taken off, and said, "I can't hear anything." I thought of pointing out to him the illogic of asking someone who's obviously not responding to you whether or not you're bothering them, but in the interest of not prolonging the interaction, I decided not to.
So I read a little, watched the world go by, drank my coffee (which I trust was polonium-free), and enjoyed, so far as possible, a little fresh air in the hope of warding off any cabin fever that might ensue over the next couple of days. After that, I came home, fixed dinner (a scrambled-egg panini), and jumped online to check my connection (still not working properly). The rest of the evening will consist of: proofreading my blog, washing the dishes, fixing a cup of tea, and possibly watching a few more sessions of The Fall of the Pagans, the latest Teaching Company course I've been enjoying, before going to bed.
So, a day in the life of a blogger. Not my ideal life (far from it, actually), but I try to record things as they are, not as I wish they were. If you've been eaten up with envy, thinking, "Wow, I wish I could be just like Wordplay--she must have it made!" maybe this will serve as a reality check. I count my pennies and worry about the future. I've always lived a fairly ascetic life, but this is getting into monastic territory. There's very little glamour to it and a lot of aggravation. I enjoy blogging, but it doesn't pay much.
As for the world events mentioned here, I'll point out that I do have an unusually high number of readers in Russia (as I've said before), so I'm not unnaturally taking an interest in them. If I wanted to write a spy thriller in the current climate (I don't want to, but if I did), I might start with the Russian royal family--remember them? The Romanovs. Nicholas and Alexandra were cousins to half the European royals, including George V of England. I learned long ago in World History that they all died, but what if there had been a surviving member somewhere? That would be the stuff of real international intrigue.
Perhaps it's the feeling of living a secluded life that gives me a little sympathy for their final plight. Nicholas was not, apparently, a capable ruler, and as an American, I have no admiration for inherited power. We may not always do well by our leaders, but at least we get a chance periodically to change them and give someone else a try. What makes an accident of birth suitable qualification for leadership? Nothing that I can see. To me, it's a little unseemly for Americans to get too starry-eyed over royalty, when we fought a revolution to get away from all that and to start over with the premise that all men are created equal (glaring failures to put it into practice notwithstanding). Never forget what a quantum leap forward that was. If other countries have a different view of things, that's up to them to work out.
It's probably the fact of all the Russian beards I keep seeing that brings all this to mind, along with those mysterious neighbors of mine and the news in general. The Russian look seems to be very much in vogue these days, and not a day goes by when Russia isn't in the news. I don't write the news, but I do read it. And sometimes I blog about it.
Thursday, January 14, 2016
"The Truman Show" -- A Fairy Tale for the Media Age
I've been thinking this week about Peter Weir's film The Truman Show. It's been so much on my mind that it seems right, without further ado, to share an analysis of the film that I once wrote for a class. I actually did two papers, one from a Freudian and one from a Jungian perspective. I thought both were good, but I got an A on one and a B+ on the other; the B+ paper is the one I'm excerpting here, with an ending taken from the other paper.
Director Peter Weir's captivating and quirky tale, The Truman Show, tells the story of Truman Burbank, the hapless hero who's totally in the dark concerning the truth of his own life. He's the subject of a 24-hour-a-day television "reality show" dreamed up by director-genius Christof. Truman's parents, his wife, his best friend, everyone around him, are all actors, and his life is a set-up. Viewers all over the world tune in to see Truman deal with such situations as the "death" of his father, his school years, his marital tensions, his job, and his escapades with pal Marlon, all of which are carefully scripted episodes. The real story begins when Truman starts to wake up to what's happening and tries to break out of the role that's been written for him.
