It’s not…

It’s not what you do for a living; it’s the values you bestow on your profession. It’s not how much money you make; it’s your expenditure that counts. It’s not your popularity that makes you; it’s your character that does. It’s not your transparency that keeps you honest; it’s parrhesia. It’s not your strength that makes you formidable; it’s your courage. It’s not your appearance that draws me in; it’s your beauty. It’s not your title that gives you knowledge; it’s the problematization of its landscape that does. It’s not your ego that gives you strength, but your shadows. It’s not self-containment that makes you free, but vulnerability that does. It’s not hedonism that brings happiness, but angst-ized meaning that does. It’s not silence that keeps you safe, it’s resilience that does. It’s not children that immortalise you, it’s a life well-lived that does.

Kobe Bryant: Why Grieve?

Seems the death of Kobe Bryant has stirred our sense of indignation and human suffering in a manner not entirely dissimilar to the death of Robin Williams. Then, as now, people were divided between the notoriety of these individuals and the hard reality that the anonymous suffering with mental illness and tragedies are not given a second thought, and don’t seem to occupy the news and social media feeds. I’ve written about Robin Williams (https://ellypiro.wordpress.com/2018/05/20/find-your-truth/) but then I was not as concerned by the conquest of those disparaged at the attention that this man had drawn and the disingenuousness of said sentiments when so many others of no notoriety suffer everyday.

I think the underling concerns are of keen insight and speak to moral underpinnings that occupy us all. The suggestion seems to be that all human suffering is of equal value, that the lives of the famous, rich, accomplished, successful are no more valuable than the lives of any human being, be they poor, destitute, average, of no special talent and so on. Discrimination is the culprit when great(er) consideration and attention is given to the loss and/or suffering of the rich/accomplished than to the poor/unaccomplished.

I doubt that notoriety all by itself is sufficient to determine the value of LIVED LIFE (i.e. one can be well know for a host of reasons; some bad, some good, and some ridiculous) but I wonder whether we are all being explicitly truthful when we make this universal claim regarding the unconditional value of all human life. When presented with considering whether the life of the “Bill Clintons,” “Martin Luther Kings,” or “Steve Jobs” of the world are more valuable than the lives of the “homeless” and/or “poor,” we would all certainly yell out: ABSOLUTELY NOT! How indignant to suggest such a thing!

Yet, this does not seem to be consistent with the manner in which we meaningfully organize our lives. After all, if it were true we certainly would not raise our children to aspire to certain kinds of lives, life styles, pursuits and activities. Indeed, I’d submit that none of us are innocent to the act of assessing and comparing lives. Clearly, we all value a life of health, happiness, fulfillment of potential, surrounded by family and friends who love us more than one where any one of these is absent. We may want to challenge some of these, but ultimately there is no way to avoid the judgment of value that is inadvertently implicated in the activity of living. Clearly, the life of a drug addict is not the one I should wish upon anyone. We may also want to challenge the way these considerations translate socio-politically. For instance, we may object to certain individuals (by good fortune, hard work, or both) of wealth and political influence seeking privileged treatment and/or access to public services (healthcare, expedite documents, etc.). The value of certain lives then, is quite distinct from saying “regardless of the kinds of lives one lives, the interests of all human beings should be given equal consideration….or something along these lines (the choice expression is utilitarian and I’m no utilitarian…apologies). But what has this to do with the death and the notoriety surrounding Kobe Bryant?

Those who are indignant accuse those expressing their sorrow as neglecting the death of the other passengers and their families’ loss. Some seek to broaden the issue to consider worldwide suffering which, they claim, “no one” (at least not those expressing their sorrow for this basketball player’s death) seems “too” concerned with. Honestly, I don’t know that that is true….the same people that have posted about this death seem to also post about the atrocities in Syria, the death toll in Gaza, the multiple raging civil wars in Africa, the brutal treatment of nonhuman animals, the poverty epidemic of India and more.

