A long sleep and late afternoon has arrived. The sound of a
subtle rain gently taps upon the roof above and a confusion
comes over me. Recollecting the perfect weather from recent
days, it’s impossible to comprehend that rain is now upon us.
Sliding the curtain and stepping out onto the balcony, the
sky is blanketed in grey and the colors of the surrounding
gardens are vibrant. The leaves extend, fully stretched up
and outward yearning to grasp each and every flailing drop
with an awareness that the wealth that is being momentarily
granted may be short lived. A nostalgic calm encapsulates me
within a serenity that accompanies an unscheduled and
unexpected rain. Almost a blissful sorrow with a hint of
joyous isolation vibrates through me as I decide to join the
outdoors and feel the warm rain fall upon me.
Stepping onto the pathway, the mist from above stimulates an
intense presence and today is the first of it’s kind,
blocking me from falling victim to the pattern of days prior.
Slight hints of question arise from my being, as the simple
energy addictions and habitual routine is being distracted
and altered. The faces and movements that have become
indicative of my existence have shifted and the space that is
usually filled has now become empty and different. It’s
surprising how simple changes can stimulate subtle fears
within your functional being forcing you to include your
thought process within your moment to moment awareness.
The velocity of the mist increases and a more passionate rain
begins to fall as I step foot on the empty beach. The
restaurant to my right is quiet yet there are a few guests
dining in the rain underneath the covered garden patio. My
thoughts converge with two opposing desires, one based on
eating and sitting quietly as an observing, the other based
on participating on a more visceral level with what nature is
presenting. Accepting the reality that this may be the last
rain I see here, my body abruptly pushes towards the ocean
observing the colors that stain the horizon.
Pulling off my shirt and emptying my pockets into my hat, I
head with unbending intent, directly out and into the ocean.
The currents move about with a force that I had not
experienced previously, and though there was a strength
within the movement of the tides, it was not angry or
threatening. It was animated with a childlike excitement
that was giddy to have you as a guest. It was almost showing
off it’s power in a manner that including you, like a dolphin
pulling you for a ride and waiting to be rewarded with a fish
at the end. Lying flat in the water, floating on back, I
allowed the currents to push and pull me wherever it wanted
me to go.
My body was weightless and calm and the movement was like a
maternal sway though not enacting a paternal role, but
instead felt like a brother or best friends tossing you
around playfully and never once stimulating fear.
The sky above was filled with millions of shades of grey and
in the distance there were darker grey V-shaped shadows where
you could confirm the strength of the storm. Glancing up and
down the coast, the ocean was empty. I was the only one in
either direction for as far as I could see. I closed my eyes
and bobbed for an unknown duration of time in an effortless
meditation. Leaning forward, I noticed that magically and
with no warning, there was another man swimming approximately
thirty yards away from me. He looked Eastern European of
some sort and within moments I could feel his energy. It was
experiencing the exact same sensation as was I. I continued
to watch him, trying to identify what it was that we were
embracing. His eyes were looking to the sky and in one
gesture, I could comprehend what we were both attempting to
fulfill. A moment that will be ours, individually, forever.
His movements are confident and there is a smile that shines
from his presence, and by describing the gesture that he was
about to carry out, is the most articulate way I can describe
the sensation that was living inside of me.
He gently laid back into the water with his face pointing up
to the sky, closed his eyes and opened his mouth to feel the
water fall inside. Stretching his mouth wide, he absorbed as
much of this moment as possible hoping the rainfall would
scar itself deep within his being, ingraining this moment of
presence in his emotional memory banks forever. He continued
to hold his face absolutely silent and still for nearly ten
minutes, swaying with the moving tide.
As I returned to my body, allowing him to leave me in my
space, I floated within effortlessly on my back while the
warmth and the salt keep my face and feet above the water.
My stomach and chest begin vibrating with a higher frequency
of energy as I think of it now. My body rotates with the
tides until my face heads towards the coast instead of out to
sea. Feeling absolutely no fear and trusting that the waves
that would fall over me were nurturing and harmless. My body
would thrust gently upward as the swell passed and then
quickly drop flat again coming into my line of vision and
crash upon the shore. The rain fell hard and created an
illusion of sparkling bubbles that surrounded me in every
direction. My senses were getting such an abundance of
stimulation that again, I was experiencing a drug induced
state of being without ingesting anything that would cause a
false sense of presence and/or hallucinatory experience. The
bubbles had the appearance similar to a pot of boiling water.
They were rising from the sea floor and upon reaching the
surface they would pop as they had reached a temperature high
enough to break the oxygen molecules apart, altering their
form and sending them back up and into the atmosphere.
I was trapped. Nothing in my body could pull me away from
this moment and though I felt like it was time to go, I
couldn’t impose the action upon my body. Think of the most
potent lust that reaches such an intensity and for the first
time you have the opportunity to embrace the human that has
stimulated this lust within you. You don’t want it to end.
It can’t end. There’s no need for it to end, and if it is
going to end, let it end on it’s own without my influence
prematurely ending it. I remained motionless within the
moving tides for well over an hour and finally decided it was
time.
The entire time I had floated about, the awareness of the
tsunami had faded and I was reminded of the loving qualities
that the ocean possessed. It almost felt as if it had it’s
own personality and it was trying to rekindle the kindness
that it was so accustomed to receiving. The demeanor that
the water possessed felt almost like a humble insecurity. It
reminded me of a puppy that had unknowingly wronged you
somehow and was tapping on your leg, dropping a ball at your
feet while you’re in the middle of working. As if it were
asking forgiveness without the comprehension of what it had
actually done to upset you. Maybe this was nothing more than
a self-imposed illusory thought that I had conceived, however
it felt as if it had been approaching my awareness from the
outside in, as my mind had been silent and judgment was on
hiatus when the sensation entered.