At first, it's the dullness of a round of days in which each seems much like the one before that begins to wear on Truman. In the time-honored tradition of a situation comedy, he endures endlessly repetitious set-ups and pratfalls involving the neighbors, the local grocer, his mother, and his wife. Eventually, a series of mischances gives him an alarming realization that things revolve around him in a peculiar way. He's nearly hit on the head by a falling stage light. He tunes into a frequency on his car radio in which technicians and stagehands seem to be talking about him. His unscheduled appearance in a building leads him to a backless elevator and a glimpse of things behind the scenes, including caterers. He begins to put together odd incidents from the past in which bits of the truth are apparent. One day, he sees the man he thought of as his father, supposedly dead, now in the role of an extra walking down the street.
As the director tries more determinedly to keep Truman in the dark, Truman becomes bolder about testing reality for himself. Despite the attempts of the other actors to convince him that things are what they seem to be, Truman executes an escape plan leading to the last place Christof thinks of looking for him: the sea. For Truman's long-standing fear of the water, engineered to keep him from roaming off the set, seems to negate the possibility of his ever attempting to leave his island. Once he manages to break out, he finds that the world is both larger and smaller than he realized--larger in the sense that his life is his own if he chooses to seize it, and smaller because (literally) he has been living his life on a Hollywood set whose horizon is a painted backdrop.
Truman is a stand-in for each of us in our journey toward Selfhood. He suggests the archetypal Divine Child in his obscure beginnings. Though to himself Truman is nothing special, his smallest doings are followed by millions of viewers around the world, so that his power and reach are almost supernatural. He has retained a childlike quality even in adulthood, a sunny innocence in the face of the deceit practiced all around him. If, as Jung said, the Divine Child represents the future, Truman personifies unawakened potential in its purest form.
Truman's push toward Selfhood is nearly dormant in the beginning as seen by his acquiescence to the subtle and not-so subtle manipulations of the director and actors. He has been content to live in Jung's "unconscious identification with the plurality of the group." He is so far from knowing himself that when he looks in the mirror every morning, he doesn't realize he is looking into a camera, on the other side of which are the technicians and directors who are actually running his life. "Do you think he can see us?" asks one abashed technician when confronted by Truman's steady but unknowing gaze.
There is no fear of that yet, since Truman's ego is so split off from his unconscious that he is totally identified with his social role. There's an implication that any mild attempts Truman has made at independent growth or assertion have met with disapproval or even disaster in the past. He is oblivious to all the signs that indicate his predicament until he meets Sylvia, who goes against the script by falling for him.
Before being booted from the show (the director has recognized Sylvia's power over Truman), Sylvia tries to tell him the truth about who he is and what's happening. This scene takes place near the ocean, symbol of the primordial source of life and the unconscious. Truman is afraid of the water to the point of being unable to cross a bridge (representing both initiation and its hazards), and this fact has been largely responsible for his failure to realize that he is living on a set. Even though he and Sylvia are parted, he thinks of her constantly, and spurred by an intense desire to be reunited with her, he begins to dream of leaving Seahaven.
When Truman hatches a plan to escape the set, he goes to the basement of his home, where all of his childhood treasures and relics of the past are kept. It has been obvious for some time that Truman is most himself when he retreats to this private world, and it now becomes the springboard for his escape. Out of view of the camera, he makes a break for it by climbing a ladder. A means of egress between the unconscious, "basement" part of himself and his "daylight" ego has been found and moves Truman toward greater consciousness. But to truly change, he still has to cross the ocean that has always terrified him.
For years, Truman believed himself responsible for the death of his father in a boating accident. His realization that this is false now enables him to see a boat not as a symbol of guilt but as a transport that can take him to freedom. In crossing the sea, he is reborn to a more self-determined life, and the boat becomes a womblike vessel of safety that carries him through a special effects storm. Once he weathers the crisis, he realizes that the sea--as well as the painted backdrop he eventually crashes into--represent only the early stages of his journey. The ocean had seemed limitless to Truman when he stood on the shore, but he is just beginning. When he reaches the stage door, it leads into darkness.
In the act of passing through it, Truman enters the unknown territory of authentic life, where nothing is guaranteed. Sylvia, however, has been watching in suspense along with everyone else, and leaves her television, running out of the house to find him. Truman is about to enter her territory.