Again, and this is in part why I originally thought it best to remain quiet, what is it that everyone else, we (for I include myself) are actually doing to appease the suffering of anyone!!!!?? Is there not just a little hypocrisy in this? If I am a person affluence, power, etc., should I not seek to alleviate the suffering of the anonymous, innocent adults and children around the world rather than just talk about it and castigate others whom I presume are not? Should I not restructure my life to use my influence (monetary and otherwise) to alleviate such suffering? Peter Singer (utilitarianism is not my moral framework, but still…) initiated a campaign called “Effective Altruism” (see his TedTalk here: https://www.ted.com/…/peter_singer_the_why_and_how_of_effec…) that challenges us to live differently (eg. one student decided to study finance because it was what would bring him a surplus of earnings that he could give to the poor; others choose medicine or law, and seek more humble life styles, to afford themselves the time to work for free for the poor and destitute, etc.) and reconsider the meaning of “charity” and “duty”.

I would also like to share that my gut reaction to all the attention that Kobe’s death drew was: “What ever has this man done other than play basketball (BASKETBALL!!! IT’S JUST A SPORT AFTER ALL. I MEAN IT’S NOT LIKE HE FOUND THE CURE FOR CANCER!!?? RIGHT??!) and get paid damn well for it?! Why should I care when so many others who remain anonymous are suffering in this world? Why should I grieve for him beyond what one would grieve for the tragic loss of any life? I find myself indignant not so much because people are expressing their sorrow of this man’s tragic loss, but how it plays out in the manner in which this does translate socio-politically with regards to the structures that come to organize civil life. Still, it is hierarchical, still it is patriarchal, still it tips its hat to instrumentalism, still it is soulless, still it is ego-driven, still it is one of convenience.

Going back to the manner in which we value lived lives, there are the more aretic (from the Greek αρετή, dating back to early Greek Philosophy but more explicitly and systematically with Aristotle and the Stoics) variety that one might consider. For instance, Kobe is admirable for the sheer excellence he brought to the game, in the same way that a medical researcher can be admired for discovering the vaccine for a coronavirus virus. But this is admirable not just for the results brought to bear, but for all of those traits of character, or virtues, that such people often possess. Courage, discipline, focused attention, commitment, resilience, strength, temperance, generosity, honesty, respect. But alas it is not only the “socially accomplished” that are possessed of such virtues! For what of the courage and strength of an addict who has struggled her way into being clean? What of the strength and sense of justice of a mob member who resists killing an innocent? Admirable? But alas, what also of Kobe’s alleged rape? What of the life style and affiliations of the mob member? And what of the medical researcher’s vile treatment of her staff? We are all fallible, limited beings; no one is ever going to be wholly virtuous and it is perhaps as unlikely that anyone shall be wholly vicious.

December 13th, 2019

December 13th, 2002, my daughter Kalianna came into my life with a BANG!!!! It hasn’t been quiet since!!!!

Tumultuous is she in all she does. Few know the calm of her residing love. Those that do, know the uniqueness of her synergy. Being her mother has not been a waltz, not always synchronistic, but not out of tune either or lacking musicality. But she came into this world ready for a fight.

Now 17, she wrestles with negotiating her sense of self worth amidst the demands of everyday life. And though strutting to the instrumentalist drummer still, it is in her awareness of this that she is brought to despair. Cries of anguish, frustration, and desperation which fill her heart and inevitably break my own eventually turn to cries of joy, release, and pride.

Of late she’s become aware of reciprocity. Breaking free from the ego-centrism that most characterizes youth, the narratives are not spun from the threads of Narcissus. Her own fragility has made her sensitive to the power she has to affect the lives of others in a manner that few adults possess. Impressed by the complexities of the human psyche, she’s drawn to the disenfranchised, the wounded; those with poetic entry into the human condition who with verse at their heels find flight in her voice.

My Kalianna is not yet “The Empowered Woman;” too young is she. Soon…

 
The Empowered Woman, by Sonny Carroll

 The Empowered Woman, she moves through the world
with a sense of confidence and grace.
Her once reckless spirit now tempered by wisdom.
Quietly, yet firmly, she speaks her truth without doubt or  hesitation
and the life she leads is of her own creation.

She now understands what it means to live and let live.
How much to ask for herself and how much to give.
She has a strong, yet generous heart
and the inner beauty she emanates truly sets her apart.
Like the mythical Phoenix,
she has risen from the ashes and soared to a new plane of existence,
unfettered by the things that once that posed such resistance.

