Tag Archives: star wars

The post-flight key

 

The temporal structure is off, which means that it doesn’t matter which thought, which symbol, came first. Still, I shall start, arbitrarily it seems, somewhere in the middle of the act. The first scene was an apt replica of a Star Wars moment—apt because the SW series isn’t exactly known for conventional adherence to chronologies. However, what I’m alluding to is the flinty wall of grey that began my vision, and the like barrage of grim imagery that confronts Rey and company in the recent and supposedly last SW installment. In particular, my scene resembles that in which Rey hijacks some kind of windsurfing boat and heads out amid a raging storm into a sea that envelops a derelict Death Star, there to meet Emperor Palpatine and her transcendent fate. Well, what I’m aboard is not a windsurfing boat, but what I’m faced with may be my fate, transcendent or not. Before me is a surface of concrete, I think, like an abandoned or half-destroyed freeway section that’s being assailed by waves that are lapping at its barriers. I’m positioned feet away from a precipice, dithering as to what direction to take, but apparently inclined to attempt stillness. It’s not working. At some point, I notice the structure beneath my feet moving, as if I were atop a great beast that is awakening from hibernation. The waves, it seems to me, will imminently consumer the structure I’m on and therefore me with it. It’s time for a decision, so I make my move. Next, I’m climbing onto a horizontal stanchion that is the summit of the freeway’s height as it is falling away, and as I steady myself for a leap I feel an exultant rush. A death wish? Not sure. The fear of the previous moment seems gone or at least subdued, replaced by a prideful spike upon making up my mind. The only thing that’s surprising is the sudden recession of the waves. Momentarily at a low ebb, I am convinced they will surge upwards again and wash me aside if I don’t jump soon.

I don’t recall looking down. I barely remember the leap. But I did experience the fall—the continued thought that I was joining an adventure rather than dying—and then especially the scything dive into the water. It’s cold but not too cold; certainly not biting, cruel, freezing cold. It’s cold like the previous several days had been cold: it’s a clammy, hard but tolerable cold beneath a warming layer of clothing. It’s a piece from reality intruding upon my scene, hitching a ride on the trip and making things seem better than they really are. But how things are is scary, actually. The momentum of the dive is taking me too deep, I am next thinking. As my descent reaches a natural end, I turn upwards, instinctively looking to the surface, hoping suddenly that I’m not too far down. There is no light, shaft-like or otherwise, and this signifies not only a blanketing darkness, but the absence of a divine beckoning. An indeterminate passage of time follows, after which I am somehow back upon that previous concrete surface, or some semblance of it, and glancing about again at the stormy scene around me. It is a composite world, made up of images familiar and not; a geography that I’ve discovered, that I’ve longed to discover having barely known that it existed. Nonetheless, it is recognizable. Amongst the images that draw me is the shape of a three-to-four story hotel or apartment complex. It is slightly sunken, as if pulled into the ground by an earthquake, but its integrity has held, making it seem whole and surviving. It is a bit like psychoanalysis, I speculate: an aged edifice being slowly pulled underground but hanging on; an institution seated at the end of a mythical river, or at the far reaches of the globe, and I have arrived at its door. It’s a different kind of home. This structure is similarly blackened by the surroundings, rather like the violent waves that are causing all the damage, and contrary to what my listener will soon suggest, I think this dark greyness is not an indictment of absent color, but instead a sharp, almost film noir-like affirmation.

“I think this is your first analytic dream,” says my listener. My analyst. Welcome to my world. Really? I thought, both pleased and disconcerted simultaneously. I’m glad to have reached this apparent landmark, but I’d rather thought that I’d gotten past this bit already, having been in analysis for over a year. My first analytic dream, as in the first recounted dream that seemed to say something about the analysis itself? Was I slow learner? Am I on course in my learning? Anyway, I bit down on the plaintive observation and traded associations. I followed my analyst’s thought trail quickly enough and noted the crucial parallel. The dive was the thing: the deep dive into the unconscious. Of course, couldn’t miss that one. Then, due to the nature of the scene—the violent storm and so on—I mooted that the surface of the water might also represent death, which would make sense of my fear upon descending too far below the surface, plus the whole dream would link back to the recent reveries I’d been having with respect to that near fall from a ledge memory when I was two or three, and about which I journaled in the last entry. My analyst persisted, understandably enough, with the notion that I was poised upon another precipice, not one of imminent death but rather one of growth and understanding given the prospect of deepening work in psychoanalysis. We agreed upon one point only: it seemed important that my fears upon my watery descent were of being crushed or lost in darkness, not of drowning per se. We disagreed on the meaning of color versus black and white, as I’m not yet ready to cast my life so far as dull, or colorless. Or, we sort of agreed that the dark building that appears on the surface, plus the broken freeway that gets assaulted by the waves are…meaning, they seem to be recalling something like…