Returning to the beach, my shirt, towel, and cigarettes were
drenched. I passed through the restaurant to find a group of
travelers huddled around a TV screen intensely watching
Batman Returns with Thai subtitles. As I walked through the
man made jungle that led to my room, the colors were more
alive than ever and the rain had brought out all of the life
that secretly inhabited the land. Baby frogs jumped past my
feet as I approached. Geckos scurried up trees to escape the
potential approaching danger that I represented.
Cracking open my door, the pain of the air conditioning was
excruciating, it was like diving into an ice pool on an
already cold day. Throwing myself into the shower as the hot
water arrived, my brain was still silent. There was no
thought. There was no noise. Not just within me, but within
the environment around me. It was uncommon for this space to
experience silence. It was serene. This was the first day
that I had honestly spent alone since my trip began and I was
happy.
As I opened my bag to find something new to wear, a hint of a
rotten odor snuck out of the bag and into the atmosphere. It
is a smell that will always live in me and when approached
with something similar will function as a button that
triggers the emotional sensations from moments and glances
that occurred while that smell encompassed me. Like the
smells that scarred images from your childhood into a storage
area for odors in your mind. A type of bubble gum. A
certain animal. The breath of your grandmother. The smell
of bacon as you open your eyes and realize that it’s
Christmas. The stench of a massive arena of decomposed
bodies had now scarred itself into the category of sense
memories that I would now carry with me for the rest of my
life.
Within a millisecond of the molecules entering my nose, my
muscles quickly tightened, desperately attempting to keep it
from entering my body. The fear of my energy shifting away
from the moment of presence that I had been gifted to receive
on this rainy day was precious. My desire to protect it from
disseminating was fervent and unbending. Today was not the
day to sit inside of the newfound memories I had acquired
over the past weeks, but to relearn what it felt like to be
alone with myself, without the crutches and parasites that I
had been relying upon, and without the cell phone, and
without the E-mail, and without all of the external entities
that I would usually embrace in a day, to justify and confirm
my existence without taking responsibility for it.
Pulling my focus back to the rain, I stepped out onto the
balcony and a gentle humidity of warmth reminded me where I
was. A childlike feeling emanated from my body as the
parenting rain was dictating what and how all of the humans
that usually filled this beach, with bodies and beer bottles,
would live this day out.
Some days, it’s nice to be guided.
There was a small private island called Nuang Yuan just off the coast, about a
ten minute boat ride so I figured I would head over. It was
the only location in Thailand that had an understanding that
conservation might be a good idea. There was no public
awareness instilled at any level that throwing trash into the
ocean wasn’t a good idea. It wasn’t just the ocean, but the
country in general was not really aware of the destruction
that they were supporting with all levels of non-
conservationist activity. Nuang Yuan was covered with signs,
insisting that plastic bottles were not allowed on the island
and anyone carrying plastic bottles would be punished by law
and abolished from the island. It almost felt like if you
did secretly bring some over, there might be a black market
trade going on and an opportunity to make some quiet cash.
Instead of venturing into a new possibility of generating
income, I snorkeled.
A month prior to coming here, I had contacted a childhood
friend of mine informing him that I would coming here. He
had spent the early years of his life in Thailand until his
family moved to California twenty years ago.
When I brought it up, he seemed to have a strange reaction
that was undecipherable. In the past, his entire demeanor
would light up at the mention of Thailand, so this was
somewhat abnormal. After investigation, he informed me that
they had recently returned from Thailand and while they were
here his younger brother had died. They had come to Nuang
Yuan to snorkel and prior to the boat departing realized that
he wasn’t present. They found him floating and assuming that
he had suffered from a shallow water blackout. He was in his
early thirties and I had met him a few times and being here
now, again, I was presented another peculiar occurrence
resulting in death. I floated around the island imagining my
friend’s expression when he realized that his brother had
died. Filling in the blanks of the experience and feeling
the energy of my friend’s presence here. The most disturbing
aspect was the awareness of the unbending affinity my friend
had always held for his family. They were ridiculously
closer and more functional than any family I had ever
witnessed. Subtly, I cried as I effortlessly let my body
float about and imagined what it would be like to die here.
The most optimistic thing I could conjure was the simple
reality that going unconscious and never returning from a
place such as this would at least be peaceful. There was
nothing present here that could be labeled imperfect. It
was a nonexistent perfection that was nearly
incomprehensible. It was impossible to conceive that it
wasn’t manipulated by man to achieve this kind of aesthetic,
both above and under the water. A glowing sadness vibrated
through me as flashes of my friend’s face passed before me.
The beauty of the environment forcibly altered the sadness,
transforming it into a liberating nostalgia. I smiled with
the knowing that there may not be a more perfect place to
die. Unfortunately, timing is always questionable.
The sun hid behind the horizon and I spent the night
peacefully alone surrendering to the theme of mortality that
had satiated every last particle of my so-called vacation.
Strangely, there was a warm quality about a theme that would,
by nature, be associated with a vacuous quality of an
isolated and empty cold. At this point, anything outside of
absolute submission to my externally imposed discourse was
indisputable suicide. The simple, yet incomprehensible
concept of death could no longer be misconceived as an
anomaly. This had been removed from my available list of
options. Instead, it had grown into something that was
simply an obvious and expected part of life that could show
up at any moment, in any direction. And if you were faced
with it, you were blessed… as it wasn’t you who were dead.
The innocent idea of a statue, or sculpture, or a shrine, or any sort of thing that people impose power onto… a mythical figure, a religious zealot, a holy person, a healer; basically, anything that people sit in front of and worship is a pretty comical idea to me. The concept is actually quite brilliant however. If you organize and structure a specific space for humans to come with the intention of worship or even just a simple focus, they arrive prepared to exert large amounts of focused energy. They present it, focus it, and send it wholeheartedly to this one specific space. The space is the actual entity, not the shrine. The frequency of vibrations that move through this space, would potentially vibrate at a much higher velocity
and with more abundance creating a sustained visceral core.
