This really ought to be an essay of concrete things. It’s all
about power. The earth silent and waiting. The mighty oak.
It’s all about choice. The roads chosen. Not. The hills climbed and
tumbled down.
It’s all about singing the song of myself. Yawp.
But it won’t be. It’s all about power. The waves of the ocean. The fluid
flux of the fire which itself consumes. The bend of thought as it goes
its way.
At which point you may be wondering, what the heck is Crystal rambling
on about. You’re not alone. I’m wondering the same thing.
For the last month, Karen and I have been washed with a theme. Pricked
by needle plot points from books and movies and t.v.
The power to be gained from giving up control as articulated in the
movie Secretary. The seductiveness
of choice. Becoming an adult and growing into your own sexuality.
Likewise in the book Kushiel’s Dart. The
similar, but not discussion of becoming yourself. Gaining power through
submission. Gaining love through the expression of it. That moment at the
end of the book when you just have to laugh, because the villain thinks
he has the upper hand, but because he never knew our heroine, never understood
her, he is just so going to loose.
This article about a girl, who undergoing the pain of chemo, chooses
to go goth, go punk, get pierced, choose her own pain, not just endure
the pain that is imposed upon her.
The nature of choice in the Matrix
Reloaded. Neo’s choice. Trinity’s choice. Morpheus’ choice. If even
the nature of reality is questionable and everything is fated according
to this grand master program, what is the point of free will?
The nature of choice and free will in AtS this season. Perfect happiness
as scripted by some night blooming flower, or the harshness of making decisions
and living with the infinitum of consequence.
In BtVS. Where options are the ultimate gift. With a smile. And the
road ahead lies waiting.
The nature of choice and power in Bruce Almighty. All the power in the
world, and yet the sheer powerlessness of that might. That moment when
Bruce has gotten what he thought he desired. Surrounded by sycophants.
A golden calf sitting as decoration to underline the meaninglessness of
what he has gained. Give everyone what they want and just what have they
gotten? The necessity for him to give up control and simultaneously take
responsibility for the weight of his own actions.
In the book A Civil Campaign by Lois McMaster Bujold, the five viewpoint
characters coming to understand their own choices. Their own power and
how to use it. Becoming themselves. That odd realization that if Miles
and Ekaterine had met ten years earlier, they would not have known each
other. Could not have known each other, because they didn’t yet know themselves.
And without knowing, how then love?
And well, okay, and every other thing in my life right now. Contemplating
buying a house. Choosing my life path and the people for the journeying.
Knowing that I have found my own center, that I know myself, but conversations
asking for money can reduce me to fourteen years old and wrong. Or about
one hundred and really tired. That that feeling is in itself Maya. Not
that I’m right. Not that I’m wrong. It’s just my path. My choices. My responsibility.
Alas, my thoughts are all vaguely incoherent and swirly and I don’t
really have time to write and write and write until like Spike, I say what
I mean to say so that I know that I’ve said it.
Here’s hoping my train of thought doesn’t derail before I’m done. Unless,
it’s the light at the end of the tunnel, in which case, derailment would
be okay. Or not. In a choice of do or not do, I pick do. Not because I
want to, but because I find it the infinitely scarier thing. It’s not always
the smart thing. Sometimes, I end up running up mountains with blisters
on my feet (Mt. Missen on Miyagima Island, Japan). Sometimes, I see some
really pretty things. Sometimes, sometimes, sometimes, I stop so I can
go.