Her senses now heightened, she sees everything so clearly.
She hears the wind rustling through the trees;
beckoning her to live the dreams she holds so dearly.
She feels the softness of her hands
and muses at the strength that they possess.
Her needs and desires she has learned to express.
She has tasted the bitter and savored the sweet fruits of life,
overcome adversity and pushed past heartache and strife.

And the one thing she never understood,
she now knows to be true,
it all begins and ends with you.

Please Lord make it so she never grows quiet…please Lord make it so her Lion’s voice becomes lyrical…

I love you more than you can possibly know, my daughter! ❤ Happy 17th, baby girl!

Parrhesia

First instalment…

Parrhesia, an ancient Greek term, is frank-speech. Being frank is an act of forthrightness, as when one would say, “to be frank…” An utterance often quasi apologetically employed to signal unsavoury content; that is, something the listener is not prepared, or expecting to be clued in on. With this there is the risk of offence that may find oneself marginalized, (politically/socially) exiled and/or punished. The irregularity is not so much with the truth-value of the content, a point to which I shall return, but in “coming clean,” or explicitly exposing a truth which is contrary to acceptable form. Courage then is a fundamental virtue of the parrhesiastes. For she is not that chatterbox who feeds off the entrails of others, indiscriminately sharing wherever opportunity should veer her head. Such a gossip-whore is a sensationalist whose voice takes the form of entertainment at best, youtuber at worst!

The parrhesiastes does not chance upon potentially marginalizing acts, but diligently and with the virtues of courage, honesty and justice, push forward nonetheless. She must then ac-knowledge the irregularity and for the sake of some “higher” calling, and with veracity at her hip, share. Thereby vulnerable to public scrutiny – it is public both because it has been openly shared, and because it is subject to the regularizing force of public opinion – she’s made herself spokesperson for the truth. It is exhortative as it seeks to invite critical awareness where she is but the vehicle for its attainment. This finds the “offenders” apologoumenos before themselves and others, but always at the risk of the boomerang effect finding her the target of criticism.

Check The Back Seat

We’re all after the truth. It’s programmatic to any inquiry. But it can often take a back seat to alter-narratives. Self-preservation is a basic instinct; inciting action often through a paralysis of comportment. This has become intrusively put to me as circumstance challenges my default mode…ad infinitum….

All is Truth.

 

O ME, man of slack faith so long!
Standing aloof—denying portions so long;
Only aware to-day of compact, all-diffused truth;
Discovering to-day there is no lie, or form of lie, and
can be none, but grows as inevitably upon itself
as the truth does upon itself,
Or as any law of the earth, or any natural production
of the earth does.
(This is curious, and may not be realized immediately
—But it must be realized;
I feel in myself that I represent falsehoods equally with
the rest,
And that the universe does.)
Where has fail’d a perfect return, indifferent of lies or
the truth?
Is it upon the ground, or in water or fire? or in the
spirit of man? or in the meat and blood?
Meditating among liars, and retreating sternly into
myself, I see that there are really no liars or lies
after all,
And that nothing fails its perfect return—And that
what are called lies are perfect returns,
And that each thing exactly represents itself, and what
has preceded it,
And that the truth includes all, and is compact, just as
much as space is compact,
And that there is no flaw or vacuum in the amount of
the truth—but that all is truth without excep-
tion;
And henceforth I will go celebrate anything I see or
am,
And sing and laugh, and deny nothing.
– Walt Whitman

Bye Mummy

It’s funny how language conjures emotions quite unexpectedly. I say “mummy,” and my eyes swell with tears, and yet “mom,” “mother,” sit in chambers of detachment, leaving me quite prepared to deal with loss.

August, 13, 2018 10:45 am mom passed. She had been ill for quite some time, and I’d hoped for her suffering to end sooner rather than later. Ratiocinated comportment never prepares you for loss, however. One simply learns to live with it.