Moving into this core, you would feel a shift in your being based on your sensitivity to your surrounding environment. So, simply by arriving, a subtle physical sensation might enter your body which then receives a judgment from your mind. The judgment is obviously subjective, but
hypothetically, and by nature, it would be the label imposed to represent something spiritual or for some people, religious.
Other comparable locations containing an intensified, focused energy presence would be places like bars, night clubs, or physical locations where parties are consistently thrown. Any place where on a consistent basis, people arrive with an intense presence and an openness to express or receive energy from themselves and others. Not only do we present our hopes and desires within these spaces, but also, it tends to be quite common to induce chemicals into our
bodies to assist us in becoming more present and less conscious. At which point, our focus intensely searches for another individual, or even multiple individuals to impose our energy upon, either physically or energetically. Obviously, the shrine and the bar are two absolutely varied experiences, however there is a common similarity here.
Early that morning, we boarded a boat back to Samui. My
plans to finish the trip out in Koh Tao had evolved and my
most immediate concern was to get the girl back to Bangkok
and relieve myself from the caretaker role that I had
accepted. Surrendering to an unnecessary circumstance was no
longer an option as my trip was quickly coming to an end, and
I wasn’t interested in sharing my final days with a stranger.
One night was enough and it was time to send her back to her
life before she became too comfortable in mine.
The boat was half full and composed of a smorgasbord of
passengers from around the world. I was exhausted and made
no efforts to communicate with my accidental travel guest.
Speaking in single-syllables at a twenty word per minute pace
was too much work at this point so upon sitting down, I
immediately opened a journal and started writing.
The deck of the boat was painted green and covered with
uneven patterns of triangles constructed from aged yellow
duct tape. The myriad of characters were sprawled across the
floor embracing the aphrodisiac of freedom that comes along
with being a traveler. We had all found a similar dress code
where skin was much more prevalent than clothing. Scanning
the surrounding strangers, it was blatantly apparent who had
recently arrived and who had been traveling for a significant
period of time. Those more settled in, seemed to carry
themselves in a hyper-grounded state, almost an elated moment
of sustained self discovery. In some it was a bit more pure
than in others, who seemed to embrace a fallacy summarizing
their current state as a first encounter with a distant
stranger. That stranger being the true and honest version of
themselves, that has finally surfaced and come to stay.
This is a common illusion to fall victim to when you find
yourself in a place where everything is possible, and more
specifically, affordable. Someone with a First World bank
account living within a Third World economy for the first
time in their lives are blessed with an inconceivable
experience. For the first time ever, you are a controlling
factor in your own kingdom without obstacles or
prerequisites. Nearly anything you might desire is
effortlessly attainable. It almost psychically anticipates
your presence, respectfully waiting to fulfill your desires.
Looking at myself and then to those around me, there is a
similar evolution that begins from the outside and works it’s
way inward. Our appearances have taken on a pirate-like
quality, carelessly clothed in a ragged, beach-ghetto-y
manner. The more experienced pirates confidently approach
with a warm, untrustworthy smile and wit that is somehow
sincere, to some degree. The more I observe the passengers,
the more apparent are the layers they are attempting to shed.
One by one, I reconstruct their pre-travel clothing which
begins to create a projected image of the pre-travel person.
I begin imposing illusory moments of their actual lives and
personalities back home. None of whom would exist in class
stature above the middle, and most of them would
unquestionably linger towards the lower end of the scales.
Here, that is nonexistent. Here, they are not reminded on a
moment to moment basis of what is out of range and nothing is
unattainable. This would normally be a fantasy that they
would consistently long for, but here the fantasy is actually
alive.
Taking it further, I impose all of their usual day-to-day
problems and issues. Family, work, money, love, no work, no
money, no love. Human nonsense. A clarity surfaced,
exposing the simple humans that we all actually were, formed
and dictated by a structured society, living in a state of
hope and yearning for liberation from the empowered
structure. This was freedom. At least, momentarily. A
fleeting moment of life within a temporarily liberated
persona. And that’s all it will be. At least for the
intelligent ones. The others will actually become Western
pirates indulging in the effortlessly attainable luxury of
the East. Returning home for short bits of time, scrounging
enough to return to their position of power in a society with
a weaker economy.
My thoughts return to my home and my friends. My family and
dogs. And just as it had been effortless to experience a
human empathy on my way to Khao Lak, now it was effortless to
feel the love I had for those who blessed my life with their
presence. One by one, they passed through my thoughts.
Observing their gestures, I could feel the love we shared. I
could see the web that was created between us all, by us all,
that would never diminish. It would remain, only to be taken
for granted. Regardless, it would sustain.
For the hundredth time on this journey, my eyes filled with
water as my face passed through the warm ocean air. Looking
out, the island of Phangan sat in the distance. I was passing
over the path of water where the fifteen people had died on
the boat that I was fortunate enough not to board. A surreal
quality painted an image around me and my perspective was
altered. I felt more alive than usual. The world around me
also seemed magically alive. It appeared to be three or more
dimensional, but I knew it was no more than an idea in motion
that surrounded me while I sat motionless. It would continue
moving for all that were currently watching… And sustain
it’s movement, even when our eyes were closed eternally.
I try to believe… that I am.
However, I could not comprehend my current state.
The Institutionalized Dissemination of the Individual
By Christopher Jaymes
Using the films One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and Dead Poet’s Society to dissect the
layered dynamics between the Institution and the Individual, intended for The New Yorker
Stillness in nature is disrupted by the industrialized man as an automobile passes through a
serene mountain setting in the opening frame of Milos Forman’s Academy Award winning
interpretation of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, based on the novel by Ken Kesey.