Nope. Lost it. That’s the nature of dreams, I’m afraid. My dreams, anyway. They exist in disorganized form and then die on the vine; a strangulated, inchoate death. Just as well, perhaps, because thoughts move on in daytime, on the couch, leaving some thoughts behind, abandoned, while traces of previously unfinished business are instead picked up. So I turned back the clock. I nearly died that day, I said, reiterating the link between the dream and death. I was about to revisit the scene or that script that I’d written about the aftermath of my rescue from the ledge: that imagined decompression of my mother’s terror juxtaposed against my cries of oblivious complaint. What did my toddler self imagine I was about to do, I wonder? What did I think she was stopping me from doing? Then something strange happened, in my process of recall, I mean. It was another temporal shift, this time one that picked up the story of my preverbal fall where I’d left off.

“Where were they that I was alone in the house like that?” I asked. As the question had trailed some version of the memory’s recap, my analyst followed along, mostly unconfused by my shift. Oh, I see, I heard the woman thinking: a prequel. I continued: “I mean, if she was outside in the back garden, and—as she insists to this day—my dad was nowhere to be seen…Karen, my sister, aged six at the time, doesn’t remember this…why was I left alone to wander about the house and be upstairs in a bedroom whose window is wide open?” I paused and listened to the blank space, as in the silence of a shared unknowing until that pre-thought also withered and died on the vine. I don’t know if I shrugged to punctuate the moment of deadening thought. It’s pointless to shrug when lying on the couch because the gesture is obscured. Mother blaming. My thoughts had stalled upon the point of mother blaming, I’m interested to note. Well, we don’t do that, do we? Yes, I know. I’ve been here before on a couple of recent entries. I went there in mine and Joe Farley’s forthcoming book, Getting Real About Sex Addiction. There I was following echoes, in a way. Not echoes of Esther Perel, as I’ve previously written, but rather psychoanalysts like Jean LaPlanche, or Robert Bly, the somewhat eclipsed men’s movement icon, whose book Iron John was a refuge for men like myself in the nineties.

Well, Bly had something to say about sympathetic mother blaming. His was more of a critical poke at the split-off self, like much my writing is, I believe. See, in his chapter, “The Pillow And The Key”, Bly revives a pre-Christian myth, later transformed into a Grimm fairy tale, about a boy who plays with a golden ball that unbeknownst to him represents his wholeness, but he loses it when the ball roles into a cage inhabited by the “Wild Man”, who has been imprisoned by the boy’s father, the King. This man says to the boy that he can have the ball back if the boy releases him from the cage. When the boy complains that he doesn’t have the key, the Wild Man replies, “the key is under your mother’s pillow”, and that pillow, with all of its Freudian sexual connotations, is where the mother stores all of her expectations for her son. From there, a tale unfolds in which the boy steals the key, frees the Wild Man but runs away from his family, to be mentored in the forest by the now indebted Wild Man. The remainder of the story entails the boy’s return from exile, which is less consequential as it pertains to Bly’s interest, which is to point out the mother’s implied role in civilizing the boy. What Bly and others of his ilk protest is the loss of healthy wildness in modern man, which is not to be confused with machismo, submission to corporate or industrialist slavery, or misogyny, but rather a mysterious realm wherein fathers are strong, decisive, and wise. It is he that is needed, for young men in particular, not a submission to a substitute and idealized feminine. But the taboo encoded in the “pillow” metaphor is in the way, suggested Bly, echoing Freud in his modern times. Women don’t want to hear this, Bly wrote in his preface to the last edition of Iron John: “We know that fathers have an erotic power over their daughters that they often don’t want to have named or exposed, and perhaps mothers are not eager to have their power named either.”

 

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Happy endings/beginnings

Happy Star Wars week! Have you seen it yet, the supposed last installment of the franchise? I haven’t. Is it uplifting? A downer? My first question will seem strange in the future, when I imagine more readers may be giving these entries a look than they will right now. Time will obliterate this moment of wondering. In time, as in the next week or so (an eternity in my present circumstances) I may get around to seeing Star Wars: The Rise Of Skywalker (think that’s what it’s called). Forty two years after the first film came out, I am far removed from the excitable state that had me seeing the first installment back in the day. Like I shall be on Christmas day next week, I am a jaded adult wanting to sleep in rather than get up early to see if Obi Wan—sorry, Santa—has brought toys.