 

 

 

Mom had her demons, and not always the easiest life. She did, however, teach my brother and I compassion, especially for the “underdog.” She was an exceptionally beautiful woman – turquoise eyes, deep black hair, and a figure to die for (she was often confused for Elizabeth Taylor, in fact). Strangely, she never owned it. Like most things mom had an air of confidence somehow intermingled with a palpable sense of self-doubt. She was the greatest mom for a teen, for though she had a rather parochial and conservative upbringing, she pushed the envelope and was …well, counter-cultural!!!! She was especially sensitive to the plight of women and the first to introduce me to Simone de Beauvoir’s The Second Sex. My mom, as most women in Greece of her generation, didn’t finish high school, so I was especially proud when she returned to university to complete her Bachelor’s in Music at Concordia Univeristy and her MA in teaching at McGill University. Later we’d relocate to Greece where she opened her own Music School and later acquired her certification in Music Therapy. She volunteered for decades at the Dafni Psychiatric ward in Athens and worked with addicts, and Down’s children whose lives were significantly altered. I’d, in fact, witnessed the results of a number of so-called “lost cases” she treated privately over many years, and again, I was left in a state of awe. She had an uncanny way of being able to enter the psychic world of intra-personal anguish and translate that musically. It was remarkable to witness.

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My best memories are of mom with a guitar in her hands, and me sitting on the floor in front of her, listening and singing along. She’d teach me to sing the second voice to a song, and we’d practice, joyously, hours at a time. Often the convo turned cerebral and mom would play a classical piece, or one of her own, and she’d ask me to affix a narrative that matched the mood. We’d analyze the meaning and consider the human condition through music. It was a wonderful introspective exercise that brought us close.

Bogus Stoicism

The proliferation of ideas since the invention of the printer has aided the task of informing and moving people to action, but we are only now beginning to see the infectious dangers of bogus and hateful distortions of current affairs, philosophical ideas and the history of human understanding that the world-wide-web has brought.

There are thousands of websites on or related to Stoicism today, but not all are created equal. One in particular was brought to my attention by Pharos, Stoicschool.org (see Stoic School), which deploys Stoicism to insidiously moralize some of the most questionable views related to White Supremacy. My issue, Pharos’s issue, is not (at least not today) with White Supremacy per se, but with the exploitation, and distorted application of Stoic philosophy to support their agenda.

But you make up your own minds.

Here’s a link to Pharos’ post Stoic Philosophy Masking Hate

Resonance

I’d posted this on LinkedIn:

Is it not outrageous that we baffle over the transparent and innocuously purport to narrate the opaque? 

To which I received the reply:

Elly, this is rather opaque.😌

And I thought; Perfect! It’s perfect because the surface reading of my post is accusatory in tone; specifically, exhortative with regards to those who are obscurantists, and yet, it is a species of it’s kind; i.e. it is itself opaque. The meaning of the fist part of the phrase then alters in meaning such that, in fact, no assertion is transparent; everything is subsequently a matter of interpretation. Accepting this, the original accusatory tone withers to make room to a host of multiple meanings negotiated for dialogical partners.

The larger picture tells the story of how “there are no facts, everything is interpretation,” leaving the transparent conspicuously opaque. What is it about linear, economized language, that suggests transparency; a single, objective rendering of truth? There is danger in this presumptive paradigm for unlike poetic verse that leaves unconcealed its opacity, begrudging those of simpler, more literal tastes, the scientific, fact-imploring, modality conceals its metaphysical landscape from view, as if unapologetic-like, truth is its proprietary alone. Is this exposition itself also evaluative, leaving therefore a resurgent relativism to contend with? There is a way in which ‘everything is relative,’ but that is only uninterestingly so; i.e with a spatial-temporal stamp. Everything that is anything is something because we make it so. What we see is not a mechanical representation of the world as is. This has been obvious to philosophers since Thales; I might even say it was obvious to my children by the time they were ready to talk; i.e. they were quite equipped to address the discrepancy between appearance and reality, believing and knowing. Still how we entertain this seemingly obvious set of binaries is where all the conversation is being had.

Philosophers are pretty much in agreement that the world out there as is, is beyond human understanding. I’ve gone over this debate in other posts, so I’ll resist repeating myself. Instead, I’d like to address the style of calibration defined by the word. I like the way Danto puts it in his analysis of Nietzsche – From Reading Nietzsche.

