Multitudes of Me

Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself;
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)  

From Walt Whitman’s "Song of Myself"

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Dear Kate,

Somehow we all know our life is more than our Self.

We are not just being courteous or expedient to say the life of others plays a part in ours; deep down we know there is value in the story of a life, any life, a value that there's really no ground to claim is smaller than that of ours, though by default we live in selfish contradiction to this belief deep in us.

It is to say we don't even trust what we know for certain to be true in our heart of hearts.

Last night I watched a Romanian movie.  I was considering showing a clip of it for an upcoming movie night at church but ended up watching the whole thing again.  I am not going to tell you what the movie is.  In fact from now on I will make it my habit to invite people to blind-date a movie.  Trailer and rating kill a movie and I shall play no part in the killing.

The story is about two young college ladies going through 24 hours of gut-wrenching--I want to say life chaos, or maybe danger, or injustice--all of these, yes, but not quite exact as a three-word phrase came to me just now: exposure to evil.

Now why should I pay attention to a story like this?  Why should this story even be told?  What is the point of this cinematic experience, me staring at a screen to look at actors playing like it's for real, about something heaven forbid would ever happen to me?

Instead of answering these questions, I want to propose a different one to question what we usually do.  Say, what is the point of reaching my hand into a bucket of sticky kernels, fumbling for napkins (all five of them thick fat ones given me are grease-soiled already and so are my pants and phone and the entire aura of smell that is my encasing) while checking out the same derivative story of men and women in tights setting the world right via violent means?

The answer is simple: it's entertaining, to me.  It entertains me.  The story is useful to me.  It amuses me, distracts me, and--as we are told frequently by the marketing engine of such movie "universe"--empowers me, as if I can channel the story's energy to fight evils in my own...universe.

And is there anything wrong with this?  I wouldn't call it that as it is not helpful to.  Moralism is way too simplistic, like superhero movies.  I will only say how we take in stories and the kind of stories we welcome or resist is a potent sign of our heart condition and thus life situation.  It speaks about what we truly believe in.

"What difference would it make if I believe I am held in the wholly loving gaze of God?  And what difference would it make if I see each face around me, close or far, past present and future, as individually held in the same overwhelming, loving gaze?"

One difference it would certainly make is how I would pay attention not only to stories that I find useful to me.  I'd want to see the glory of Christ plays in ten thousand places.  I would delight in what delights God, have my guts wrenched by what wrenches the guts of God, and all these to get my mind and heart and spirit ready to expose myself to the chaos, danger and evil of being human in this fallen yet still beautiful world, as God himself did in the person of Jesus Christ.

What other differences can you think of?

Yours, Alex

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Dear Alex,

In the public restroom, a woman sees a multitude of oddities.  It should be a safe spot but tongues of the heart tell her otherwise.  In fact she knows it is a war zone.

The mirror is moody, moving in modes of meanness and mayhem.  By the sink, she bends towards her reflection, lifting her face high to catch light sinking in grooves of skin.  Eyes claw their ways through hair, textile, metal and teeth amid other users to find a haven.  Glances are exchanged curiously.  A smile negotiates for mercy.  

Noises in the restroom intensify the strangeness.  Not about the shuffling, scuffing or scoffing.  She mumbles to herself in extravagant nonsense.  Gossip is preached as gospel in her skull.  Water from faucet cools down fidgety fingers.  She listens intently to delicate voices familiar with her secrets and confidence.  There is no one here now.  

Out of the restroom she comes for the theater, her hands clutching a ticket.  Someone is waiting for her and she knows why.  Her youthful flush resumes, her strides reassured.  Expectations enlarged.  She bypasses the concession stand, impassive to the temptation of butter and artificial sweetener.  Junk is not her.  She exudes waste.  She is the stuff of substance and poverty.  Someone for her is waiting still.

Through the corridor to the auditorium, her pace becomes frantic against the drag of dread.  Do I contradict myself?  She is large, frail, stoic, smoke.  Legs and hips jostle for speed and purpose along curve of stairs halted by the entrance door.  She creeps in.  The curtains part.  Just in time!  Waiting for someone.  

The big screen stares at her.  Wall of bricks.  Or is it a jigsaw puzzle?  What has been ambiguous to her now seems dreamier.  She strains to see who has been waiting for her.  Just puppets on projection.  This is not theatre.  It’s the flea market.  Bartering in worth, codes, nods.  She fumbles through the exotic, the ordinary of structure and objects promising mediocre grandeur.  She is standing at the nucleus of all, off-center in chaos amid contentment.

The multitudes of one, of another, are contradictions large and largely invisible.  I am barely getting to know her now.  

Yours, Kate