Though the imaginary television audience in the film--and we viewers of the film--have been complicit in the conspiracy against Truman by the very act of watching, another truth is revealed at the end of the story. We are each Truman in our own way, and our glee at his triumph expresses our own deep yearning for Eros and a more vital, authentic existence than the one we may have settled for. After all, if Truman can do it, so can we.
Director Peter Weir's captivating and quirky tale, The Truman Show, tells the story of Truman Burbank, the hapless hero who's totally in the dark concerning the truth of his own life. He's the subject of a 24-hour-a-day television "reality show" dreamed up by director-genius Christof. Truman's parents, his wife, his best friend, everyone around him, are all actors, and his life is a set-up. Viewers all over the world tune in to see Truman deal with such situations as the "death" of his father, his school years, his marital tensions, his job, and his escapades with pal Marlon, all of which are carefully scripted episodes. The real story begins when Truman starts to wake up to what's happening and tries to break out of the role that's been written for him.
At first, it's the dullness of a round of days in which each seems much like the one before that begins to wear on Truman. In the time-honored tradition of a situation comedy, he endures endlessly repetitious set-ups and pratfalls involving the neighbors, the local grocer, his mother, and his wife. Eventually, a series of mischances gives him an alarming realization that things revolve around him in a peculiar way. He's nearly hit on the head by a falling stage light. He tunes into a frequency on his car radio in which technicians and stagehands seem to be talking about him. His unscheduled appearance in a building leads him to a backless elevator and a glimpse of things behind the scenes, including caterers. He begins to put together odd incidents from the past in which bits of the truth are apparent. One day, he sees the man he thought of as his father, supposedly dead, now in the role of an extra walking down the street.
As the director tries more determinedly to keep Truman in the dark, Truman becomes bolder about testing reality for himself. Despite the attempts of the other actors to convince him that things are what they seem to be, Truman executes an escape plan leading to the last place Christof thinks of looking for him: the sea. For Truman's long-standing fear of the water, engineered to keep him from roaming off the set, seems to negate the possibility of his ever attempting to leave his island. Once he manages to break out, he finds that the world is both larger and smaller than he realized--larger in the sense that his life is his own if he chooses to seize it, and smaller because (literally) he has been living his life on a Hollywood set whose horizon is a painted backdrop.
Truman is a stand-in for each of us in our journey toward Selfhood. He suggests the archetypal Divine Child in his obscure beginnings. Though to himself Truman is nothing special, his smallest doings are followed by millions of viewers around the world, so that his power and reach are almost supernatural. He has retained a childlike quality even in adulthood, a sunny innocence in the face of the deceit practiced all around him. If, as Jung said, the Divine Child represents the future, Truman personifies unawakened potential in its purest form.
Truman's push toward Selfhood is nearly dormant in the beginning as seen by his acquiescence to the subtle and not-so subtle manipulations of the director and actors. He has been content to live in Jung's "unconscious identification with the plurality of the group." He is so far from knowing himself that when he looks in the mirror every morning, he doesn't realize he is looking into a camera, on the other side of which are the technicians and directors who are actually running his life. "Do you think he can see us?" asks one abashed technician when confronted by Truman's steady but unknowing gaze.
There is no fear of that yet, since Truman's ego is so split off from his unconscious that he is totally identified with his social role. There's an implication that any mild attempts Truman has made at independent growth or assertion have met with disapproval or even disaster in the past. He is oblivious to all the signs that indicate his predicament until he meets Sylvia, who goes against the script by falling for him.
Before being booted from the show (the director has recognized Sylvia's power over Truman), Sylvia tries to tell him the truth about who he is and what's happening. This scene takes place near the ocean, symbol of the primordial source of life and the unconscious. Truman is afraid of the water to the point of being unable to cross a bridge (representing both initiation and its hazards), and this fact has been largely responsible for his failure to realize that he is living on a set. Even though he and Sylvia are parted, he thinks of her constantly, and spurred by an intense desire to be reunited with her, he begins to dream of leaving Seahaven.
