Watching someone lose their mind—even very slowly—is a means, perhaps, to watch the defenses sheer off—from intellectual & emotional discourse to historical recounting to adamancies and absurdities to questions—and finally, to fear. Fear seems to be the root actor—and our conscience mind develops so many layers to cloak how much fear drives us. I watch this family member try to protect themselves—with routines, material objects, anger and, when possible, with weapons. It is horrific. And enlightening—how much of what we do is to shore up against our fears: of aging, of loneliness, of others, of pain?
I realize how much art—both in creation and contemplation—confers a conquering of fears. To achieve the space necessary to think about art: meaning, form, layers, complexity, connectivity—means you have the privilege and psychic comfort to have overcome all the primal urges that drive us towards simply seeking a safe and affirming space.
This afternoon I met a wonderful woman I am mentoring as she pursues her doctorate in film & literature concerned with identity, African diaspora, representation, imposed narratives…we were having a lovely chat in the late afternoon sunshine at a fancy café in King’s Cross, when 20 feet away there were screams and a young man was violently tackled by police. He may- or may not- have picked someone’s pocket.
We watched and then turned and stared at each other: this is the world, these are our circumstances, this is the jagged edge between possibility and desperation.
