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White. White. White. White. White. White. White. White. White. White. White. White. White. White. White. White. Unlike Plato’s Cave, there are not even any shadows in this projection. Nothing from the world of the ideal is being projected onto this wall. Perhaps the lesson is that ideals are illusory, too. Perhaps that is what I am to take from this. But does that really require three months? It seems kind of excessive, to tell you the truth. White. White. White. White. White. White. White. But it is too early in the viewing process to pass judgment. Certainly this is an uncomfortable film, but audience discomfort is a valid artistic goal. Mamoud’s Lumpy Mattress (1958) is a masterpiece, as is Kitagawa’s Kitsui Kutsu (Tight Shoes) (1997). Both of these films are highly uncomfortable. Lumpy Mattress kept me up for nights. Kitsui Kutsu left me with psychic blisters all over my metaphoric feet. I thought I might never walk again, figuratively.
Reel 703. Something has changed. I am almost certain. I do not think I am imagining this. Not like the last time. Or the times before that. I am certain of it in this reel. There is a spot. A small spot in the center of the frame. I am compelled to watch it in this otherwise sea of white. A pinpoint of darkness. How fascinating! I am giddy. It has been worth the wait. Imagine if I had cheated, fast-forwarded, skimmed through the preceding 129 hours. This reveal would have had none of the power it has now. This tiny darkness. It is extraordinary. I settle in, putty in Ingo’s masterful African American hands. Was this really the film the last time I watched it? Did I perhaps misunderstand it entirely? Did my white privilege keep me from seeing it on its own terms, seeing its very whiteness? Have I grown? Is that why I can see it now for what it is? Huzzah! I change the reel.
I just leave him there and enter the shell of Ingo’s apartment. The masterwork is gone. My future is gone. I fall to my knees amidst the wet ashes and weep, for humanity as much as for myself. Perhaps this would have been the work of art that would do what no other work of art has ever been able to achieve: unite us, show us the best in ourselves, lead us on a collective journey toward compassion. I know it led me toward compassion, at least one-seventh of the way. Then I spot it, amidst the rubble: a frame. A single frame of film. I reach for it, hold it to the sunlight pouring in through where the window once was. Miracle of miracles, it is one of my favorite frames of a film filled with favorite frames. Out of context, it doesn’t seem like much—perhaps a crumb: a medium close-up of a young woman in a red cloche, facing away from the camera. In the distance and slightly soft, screen left, a little boy watches her. It is only through his rapturous expression that we are able to guess at her unbearable beauty. Indeed, her face remains unseen for the entirety of the film. We see her from this angle many times, always in her red cloche, always observed by a character in the distance. We long to see her face, to turn her around, either by force or seduction, but of course we cannot. Just as we can never see the face of God, we can never see this woman of presumably otherworldly beauty.
HERE IN THE cave, I attempt to hide from the ever-present battle. It’s almost impossible to focus on the Calcium memories what with all the explosions, nightmarish screaming, and gnashing of teeth. My boss, the editor of the Slammy’s Gazette, appears, suspendered, cigar-chomping, in my head and orders me back onto the battlefield to report on the war. I don’t think I have ever seen him in person, only in my brain. I’m not certain he exists in person. In this way, he is much like the historical Jesus. Still, he is terrifying, with his sleeve garters and green eyeshade.
“Rosenberg, why the hell are you just sitting there like a sack of shit?”
“Sorry, chief. I was just thinking about a movie I saw.”
“Well, get off your goddamn ass! There’s a war on, son! You want the Trunk Trumpet to scoop us?”
“No, sir. I just—”
“I don’t recall asking to hear your pansy excuses! The world needs to know what’s happening!”
“OK, chief. Sorry.”
My editor steps back into his office, also in my brain, and slams his brain door. A framed photo of Truman holding up a newspaper saying Dewey beat him falls off the brain wall outside his office and crashes to the floor of my brain. Broken brain glass everywhere.
why is this so funny
With my suddenly free arm, I scoop up some ants from the hospital floor and try to find one with an introspective expression. Alas, they all look the same. And let’s face it, they all look stupid. I realize this is a form of bigotry or speciesism or just plain anti-antism on my part, and I am correctly ashamed, but for the life of me, I cannot tell one from the other of these idiotic-looking creatures. There’s one that seems to have a dimple on his (her, thon) face, but I suspect it is only some sort of injury or birth defect. In any event, it makes him (her, thon) look kind of cute, especially when he, she, thon smiles, which makes me decide he, she, thon is even less intelligent than even the regular ants. Again, I realize this is looksist, and I am correctly further ashamed. I place the cute ant back on the floor and drift back into my memory of Calcium.