If I’m excitable or indeed compulsive about anything then it’s about corrupting things like the Star Wars mythos with sexualizing commentary. At least, that may be the view of clients and a few others who have been on the receiving end of my associations recently. One moment a man is innocently speaking of holiday plans, a weekend outing to see the new Stars Wars movie with his kids, and soon enough there are links in the air, connecting his idle thoughts with exercise routines and sexual fantasy. A languid sharing had undercurrents of arousal, I said: the plan to visit a gym would stir energy, place him in mixed company, with thoughts of improving his condition, building up his body…for what? The man caught my drift but perhaps didn’t like the suggestion. He’d wanted to keep things light and wholesome. I can tell because a compliant but begrudging man lowers his voice, starts to sound like a grumbling bear emerging from hibernation. He doesn’t like the talk that threatens to stir something threatening and I feel a bit like a fly that might get swatted any moment. Anyway, he insisted on lighter matter, turning back to the plan of taking his kids to see Star Wars and reminiscing about the first series of films that he’d also seen as a kid. A New Hope, the first film, released in 1977, is still his favorite he declared. A gratuitous recollection of trivia followed. The first Star Wars film was actually episode four, he recounted—suggesting three prequels that would not emerge for another generation. The first film had the best story, he went on to pronounce, and the most triumphant ending.

Not like the second (or fifth) film, The Empire Strikes Back, I suggested, colluding with the sublimated flow for the time being. That’s right, he agreed, adding that despite the deeper story-line, the eloquence of Yoda as he tutors young Luke in the ways of The Force, the ending is a downer. Depressing. Luke gets his hand cut off by Vader’s light saber and the future of the rebellion is uncertain.

Bummer.

Not the happy ending of Star Wars, the first film, I remarked. Exactly, intoned the man, thinking (briefly) that we were on the same wavelength. Strange term—happy ending—I then ruminated. Strange that for most recovering (or not) sex addicts the term happy ending has been co-opted and given a sexual meaning, pertaining to manual stimulation and illicit massage parlors, even sex slavery. I detected a slight sigh in my listener as I extended my comment, pointing out that happy endings in action films are usually orgiastic. For a spell I indulged my own tangential reminiscing, thinking that such endings were few and far between in the seventies. Star Wars, if the reader recalls, has often been described as a revitalization of the western ethos, only in space. See, by the mid-seventies the western, or at least the kind of playful, serial westerns that my father will have once enjoyed, were in decline, replaced by serious, socially-conscious action fare—stuff like The Godfather, or Taxi-Driver. The remaining westerns of that era—the odd, residual John Wayne flick, for example—were tired and unoriginal. Or there were good films that were complicated or too thought-provoking, like Robert Altman’s McCabe and Mrs Miller. Not as much fun. Star Wars, todays’ kids won’t know, was a throw-back to a time when it was okay to like a simple action story with good guys and bad guys and not worry that Marlon Brando would tell you off for enabling stereotypes and oppression.

Come to think of it, maybe the culture hasn’t changed so much since the seventies in that respect, so maybe Star Wars still serves the same function today as it did then. Anyway, so why did I have to go and stir the pot and spoil the fun with my weird evocations of unconscious process? One moment, this poor man was having a nice moment, thinking of the happy ending wherein Han and Luke are getting medals hung around their necks by the lovely Princess Leia, with the cute and comic support characters Chewbacca, C-Threepio and R2D2 looking on, grunting or else making their funny electronic noises; then suddenly I’m making more comparisons with Empire: in the first film, the darker back-story is under the surface. As viewers of the light-hearted space western, we don’t yet know, though we might dimly feel, the Oedipal crisis that awaits Luke—that he will be tasked with fighting Darth Vader (a play on dark father, according to Robert Bly in Iron John), who will symbolically castrate Luke before finally succumbing to his son in the third film, Return Of The Jedi (the third film also resolves the near miss on the incest between Luke and Leia—whew, that was a close one, says the ego!). Then I conjure the climactic scene of Star Wars, with Luke as the lone fighter/sperm diving in his spaceship at the giant death star/egg; then he shoots his last shot, his precisely-aimed photon whatever/wad that strikes at the hard-to-get-at slot, leading to a giant blast explosion while—I swear to God—it looks to me now (okay, not so much when I was eight) that Luke hangs his head back, breathes out and pulls back like a man who has just…well, you know. But enough. I’ve surely done enough harm with my words.

“Great shot, kid. That was one in a million”, exults Han Solo, affirming the risen hero, Skywalker.

Indeed it was. Now that’s a happy beginning/ending.

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