Distractions in nature sporadically occur throughout Peter Weir’s Academy Award winning feature
film, Dead Poet’s Society, however the opening scene establishes young boys being
photographed to blend into a classically painted mural residing upon the wall of an upper class
prep school. The children are almost camouflaged as a part of the painting as they prepare for
the morning ritual which will set the new school year into motion. Two images; the disruption of
something structurally sound, nature, by an opposing force, man; and the inherent molding that
engulfs the unsuspecting youth to follow in the footsteps of conformist tradition. Cuckoo’s Nest
and Dead Poet’s Society explore the reactionary affects carried out by the institution, be it a
mental hospital or a prep school, as it is forced to confront a disruption brought forth by an
individual in opposition with the standards set forth and the methods used to voraciously
disempower the nonconformist. Without proper guidance and delicate force, the expansion of the
conformist will stimulate the abolition of the individual and the extinction of civil liberty as a whole.
Dead Poet’s Society is about a man returning to his prep school to replace a retired English
teacher. His efforts to instill a newfound awareness in his students, enforcing the need to look
past the text and awaken the individual within, are in direct opposition with the standards and
mores of the traditionally structured institution. The boys come together inspired by Mr. Keating
to meet after hours in a nearby cave, breaking out of the oppressive all-male academy to find
liberation within the writings of Walt Whitman, Henry David Thoreau and a myriad of Romantic
poets, forming what they call the Dead Poet’s Society. This sets a series of individual journeys in
motion where each of the boys are forced to approach and confront various issues surrounding
the life of an evolving adolescent yearning to shed the suit of the child and stand forth with the
posture of a free-thinking independent man. The pseudo-liberation experienced by the boys is
accompanied by the reciprocal desire of a stubborn institution to retain it’s stature.
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest is the story of a criminal feigning insanity to avoid serving a
prison sentence. Instead, he enters an all-male state mental institution and struggles to elude the
bureaucratically-imposed dehumanization tactics presented. MacMurphy, the felon, is
consistently emasculated by the informally butch head nurse, Nurse Ratched, as he persistently
attempts to instill a confidence and camaraderie amongst the somewhat feminized male inmates,
most of whom are there based on issues stemmed from some emasculating female once
prominent in their lives. Throughout his stay, we witness the extremist tactics induced by the
institution in order to disempower the nonconformist.
In both circumstances we have a group of individuals forced to adhere to the strict demands
imposed upon them by the institution, regardless of personal desire. As MacMurphy enters his
newfound doctor’s office he comments upon a photograph portraying the smiling doctor holding
up a thirty-something pound fish, the doctor exclaims how it took him a whole day to get it under
control and how reeling it in took every last bit of energy he had. This image perfectly mirrors the
power of the institution over the individual. Only occasionally does the fish actually free itself from
the hook, and even when it succeeds, the scar exists eternally. MacMurphy’s journey will
replicate that of the hooked fish en route to it’s imminent demise. Upon entering the facility, in
Poet’s Society the prep school, in Cuckoo’s Nest, the asylum, the individual’s freedom is
immediately forfeited; freedom summarized as the power to ask, speak or think without the
hindrance or restraint of another force. The institution, in both cases, is empowered with the
authority to grant or remove the possession of free will to the individual; to dictate the acceptable
and allowable actions the individual may exercise. This inhibition of free will stimulates a
disruption amongst the newcomer, assuming the individual has not been previously stripped of
the intrinsic desires inherent to all humans, resulting in a power struggle between the newfound
slave and his keeper. In both settings, the individual interprets the situation as the stripping of
individual freedom by an external power.
Levels of power can be remedially separated into a few categories: external power being the
power outside of the walls you are bound by, including universal, natural, technological and
transportation based powers, society, government and law; internal powers could be those within
the environment you most inhabit, the home, the workplace, school, clubs, prison, family, sports,
committees; individual power can be broken down further to mental, emotional and physical
levels of control. However, regardless what level of power or freedom the individual is faced with,
it cannot function outside of the arena summarized by Plato’s Allegory of the Cave. The shadows
projected upon the wall by the Ruler of the Cave throughout the lifespan of the individual, is the
sum total of the available vocabulary of which the individual’s perspective of freedom and power
is based. The laws of relativity must be reinterpreted and applied in each moment of one’s
existence and reapplied to each fragment of thought, feeling and breath to properly comprehend
the equation of moment-to-moment perception evolution. One man’s freedom is another man’s
prison. One woman’s power is another woman’s weakness. A teacher finds freedom hiding
behind the thoughtlessness of tradition and preordained structure. Certain individuals classified
as mental patients might find empowerment by disassociating themselves from the perils and
responsibilities of the outside world, associating the gates of the institution as protection, while
finding liberation within the ingested chemicals delivered daily to quiet the controlling factors of
the mischievous clamoring from within the cavity of the person. While a paraplegic may find
freedom floating in a pool with high salinity where for a short moment he experiences a lift within
the constraints of physical motion. All of whom would define power as possessing the authority to
practice these freedoms. Freedom and power are relative, and when this relativity is infringed
upon, by either the individual or the institution, conflict is unavoidable as the institution must rise
to diminish the individual and more often then not, the individual will not prevail.
The Welton Preparatory Academy in Dead Poet’s Society is based on tradition and conformation,
structured to function as a production-assembly line in a factory molding middle to upper-class
young men to suit the needs of a bureaucratically organized society. Rewards are based on the
individual’s capacity to excel within the practices of mimicry and memorization. The individual is
programmed with the mindset that the grade is the resulting success, instead of the functional
and thoughtful mind. The institution must contain this order to sustain it’s power. Anything
outside of the prescribed information becomes threatening to the standards of the comprised
structure, therefore to contain the power of ‘tradition’ one must monitor the menu of information
that the mind is allowed to ingest. Hence, the liberty to evaluate media from the outside world is
stripped from the students as a precautionary tactic to avoid the entrance of a potentially
contradictory mindset within the institution. This runs concurrent with the practices of the mental
ward under Nurse Ratched’s leadership when the patients request additional television liberties to
view the World Series. In both cases, censorship is practiced in the same manner that Plato’s
Cave Ruler kept the enchained slaves captive to avoid rebellion. The projection of shadows in
Plato’s Cave, Welton’s ‘light of knowledge’ and the ideology of the mental hospital all comprise
the single and solitary dictating voice that the enslaved are empowered to embrace. This is the
necessary guideline for a structure to retain authority, be it a government, a hospital or a parent, it
all amounts to the same statement…
WE will give you the knowledge to focus upon. Your line of sight will remain at that focus and it
will not shift away. Your heads will rest in chains facing the direction of the shadows that I will
cast.