CALCIUM CALCULATES. HIS chalkboard filled with mathematical scribbles and chemical equations, he ponders. He paces. He stares out a still-standing window frame at his ruined town. He plays his burnt violin. Unearthly music. Modern Phrygian mode, I’m guessing. He goes back to the board. He practices rock climbing on what remains of his interior climbing wall. It doesn’t seem like he would need the hand and foot holds, since he is an ant and I presume has arolia. Perhaps his various hand and foot mutations have rid him of those. He is, in any event, quite skilled. I was, for several years, an avid recreational climber and quite good at it. I had been told by my internist that my body type is well-suited to climbing, so I took it up, and in a very short time, I was teaching my teachers. If it weren’t for an unfortunate and frankly inexplicable fall to the bottom of a sixty-foot sinkhole at the base of Mount Bald, I would still be at it. I wasn’t seriously injured, but I spent four days down there before my outfitter realized I had not returned my equipment. It was a traumatic experience and put me off climbing. That I had to eat three of my toes to survive contributed mightily to my subsequent aversion to this sport. I cannot say why I felt compelled to eat the first of my toes within fifteen minutes of the fall. I attribute it to an irrationality that often accompanies panic.
crying
I have attempted to make myself relevant in this vacuous culture constructed by Slammy’s and enforced by the Trunks. For it seems now they are in it together (were they always?). I despise the products of this insane marriage, but oh how I want them to love me. I long for them to adopt me as their William Burroughs, their Sam Fuller, their Hunter Thompson—their sagacious primogenitor to be trotted about, admired, raptly listened to. But I suspect it is not to be. That position has been filled by that monstrous and doddering Armond White, who has the distinct advantage, at this point in history, of being African Cavian.
my god
Anyone who eats at my table is loved there – and I confess to feeling relieved that I don’t find myself preparing meals for people I might only consider an obligation. I don’t have to perform as someone’s partner with the joint diary, the tit for tat of mutual social upkeep. I try to think of the kitchen as a theatre of self-creation. Sometimes it’s as simple as putting pickles in a pretty dish and laying the table. Or slicing up fruit and arranging it on a plate that makes the colours vibrate. Other times it’s the rejection of restraint when cooking for one. I always feel defensive when people say ‘I don’t bother when it’s just me.’ It’s not that I don’t value convenience and simplicity – I love supermarket tortellini and instant noodles as much as anyone – but I infer from their words that they don’t think I am worth it. I’m not saying that cooking myself a five-pan, six-hour meal is a radical act, but it says my pleasure is worth investing in, is worth putting love into, even if I don’t always believe that, even if sometimes I feel profligate, greedy, unsatisfied.
i like this
Self-love has to include a disregard for how other people might perceive me, and living as though life is in the present, rather than something that will start in earnest once certain thresholds have been passed. I sometimes have to say aloud to myself: you do not agree that life’s worth should be measured in this way. Don’t give the idea the authority to direct your self-criticism for not measuring up. It feels like a life’s work. Repeat it until you mean it. Say it like a friend would.
My default mode of self-love hasn’t fallen into either of the categories I defined earlier. Mine has been to spend money. Through spending I hoped I’d find a way to like myself more. Be more confident. Be someone people wanted to spend time with. This false promise of love got me into debt, made me indulge every but why shouldn’t I voice in my head, buying things for myself, paying the bills when out with friends, never saying no when I couldn’t afford to do something, showboating, until debt became a way of getting through the month for necessities like travelling to work and the weekly food shop. Paying the minimum payment on huge credit balances and then spending back up to the limit. Ever since I was eighteen and was first offered credit and an overdraft, I’ve amassed heart-thudding debts, the kind that make you dissociate, as though the debt is a fungus growing in the dark that you have no hand in. How did it get like this? I’d ask myself, clueless.
ugh the self-pity in this is deeply upsetting