The psychology of the metaphorical address is, since metaphor is a rhetorician’s device, that the audience will itself supply the connection withheld by the metaphor, so that the rhetorician opens a kind of gap with the intention that the logical energies of his audience will arc it, with the consequence of having participated in the progression of argument, that audience convinces itself. There is another but comparable psychology of the aphorism, namely that once heard it is unlikely to pass from recollection, so its pointed terseness is a means of ensouling the messages it carries, and to counteract the predictable deteriorations of memory. So it is a natural instrument of the moralist.

 

 

Telling the Tale – Perspectivism

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Jennifer Fox’s documentarian style drags our visceral intuitions (or, at least she did mine) from a safe distance, alert, transfixed into that intra-personal dialogical space, fluid, personalized. The space is translucent as it navigates between the phantasmal and the real, the past and the present, the child and the adult. It’s a story within a story embedded in a story; multiple perspectives drawn from this intra-personal dialogue resentful of those inter-personal inquisitions (mostly with her partner) seemingly standing objective privy to a clear sighting of sexual abuse. Nietzsche says, ‘perspectivity is the fundamental condition of life,’ and by this I suspect he meant more than just that “we tell ourselves stories in order to live.” We all see things, adopt or acquire a perspective from a relative vantage point.

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The parable of old tells a telling tale of its own. Blind men come to “see” this ‘elephant’ from their perspective, privy to only fragments of its physical instantiation in the world, and each goes away exclaiming what they had found: “it’s a spear!,” “it’s a fan,”, “it’s a wall,” “it’s a rope,” “it’s a tree,” “it’s a snake”! Self-limiting in our engagement, only a God’s eye view could ever become acquainted with the infinite possible perspectives from which it would be experienced. And yet, this is only part of the story ( 😉 ). The foreground alerts us not only to selectivity, but also to a modality of meaning, without which no thing ever experienced would be anything at all. Someone can be heard saying: “get things into perspective,” suggestive of a narrow stance, and with it the implicit accusation that “however things may come to be perceived relative to your engagement, some perspectives are better than others.” Optical perspectivism seems uncomplicated and only obviously true, except when one takes seriously the exclamatory claims: “it’s a snake!,” “it’s a tree!,” and so on. Indeed it is the very thing Plato would plant in our minds to have us question the relationship between what one says and how things are. After all, it is an elephant that each in her turn only fragmentarily perceives from her vantage point, coming to the mistaken viewpoint that the object that she has on her hands is a snake and not an elephant. The illustration is misleading, however. Any sensible object is tied to its background or context – there is no Godly view from which one could possibly take in all infinite perspectives – and the nexus of meaningful relations amongst other objects in the world, including oneself. Perceptual experience is always interpreted within a rich context of signs that signal a perspectival view of the the world. Why is breaking up frames of experience at the outlined periphery of said elephant more true of how the world is experienced than breaking it up at the outmost regions of one’s perceptible frame such that what you see in not an elephant at all but a landscape?

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“Things are not always exactly as they appear. This is not a deer crossing the road. It is a road crossing a mountain.”

Optical perspectivism is similar to perspectivism tout court which argues that there are many possible conceptual frameworks or perspectives from which judgments of truth or e-valuations can be made. In the absence of “objectivity” or any definitive way in which the world can be said to be, is there a measure of “truth”?

Nietzsche, as others that mount some relativistic or contextualized view,  argues both against all arrogant attempts at delineating what is objectively true, and in favour of more sophisticated, perspectival versions of the truth.

“Perspectivism.” It is our needs that interpret the world; our drives and their For and Against. Every drive is a kind of lust to rule; each one has its perspective that it would like to compel all the other drives to accept as a norm. (F. Nietzsche, The Will to Power, §481) 

The Tale is a narratival story that finds confident, successful, unorthodox Jennifer (played by Laura Dern) for years hibernating in a parable little Jenny (played by Isabelle Nelisse), her 13-year old intra-dialogical partner, schemed. She was one of 5 children, the eldest, and essentially invisible in a home wrecked with havoc. Bill (played by Jason Ritter) – her assailant – and Mrs. G (played by Elizabeth Debicki) – co-conspirator (?) – opportuned her rite of passage into womanhood, and at long last centre stage to her own life, she no longer experienced herself as a spectator inadvertently marginalized.