Until all chains are diminished, the individual can technically be defined as an enslaved being; to
the universe, to nature, to society, to career, to family, to friends, to self and finally, to science
which comprises the structure of the physical self. Since no qualifying state exists outside of
death where the individual functions on a truly independent basis, it must be assumed that we are
all enslaved in some manner and only illusory-based liberation from relativity is actually plausible.
The students of the all-male Welton Academy represent the slaves of a society in every form,
from the conservative uniforms, to the ritualistic chants and the manner they are whipped when
their conduct is inappropriate. The institution has been hired to mold the individual’s thought
process in preparation for conformist society by the once removed parental figures that have
placed them here. In essence, the child lives a dualistic existence as the genetic mirror of the
parent, as well as, slave to the parental perspective, as the child is captive to the sole subjective
voice of the parent, acquiring the absolute vocabulary of all beliefs, ethics, misperceptions,
weaknesses and strengths at a cellular level. The student is now slave to the parent and the
teacher. The concept of individualistic thought is foreign and could only exist in flailing minutia
unless introduced by an outside voice. The voice of rebellion or opposition will always possess a
magnetic and appealing demeanor, as by nature, power fearless of confronting the omnipotent
looming structure represents survival, the driving inherent force engrained into the subconscious
intention of man’s every waking breath. This voice of rebellion may be fearless, selfish, or
absolutely ignorant, regardless of the source, it’s presence will inevitably stimulate an awareness
within the enslaved while forcing the institution to protect itself.
Within our two films we are presented with two such voices, stimulating a fearful and foreign hope
within the enslaved group of males. Mr. Keatings, a product of the institution, has returned in a
position of power as a professor to fulfill an agenda that was lacking from his perspective, to
stimulate the ability of the individual to evolve as a ‘free thinker’. From his perspective, his
intentions are pure and selfless, however, being a Welton graduate, Keatings must understand at
some level that his tactics would not be welcomed. His purpose in one sense must be to
overcome the power that he could not confront as a child, and in another sense, to assist the
students in escaping from a Cave that once held him prisoner. Since one can only truly
comprehend the Cave that has engulfed him throughout his existence, you must assume that the
quotes he brings forth, and the teachings he presents are those most significant to his own
survival.
“…most men live their lives in quiet desperation” –Professor Keatings
He is speaking about himself and the existential conflicts that he has encountered and imposing
his personal objectives upon the students, therefore, you must assume that regardless of
presentation, or lack of self awareness, his mission is a selfish mission.
Randall Patrick MacMurphy is a sexist, racist, forceful convict, convicted of battery and charged
with statutory rape. He enters the asylum under the assumption that it will remove him from his
exhausting work detail and be a relaxing environment to carry out his sentence. MacMurphy’s
intentions are purely selfish and the awakenings that occur for the surrounding patients tend to be
more of a residual effect than a specific intention. His nature to create a team of supporters
reflects the nature of a savvy politician, as he understands that masculine camaraderie is
necessary to overthrow a leader. Therefore, he constantly builds the confidence of the inmates,
attempting to convince them that their capacity is far beyond what the hospital might imply.
In both scenarios, you have two selfish liberators influencing extremely permeable minds, some
of which are incapable of handling this type of transition at all, none of whom are capable of
handling it alone. Throughout Dead Poet’s Society, recurring images of birds flocking are
juxtaposed with the grouping of students, implying the inherent nature of the individual to conform
to a societal structure, as is common throughout the nature of man and society. The individual
constantly yearns for liberation, yearns for independence, yearns for power, yet fears that this
may lead to his potential demise, hence, the structure of a grounded team provides the false
courage and necessary sustenance for the embark towards relative liberation. Isolation is
generally an illusion of perception, as very seldom are we actually alone; however, a common
sensation of isolation is prevalent within most humans, though technically inaccurate. We feel
much more alone than we actually are. This insinuates the condensation of time within thought
sensation, allowing extensive processes to occur within our conceptual thought-feeling
awareness than comprehensible on a physical external basis. The result of feeling isolated and
alone generally equates to a sense of helplessness against the whole. Another conceptual
misinterpretation possessed by the individual is that the ‘whole’ is something that exists outside of
you, as something others experience as an internal sensation; being part of whole. However, the
idea of being part of a whole may allude the individual to embrace the whole under the
assumption that it will mask or eradicate the eternal isolation the individual believes to be
engulfed within. As is true in nature, is true in society, people crave to be a part of something
larger than they can be alone. Generally, there is a desire to be led or guided to this state of
participation, which then can only be sustained by the individual if the foundation of the whole is
intact; the foundation can only remain intact with proper guidance from the leader. As the boys
assemble to form the Dead Poet’s Society, each of the boys pressure one another to participate,
to embrace the group, to conform to the new standards and principles. In essence, the individual
has no alternative but to exchange one cave for another.
In the Cave of Welton, the ‘Light of Knowledge’ is offered; basically. a piddly candle for a crap
tradition. In the Dead Poet’s Cave, we function solely by flashlights which could be interpreted as
false light. Welton is based on structure and tradition, while the Dead Poet’s are based on
Romantic thought and passionate innovation. Welton consists of conservative elderly uniforms,
while the Poet’s dress in hooded robes and mimic the symbols of hedonism practiced by their
elders, smoking pipes and cigars. They attain validation from one another by a mutual
conformation towards the notion of becoming a ‘free thinker’. This becomes their identity, existing
as an underlying hopeful force that they are worthy of receiving a life vibrating on a level higher
than the surrounding others. They want something more. They are hopeful of receiving liberation
from the repressed existence they have lived until now, or maybe not. Maybe they are infected
with the inherent fear of missing out on something else. Something different that may be better.
