identity

The fear is not that I'll go stark raving insane, screaming at the walls like a straight-jacketed nutso in a cheesy thriller. No, what I fear is a quiet breakdown, where I am gradually overwhelmed by the absurdity that comes from being alive, knowing I will one day be dead, and knowing that I know virtually nothing. The fear that this construct we call reality is false, that it is the paper-thin mask over the cosmic boogeyman. I will not be clawing at the walls; the loss of my sanity will feel warm inside my skull, a physical sensation not unlike eating a steaming hot bowl of soup on a cold winter afternoon. An almost pleasant feeling as the fabric of reality is torn from me. (In my youth I had a breakdown that was exactly like this.)

Most of this time this fear, like all reoccurring fears, does not rear its head in my daily life. In my most spiritual moments it recedes entirely from view as a certain cosmic viewpoint (one that, I must note, includes all the chaos and destruction inherent in the cosmos) establishes itself in my mind through my experience in those moments. This viewpoint brings such a great sense of awe and wonder that worries about sanity seem trifling at best. The boogeyman? Bring him on! He's nothing next to the indifferent (as far as human concerns, that is) cosmic forces. I find this strangely comforting. If an asteroid hits us, so be it. Worries about the nature of reality are irrelevant. Experience every moment as it is.

Right? But my moment is not your moment and my sense of identity is not the same as your sense of my identity. It could be argued that at least one definition of love is trying to connect across these vast gulfs...or at least put them in their proper perspective. As to who or what decides that proper perspective is...

Boundaries, identity. Artificial or natural constructs? Does it matter? (That's really what all art can ultimately be broken down to: does it matter?) Loaded, unanswerable question, that. Yet to not try and do so negates the experience of being alive and all this weird shit that make up "reality".

Cinema in general, and horror cinema in particular, is an excellent medium for exploring the disassociation of identity and the erasure of boundaries. The camera cannot help but lie; it is not an impartial observer. As much is told by what is left out as by what is shown. Low-budget films, particularly those of the seventies often as not shot on scraps of film stock whose quality could at best be called erratic, capture an unease with existence that can trip the breaker in the brain's coping mechanism. This may be accidental and arguably carries even more force when it is. A filmmaker wants to hurt me? Fine, I can meet him on those terms--we know our identities. An indifferent filmmaker, shooting quick and hoping to turn a quick buck on the exploitation circuit, is far more dangerous. He doesn't have time to think about his work; he just does it and the energies he unleashes are unconscious. As such, they often better capture the temperature of the culture from which they emerge than more accomplished, considered works.

I have more to say about this...