When Truman hatches a plan to escape the set, he goes to the basement of his home, where all of his childhood treasures and relics of the past are kept. It has been obvious for some time that Truman is most himself when he retreats to this private world, and it now becomes the springboard for his escape. Out of view of the camera, he makes a break for it by climbing a ladder. A means of egress between the unconscious, "basement" part of himself and his "daylight" ego has been found and moves Truman toward greater consciousness. But to truly change, he still has to cross the ocean that has always terrified him.
For years, Truman believed himself responsible for the death of his father in a boating accident. His realization that this is false now enables him to see a boat not as a symbol of guilt but as a transport that can take him to freedom. In crossing the sea, he is reborn to a more self-determined life, and the boat becomes a womblike vessel of safety that carries him through a special effects storm. Once he weathers the crisis, he realizes that the sea--as well as the painted backdrop he eventually crashes into--represent only the early stages of his journey. The ocean had seemed limitless to Truman when he stood on the shore, but he is just beginning. When he reaches the stage door, it leads into darkness.
In the act of passing through it, Truman enters the unknown territory of authentic life, where nothing is guaranteed. Sylvia, however, has been watching in suspense along with everyone else, and leaves her television, running out of the house to find him. Truman is about to enter her territory.
Though the imaginary television audience in the film--and we viewers of the film--have been complicit in the conspiracy against Truman by the very act of watching, another truth is revealed at the end of the story. We are each Truman in our own way, and our glee at his triumph expresses our own deep yearning for Eros and a more vital, authentic existence than the one we may have settled for. After all, if Truman can do it, so can we.
Thursday, January 7, 2016
Mnemosyne's Rules for Making Room
Some people think spring is the best time for cleaning, but I say, why not winter? You're going to be inside anyway, and inclement days provide an ideal opportunity to tackle jobs like clearing out clutter that you wouldn't dream of doing on a nice day (or at least, I wouldn't).
I've written before about the complications that arise from having too many objects sitting around. Lately, I've actually been getting rid of some of them, and while it may not free up that much space, it just feels better to have them gone. The television, for example, I never watched--and to my surprise, you apparently can't even give a TV away, so I just had to throw it out. My old typewriter, which was taking up real estate on a crowded table in the back room, now has the niche the TV formerly occupied. There was also the space heater I never used, and even though I had it tucked away, that's one less thing I'll have to move when dust-mopping.
Last winter, I had gotten my files mostly in order, but there's still some clutter, so I've started going through that, too. Old bills, cards, pictures . . . anything I'm pretty sure I won't be looking at again is a candidate for the dust bin. Several times in the past, I've started to throw out old boxes of letters and cards and found that for sentimental reasons, I hesitated to do so. My feelings about that are a little different now, as I realize that I truly never look at those things, that they are gathering dust, and that dust is itself a hazard.
Last night, for example, I found an old Christmas card in which someone berated me for not including any news in my card and then went on to tell me that they had been in Lexington not long before. The same thought came to mind that had occurred to me the first time I read the card, which was, "Wow, if you really want to know how I'm doing, why didn't you call when you were in town?" The nerve, huh? This time, however, I didn't suppress the thought, and that card went the way of the shredder.
I know there will be more things thrown away by the time I'm done. I've already parted company with videos I have no desire to look at again; I've gone through my books before, but who knows, there may be more that I feel I can part with now. I certainly have plenty of them. Then there are all those "collectibles" sitting around that make dusting such a pain in the neck. Some of them I've had for years, but it may be time now to let them go. It'd be much easier to clean without them.
It isn't that I don't value gifts that people have given me but rather that I want the things I look at every day to speak to me of living affection--in many cases, these objects are like exhibits from a museum of my past, curios collected on an archaeological dig, from people I no longer see. And who wants to live in a museum? It's the relationship with the giver that gives an object meaning--without that, it's just something taking up space. This process will take a little doing, but the beginning of the year seems like a propitious time to start.