In either scenario, they reach out to find some validation that they are worthy of being alive. Each
of the individuals alone, have only their ego to protect, to sustain, to gratify and validate. They
interpret the prison surrounding them from within the helplessness of their age and circumstance.
Their reality cannot see outside of now, as this is the whole, the end, the everything… being
stretched and pulled from all sides, their spirit struggles to find ground. Time does not exist, there
is only now and now they are trapped within the Cave dictated by someone outside of
themselves. The ego is blinded and is seemingly dead as it searches to find identity. For now,
belonging to the whole becomes their identity, however identity is false and flailing, as permanent
as the projected shadows upon the wall in Plato’s Cave. Both, the ideologies of Welton, and
those of the Dead Poet’s, are simple ideas representing two separate conceptual notions of
relative freedom; however, you must first break out of one Cave in order to properly embrace
another. Though you must not confuse moving from one cave to another as the creation of a
greater, more liberated being necessarily. Individual evolution of perspective must occur and
awareness of both realities, and your assumed identity within both of these realities is necessary
for any honest and organic liberation to occur.
Within both films, we are presented with a varied demographic of individuals, most of whom
possess developmentally vulnerable minds, susceptible to conformity while desperately yearning
to be led. Both of our leaders embrace their subjects with tactics of confidence, building
masculinity while continuously exhibiting variable practices of questioning authority. Keatings
presentation is deceptively gentle and feminine while his tactics could be viewed as somewhat
extremist against the tradition of the institution, as he influences the students to eradicate the
introductory section within their text books, which summarizes methodical practices of measuring
the effectiveness of poetry and exclaiming-
“… THIS IS A WAR. … YOU WILL LEARN TO THINK FOR YOURSELVES AGAIN.”
The students embrace their liberator with varying levels of maturity. The stimulus to free one’s
self reverberates throughout the previously oppressed mannerisms, shifting their somewhat
premature foundation. At this point in one’s existence, confusion is inexorable as the body no
longer contains a child, however the mind has not yet arrived with the perception of a man.
Adolescence is the Age of the In Between where the parented male defies the parental figures
completely and disconnects, or accepts the role of the eternal child-feigning-adult, the latter of
which summarizes the characters filling the asylum who could no longer successfully sustain the
feigned existence. In either case, the individual journey is subjective to each of the participants
based on the present state and primary focus of ego-awareness. A priority for one individual may
be to defy the father, while another’s is to gain validation from a woman other than mother, much
as the Knox character achieves with Chris, the angelic public school girl from the next town over.
Knox defies the demands of the institution, continuously placing himself at risk by secretly leaving
campus, while also placing himself in a position open to physical harm by Chris’ hyper-masculine
jock boyfriend. The voice of the liberator combined with the foundation of the team creates the
necessary support for Knox to embrace the vulnerability and courage necessary to confront his
boyish perception of love. This drives the individual out of the parentally oppressive Cave of
youth into the vulnerable arena of pseudo-adulthood, yearning to confirm his worthiness and fulfill
the illusion that he, as an independent being can be viewed as something worthy, good and
acceptable from an object outside of himself that he categorizes and identifies as premium or
pristine. The result will be used to falsely define his self-worthiness. The Billy character from
Cuckoo’s Nest and the Neil character from Poet’s Society are prematurely led to embrace the
notion of self-evolution and liberation leading to their unnecessary suicide and imminent demise.
Neil cannot carry this newfound liberation without the support of the team. As he is confronted
with the demands of his father, he crumbles and surrenders to the concept of non-existence. To
be taken from the team, to live under the ruling of a dictator, he would rather die. He imposes a
crown of thorns upon himself, and accepts his self-determined fate over living a life within the
confines of his father’s Cave. This best exemplifies the irresponsibility of our featured liberators
to properly guide the individuals throughout their simulated transformation. Premature rebellion
to the institution of one’s self is as debilitating as if it were against a structured society.
As vehemently as the foundation of the self retaliated over Billy and Neil, the retaliation of the
institution will retaliate with redoubtable force and most definitely slaughter the individual. The
Ruler of the Cave must eradicate the external noise and repress the prisoner, returning the
perspective to his perspective and the reality to his reality. Nurse Ratched’s capacity to quickly
alter the rules with MacMurphy’s request to watch the World Series. Initially, she suggests they
put it to a vote however as MacMurphy wins she alters the rules and retains control of her
domain. As Billy’s confidence expands from spending the night with the hooker, his stuttering
dissipates and a masculine presence arises within his demeanor. Nurse Ratched quickly
stimulates his primary fear by threatening to tell his mother about the hooker. Emasculated
completely, he enters a frenzied state and cuts his throat. Ratched’s intentions were to diminish
Billy and regain control of the ward, regardless of the cost. MacMurphy dutifully attacks her,
choking her to death, were it not for the guards yanking him away. He is promptly taken to the
Disturbed Ward where a lobotomy eradicates his Voice eternally. The existence of the institution
requires the oppression of the Voice of the individual. No Voice, no opinion, no power… no you.
Defiance to conform results in the forceful stripping of the individual. If you will not conform, you
will not exist.
One Cave to the next, one identity to another, man moves through his existence ultimately
confused and yearning for confirmation of a place, a structure, or some form of validating
foundation to coexist with. A Cave to Rule or a Cave to inhabit as one of the enslaved. In
essence, the metaphor of the Cave is simply explained as the boundaries of the individual’s
awareness. The most significant Cave is the universe of the individual, trapped within the
geography of the Earth, within a physically composed unconsciously functioning structure, within
an instable thought process incapable of comprehending it’s own self-absorbed existence. The
Cave of breathing in and out with a false concept of control and the inherent need to find
something absolute to ground your existence. The Cave of the essence of life outside of an
incomprehensible death granting you the sole power of surrender. The victims in our stories were
incapable of the surrender necessary to sustain the existence of the Self, and exchanged their
omnipotent helplessness for the esoteric escape from the Cave of the breathing individual, as the
necessary path to individual liberation. This theme runs throughout both narratives from the
night-visiting hooker in the asylum singing Row Your Boat…
– “…Life is but a dream.”