Jenny’s essay, tells the Tale that comes to unravel Jennifer who’d been left with an idyllic story of her first sexual experience with an older man. Later she’ll accuse little Jenny for leaving her to believe it was “a good thing”. Scenes of a caring man, Bill, patiently and lovingly (?) preparing little Jen for full penetration leave one feeling uneasy, especially when the face, the look, of this child and her tiny body are perceived underneath his full-figure. At first Jenny felt seen, visible for all the attention. She thought she’d been singled out; that she was special. They treated her like an adult, and she found strength and composure in that. Jennifer, reluctant, yet nonetheless discombobulated, turned suspecting when seeing the child-like figure of her 13-year old self was actually quite petite, still wearing the “innocence” of childhood. Jennifer looked to unravel the meaning of her Tale, for it was clear to her adult sensibilities that things were not quite as the story was told. Her mother was instrumental in moving Jen-nifer to face her assailant; but Jennifer wasn’t looking to accuse or condemn anyone. She wanted to understand why these people were so important to her, she wanted to unravel her story. For if there is one thing that rang true, it was that she was not a victim. She was not taken advantage of; she was not mistreated, she was not demeaned, she was not raped. When her mother asked, ill-heartedly but somehow prompted by the (seeming?) voluntary nature of her daughter’s sexual relation-ship, “did you enjoy it?,” Jennifer in a state of uneasiness, was clear that she did not. “I was a kid. I got something else. Love. I wanted to feel special,” she said. Her body knew first; her mind would only follow 30 years later. Hours of fornicating were followed by nights hanging over the toilet, vomiting through the night, until exhaustion would take her. Soon her wariness would turn existential nausea, and prompted by suspicions of a planned threesome, a weekend away together with Bill and Mrs. G, was cancelled. The day after we see Jenny, full-faced, serious, confident, talking directly into the camera: “I’ve made a decision. I am taking my life in my own hands.” She would end things with Bill. She called to inform him she wouldn’t be seeing him again, severing ties with both Bill and Mrs. G. She tells of how he begged her, cried, and she imagined that he’d never get over her, sending postcards to her deep into her adult years. This is the story she told herself. And so, the summer spent on the farm was described as heaven.

What did wee Jen have at her ready? What inventory of truths might Jennifer unravel to draw out the perspective she’d entertained? Jenny will come to tell Jennifer that the Tale was only a version of the truth. Premonitions voiced by adult Jennifer coming in as if a sage to caution her younger self could not be heard. Of course not. This was not Jenny’s truth, not even any of multiple intra-personal versions of her truth. For how could it be? Jenny’s horizon of meaning was indeed that of a precocious teen, self-affirming in her advocacy of self, yet emotionally starved.

“The claim that truth is found and that ignorance and error are at an end is one of the most potent seductions there is. Supposing it is believed, then the will to examination, investigation, caution, experiment is paralyzed…“Truth” is therefore more fateful than error and ignorance, because it cuts off the forces that work toward enlightenment and knowledge.” (F. Nietzsche. The Will to Power

Inexperienced Jenny, Jennifer would be heard saying, was a child of the 70s, a time sex was not moralized, “forced” penetration not demonized. The perspective coasts the waves of sexuality from within a fluid movement of self-expression, exploration, mind-expansiveness, openness, and contra-labeling attitudes. Bill would be patient and loving (I know this is not what readers will find easy to hear as they want to shout “Rapist!,” but it is not how Jenny experienced herself. It would be negligible, I suspect, even within the context of mental health and personal development, to impose an exhaustively simple narrative on Jenny) as he prepared her both emotionally and physically for intercourse. She would be the one to plead with her parents to spend weekends alone with her “assailants.” She’d experience herself as grown up and in charge of her life, for that is how Bill and Mrs. G would speak to her. Bill would entreat her to question the conventionalism of marriage and the like as a species of social tyranny (too strong?). She’d see herself as counter-cultural in her affairs, distinct, empowered, authorially driven. First vocalized in due difference to her family, and later as she severed ties with Bill, climaxing in The Tale she would tell – she would not experience herself as anything short of autonomous!