On a final note, I've been clearing out old emails and online accounts as well--and while I'm on the topic of electronic communications, this is probably a good time to tell you that Google says people following my blog with a non-Google account will no longer be able to do so in the near future. If you want to follow Wordplay, they advise that you sign up for a Google account and re-follow the blog. I'm not sure how many Openid followers I have, but if you're one of them, this applies to you. I sometimes look at the metrics on my blog and am amazed at the number of readers I have around the world. So many from Russia, for instance--what gives with all those Russian readers, second only to Americans in following my blog? I asked that once before, and someone said that perhaps I have a Russian admirer. I don't think that's it, but it remains one of the curiosities of my blogging life.
You may, like me, be busy clearing out clutter and getting organized for the new year. If so, good luck and smooth sailing. And if you enjoy Wordplay's forays into myth, culture, and everyday life, I'll see you in cyberspace.
I've written before about the complications that arise from having too many objects sitting around. Lately, I've actually been getting rid of some of them, and while it may not free up that much space, it just feels better to have them gone. The television, for example, I never watched--and to my surprise, you apparently can't even give a TV away, so I just had to throw it out. My old typewriter, which was taking up real estate on a crowded table in the back room, now has the niche the TV formerly occupied. There was also the space heater I never used, and even though I had it tucked away, that's one less thing I'll have to move when dust-mopping.
Last winter, I had gotten my files mostly in order, but there's still some clutter, so I've started going through that, too. Old bills, cards, pictures . . . anything I'm pretty sure I won't be looking at again is a candidate for the dust bin. Several times in the past, I've started to throw out old boxes of letters and cards and found that for sentimental reasons, I hesitated to do so. My feelings about that are a little different now, as I realize that I truly never look at those things, that they are gathering dust, and that dust is itself a hazard.
Last night, for example, I found an old Christmas card in which someone berated me for not including any news in my card and then went on to tell me that they had been in Lexington not long before. The same thought came to mind that had occurred to me the first time I read the card, which was, "Wow, if you really want to know how I'm doing, why didn't you call when you were in town?" The nerve, huh? This time, however, I didn't suppress the thought, and that card went the way of the shredder.
I know there will be more things thrown away by the time I'm done. I've already parted company with videos I have no desire to look at again; I've gone through my books before, but who knows, there may be more that I feel I can part with now. I certainly have plenty of them. Then there are all those "collectibles" sitting around that make dusting such a pain in the neck. Some of them I've had for years, but it may be time now to let them go. It'd be much easier to clean without them.
It isn't that I don't value gifts that people have given me but rather that I want the things I look at every day to speak to me of living affection--in many cases, these objects are like exhibits from a museum of my past, curios collected on an archaeological dig, from people I no longer see. And who wants to live in a museum? It's the relationship with the giver that gives an object meaning--without that, it's just something taking up space. This process will take a little doing, but the beginning of the year seems like a propitious time to start.
On a final note, I've been clearing out old emails and online accounts as well--and while I'm on the topic of electronic communications, this is probably a good time to tell you that Google says people following my blog with a non-Google account will no longer be able to do so in the near future. If you want to follow Wordplay, they advise that you sign up for a Google account and re-follow the blog. I'm not sure how many Openid followers I have, but if you're one of them, this applies to you. I sometimes look at the metrics on my blog and am amazed at the number of readers I have around the world. So many from Russia, for instance--what gives with all those Russian readers, second only to Americans in following my blog? I asked that once before, and someone said that perhaps I have a Russian admirer. I don't think that's it, but it remains one of the curiosities of my blogging life.
You may, like me, be busy clearing out clutter and getting organized for the new year. If so, good luck and smooth sailing. And if you enjoy Wordplay's forays into myth, culture, and everyday life, I'll see you in cyberspace.
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