…to Keating presenting the images on the wall reflecting the likeness of the now deceased
students from years prior. Upon their first interaction, he immediately attempts to ingrain the
concept of death into the minds of the boys. A tactic that will only momentarily flutter through the
conceptual forefront of the mind’s thought process, as the incomprehensible can never satiate the
awareness in a grounded or absolute form. As the prisoners in Plato’s Cave cannot comprehend
the external light, or the reality existing outside the walls of the surrounding Cave, we, as humans
cannot comprehend the concept of death, as nonexistence burns our eyes as intensely as the
sun tears through the unlearned cornea of the Cave dwelling slave. In essence, the life engulfing
us, the oxygen satiating us, and the body containing us is the Cave we are entrapped within and
that is all we can comprehend. This Cave is the only Cave within the essence of man that is
absolute. In Poet’s Society, Neil willingly steps out of this Cave while Keatings is still enslaved.
In Cuckoo’s Nest, Billy Bibbit willingly exits, while Mac is unwillingly taken by the institution, and in
Plato’s Cave, the enlightened one unwillingly exits at the hand of the prisoners that he attempts to
awaken. Keating says early on…
“… we are but food for worms, boys.”
And this is what we can conceive of death. Our remains will be ingested and decomposed by
creeping, burrowing blind hermaphrodite invertebrates with multiple hearts living below the
shadows, engulfed in absolute darkness. In the end, even they prevail over the individual.
Hierarchy is the Natural Law. The weak are the Kings of the weaker and the weaker are the
Princes to the weakest. Without delicate guidance, the Institution will destroy the individual and
the individual will destroy the Self and inevitably, the worms will prevail.
Without reminding the uprising generations that the constancy of curiosity is necessary, the
constancy of thoughtful outrage is necessary liberty is endangered. If the individual is not
specifically trained to ask the questions, he or she will not miraculously know that it is appropriate
and necessary to do so. Thoughtlessness allowed civility to dissipate from our society and
without it the empowerment of the institution will prevail. Without proper guidance, one cannot be
assumed or expected to comprehend Western enlightenment and civil liberties, or to intrinsically
advance such ideologies. These concepts are not passed psychically or virally. They are
conveyed through the institution. They are passed from the people. Conspiracy did not remove
civility from our capitalist society, laziness did and it’s demise is aggressively nearing. Without
re-learning and re-educating our society to eradicate the fear of disrupting our leaders, and
regaining our demands for answers to the questions based on logic and factual objectivity,
without allowing thoughtful outrage to surface out of responsibility to the sanctitude of ethical
human consciousness, the desire to sustain a non-oppressive society, and the liberty of the
individual, without reimplementation of these concepts, this ideology will find itself extinct. The
question needing to be taught is the simple inquiry and the asking of the self “what am I
responsible for?” instead of looking to others waiting for them to dictate what we should do.
Otherwise we remain living amongst the shadows, much like the shrewd and knavish Puck, the
ferry in A Midsummer Nights’ Dream. At the end of the play he makes a speech explaining his
actions and trivializing the play itself.
“If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended: That you have but
slumb’red here, While these visions did appear.”
This line essentially includes the audience as participants within the play itself, comparing them to
the Athenian lovers who within the play did also awaken from the absurd happenings of the fairy
world as if it were a dream. He speaks in double meanings, encouraging the ignorant to remain
enjoyably ignorant while the educated members of the elite may comprehend the larger
statement. If you misunderstand or disagree, go back to sleep, he promotes, it’s all a dream.
The irresponsibility of allowing the ignorant to remain sleeping is the initial building blocks for the
dissemination of liberty and the potential beginnings of an oppressive and segregated existence.
Even through the selfish perspective of a felon, MacMurphy’s sacrifice alongside his presentation
of individuality does successfully restore Chief’s self-confidence, helping regain his former
stature, both physically and symbolically, and as an individual, he is able to escape the ward and
face the outside world as a liberated man, as the final image of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
is Chief, returning to his Native American Indian roots, the institution of Nature, leaving the
technology and conformity of the white man behind, while also reminding us how quickly and
effortlessly a population can disappear into extinction as the dream comes to an end, and reality
returns, and this becomes nothing more than a distant and fleeting memory… existence.
Was going through the day with the usual distractions, doing my best to avoid completing the writing I needed to finish until glancing up to find the VanityFair article about the 9-11 tapes. Ahh!! Perfect justification to stop writing!!
Basically, an ‘exclusive’ story and playback of a bunch of the tapes from the North American Aerospace Defense Command (NORAD), an organization dated back to the Cold War era to protect us from the evil scary Russians who might have crossed over into ‘our’ air.
Anyway, all of the productivity was eradicated and I was off and reading this exceedingly long commentary rebuilding the sequence of events and constructing the conversations that were occurring.
Basically, tons and tons of information that my obnoxiously junkie-esque mind needed to tear apart. Fuck the meetings, fuck the writing… this is what I really need right now, and this is what my focus is gonna embrace. Brilliantly, useless information. And way too much of it. I will absolutely avoid commenting on my actual opinions, thoughts and conceptual feelings regarding the matter at hand, because in the end it will get me nowhere, aside from eternal arguments about nothing that you can ever form a case about.
You can have all of the logistical mathematics regarding where you actually acquired the Chlamydia, and the instinctual thought process will point in a very specific direction towards the male and/or female that harvested and nurtured the bacteria prior to signing the lease over to you, but in the end… it’s all just noise to distract you from the actual events at hand and to keep you from focusing on the present. Instinctually, we all know who, when, why and how things occur… though strangely, our instincts in politics match up with one another like a vegetarian potluck put on by pigmies and pilgrims.