It is, as with all things, a matter of negotiation. For short of discursive fluidity, that beautiful, charming, magical force of energy coagulates, eventually becoming dense, hard matter that in time builds walls. “A lie is an outward expression of a falsehood one inwardly knows to be false, meaning the liar can still know the truth. A conviction, on the other hand, is an inward certainty one has attained the truth, and thus in many cases, gives way to an arrogance that enmeshes one in a web of delusion and falsehood, and cuts one off from the possibility of moving towards knowledge” (unknown source 😦 ). Was Jenny violated? Was she actually taken advantage of? Did she in her desperation to be seen confiscate autonomy to do her bidding? Of course, but also not at all! 13-year old Jenny’s perspective experiences herself within a paradigm of constructs that nurtured a sense of authentic emancipation from literally marginalizing and alienating circumstance. She did not, could not, experience herself as Jennifer now 30 years later could. We may certainly speak to the delicate age of Jenny, circumstance that made her vulnerable to the likes of Bill, but that would also only be to hear the story from Jennifer and our own adult, particularized sensibilities, leaving Jenny quite invisible all over again. An imposed silence upon her carefully crafted script is not to emancipate Jenny from extrinsic forces but to leave her quite without voice. To Jennifer. Does she now within her adult comportment experience herself, through this visceral reenactment of her youthful self, as violated? She’d struggle through the entire film with answering that question for herself.

In an aphorism entitled “To What Extent The Thinker Loves His Enemy,” from Dawn of Day, Nietzsche advised:

Make it a rule to withhold or conceal from yourself anything that may be thought against your own thoughts. Vow it! this is the essential requirement of honest thinking. You must undertake such a campaign against yourself every day.”

Tiny revelations contrary to that more idyllic picture would eventually come to canvass a grander/eur perspective and a Truth, a Tale, that could no longer be squandered, snuffed out by paradigms so inhospitable to what she’d seemingly known all-along.

Jennifer would finally piece the puzzle together. She’d find her assailant. Mrs. G, once a stunning woman of elegant composure and vibrancy, now a rag-doll of questionable lucidity, would tell her nothing. She’d have to put her journalistic expertise to the quest and extract the truth from detractors, restrainers, and oppressors of the truth. Clues brought her to a young woman recruited to enjoin the threesome, now turned preschool teacher, who would, herself shocked to know Jenny was but a child (the school age of her students) at the time, reveal the true dynamics of the affair. Mrs. G was the recruiter who’d bring conquests to Bill’s bed. Neither overtly criminal in demeanour. Both, in fact, ingratiating, mentoring, caring. It is only her adult sensibilities that see the sinister undertow enveloped in preying upon the gullibility of the emotionally frail. Bill’s warmth is chillingly experienced by adult viewers, but Jenny would not want to betray the respect they’d shown her by bowing out of this adult affair, and behaving, as it were, as a child!!!!!! This Jennifer would slowly, shrillingly, come to experience in herself, reaching a climax in a very public confrontational scene with Bill where, desperate for closure, would seek to understand how Bill (a grown man), with her present-day, now adult, sensibilities, could possibly prey upon the youthful innocence of a trusting little girl! Closure would not come as he’d insist, telling his own tale, that she was a willing participant! Shrunken and defeated, she would find no restitution in her tale.

My take away is that we all hibernate in perspectives weaved into our living lives, making it our Truth, our Tale. Glimmers of light sneaking in illuminating what lies beneath seems inescapable, even when repressive impulses may continue to win the day. For Jennifer it was her mother, The Tale, penned by her younger self, that awoke her to the fable she’d learned to call home. I suspect, the Tale, shall be retold many times over, when life experience occasions retrieval and renegotiation in that lifelong process of recalibration!

I stand with a cast-away heart and a delicate psychical world firmly in the act of incertitude that everything is a miracle. The standard price for authenticity? Inner turmoil! I’ll take it! To Nietzsche: I shall ‘make it a rule never to withhold or conceal from myself anything that may be thought against my own thoughts. I vow it! This is the essential requirement of honest thinking. I aim to undertake such a campaign against myself every day.’ (F. Nietzsche, Dawn of Day)

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