The people closest to you will have the instinctual and compassionate convictions that reside on the opposite side of M. Night Shyalamanamanam’s Village and the shock from the obvious stupidity they encompass will drive you insane to the point, that you will allow days to pass where you seriously conclue that your best friend has definitely lost his mind, his integrity, and basically everything you ever actually liked… and generally, he’s simply not who you thought he was. Maybe, I just never knew him from the start. Wow? It all makes sense now… he doesn’t even know me? No wonder he had sex with that dutch lawyer in Morocco who seemed so nonchalant about Rwanda??
And on and on, until you have justified working on nothing productive the entire day. And this will repeat again and again and again and in the end, you’re better off swallowing something with hallucinogens and amphetamines because it’s absolutely more productive, because even then, knowing the truth is a subjective illusory fucking gratification and much like a video game, is temporal and useless within moments. Another ‘I told you so’ stacked up in a pile of ego-fueling drawers and dressers, waiting for a time to justify the not-so-uselessness of your nature.
It’s a simple tactic. Once the infamous ‘they’ (those illusory and/or unidentifiable beings secretly strategizing and dictating whatever event we are not currently the ‘they’ of) realized the propaganda wars of decades past were far more complicated to sustain with the evolution of instantaneous communication around the globe, a shift in strategy was needed. Since the use of a single lie can be easily proven false, it became imperative to scramble the communication lines with as much varied information possible from as many sources as possible. New voices popping up, randomly chiming in, blanketing angles and tones from all possible coordinates, stirring up a not-so-unilateral confusion, so much so that you’ve got the public arguing about how someone dealt with an occurrence that stems from an event stimulated from one of the voices that no one even noticed wasn’t a commonly accredited voice from above, but the voice of an unidentifiable stranger chiming in amongst the chaos and quickly disappearing into the shadows without anyone noticing; those arguing about the RE-action, never confirmed that the initial ACTION ever actually occurred. But of course it did. And exactly as we were told it did. Because why wouldn’t it have? The pigmies made the most amazing Vegan potluck while I was spending time with them in Peru. Have you been there? It’s really beautiful and the most wonderful people, a good spot for a pilgrimage.
And this is why I should never drink caffeine at night… or watch news during the day.
The simple concept that the United States of America was conceived and composed by a type of personality, desperate to attain ‘more’ regardless of the sacrifice and potential isolation that was in store for them, has created a world where satisfaction is unattainable. The abundance of immigrants that crossed oceans to find a new life of abundance in the New World, abandoning their comforts, their home, their friends, their families, their stability, for an idea of something more, has now created a New World. A genetically mutated world that stemmed from an initial population that put their lives at risk on an illusory idea based on greed and desire and eternal abundance. Hundreds of years later, these genetics have spread back across the world creating a gentrification based on something quite far from human love and kindness. And now, as humans, we’re presented with the task of eradicating that ingrained form of self-imposed judgment that lives within our cellular composition and bases our human success on external haves and have nots, regardless of our sense of humanity.
My eyes open. I am awake. Glancing at the clock, my mind quickly counts the hours that I have slept. Thirteen. Thirteen hours. How the hell did thirteen hours pass, while I lay in this overheated space without flinching strong enough to awaken. My thoughts spin and I quietly confuse myself as to why I am now awake. Immediately, that expands outward, shifting to… I quietly confuse myself as to why I’m alive. The articulation may be false, as I question whether I am honest with my use of the adjective quietly. Is the confusion actually occurring within what would be considered a quality of quietly, or did I simply use the term for the cheapened purpose of poetic inference that inherently comes along with placing this specific adjective in front of the action at hand. Quietly. Actually, the bouncing residual trails following the thought patterns that pass through the vacancy within, are somewhat quiet at the moment, confirming at least a subtle honesty with the statement above.
Moments pass with urgency as I remain still. Actions that will never occur pass with each ongoing idea that spins just behind my eyes. The extent of my universe is massive, both internally and externally, regardless of the fact that ninety-nine plus percent of it will only be for me to see. A lone witness riding a visceral trail following tracks laid in real time. Mathematical logistics constantly stimulate the minutia of each event, and still I lie awake in question. A revolving fantasy that I am a participant within my own right. Of what? An esoteric, internal and isolated series of images and thought patterns representing episodic cinematic phases of time used as memories to prove that existence occurred? To give a relative center used as a basis of judgment for times to come? Or an external series of geographical spaces, presented as physical rooms to pass through, constructed from frequencies similar to those you’ve previously visited, stimulating recurring instances and emotional memories summarized by the mathematical chemical equations configured from past experience.
Probably time to awaken.
A series of significance. Something significant must fester outside of timelessness, otherwise we are all just waiting to confirm the irrelevance of thought. Constantly searching. A validating instance must occur once every fifteen minutes to keep the frequencies vibrating at a velocity that inhibits me from placing a judgment of weight upon myself. The validation can be from a myriad of sources, internal or external. The being behind the body is impartial in this matter, assuming the schedule of delivery is not interrupted. Consciousness is nearly conscious enough for the clock to begin counting.
Masses of contradicted thought-feelings rapidly berate the claustrophobic lobe resting just behind my forehead. Trickling bits of punctuation float invisible to my eyes, but their temporary presence is sophisticated. As they expand, the space between the particles defining their shape, masculinates to such an extent, their identity is eradicated and though they exist, their appearance is deceptive and a quality of nonexistence emanates. This is the quality that confuses our moment to moment existence the most. Much like the smoke drifting from the tip of a burning cigarette. The particles drift further and further from one another, falsely conveying a disappearance, or transformation to a nonexistent form. However, particles moving directionally apart from one another don’t signify non-presence. Their punctuality and potency is still exceedingly present, however the quality in which they function might be best defined with the use of the term, quietly.
Is one better than the other? Or more potent? Possibly. However, things that function quietly, would accurately be summarized as being somewhat more deceptive than quiet’s antithesis.