As one who call herself Mistress to The Trickster – I cannot help but comment about the horrible act of violence in Aurora, Colorado. I too had plans to see ‘The Dark Knight’ this weekend – like all good geeks I know.
Sadly, this one is marred by a desperate act of ‘personal theater’. In an age of social media and ‘Youtube’, however, this Warholian fifteen minute spectacle has a sort of horrible logic to it.
In these cliched, lone gunman type acts- from the Columbine kids to this- I can’t help but be struck by a familiar observation.
Of course these themes are mirrored in our popular culture; in the characters and the films we create and love to watch. We wonder about the coexistence of genius and insanity, and we are mortified, yet fascinated, with how such a vile monstrosity is nurtured into the maturity of a full–on blood bath.
Does art imitate life, or does life imitate art?
I know it’s not that simple, but how can we not anticipate the story I think will emerge in the weeks following?
Always there is a deep disconnect from society that goes far beyond the struggle for an identity apart from the herd. It goes far from the desire to bring psychic pain from the depths to be transformed into a healing balm that is shared via art.
Will anybody be surprised if he’s revealed to be a loner who’s struggled to have close relationships? If those around him are shocked at this hidden side of him? Will anybody be surprised if he’s had trouble with depression, was bullied, or in other ways been shamed and socially marginalized for a long time?
Was anybody surprised that he apparently had dyed his hair red recently and told the police that he is the Joker?
Of course not.
Some of us write the stories, some create the costumes, some people assume the personae on the big screen; but we all participate in some way in a collective exploration of the human drama.
We dress up as characters, we go to midnight movies, we read books and contemplate dark canvases in museums that are inspired by war, madness and all manner of unspeakable horror.
We plumb the depths of all that is the full spectrum of human potential; our id, our deepest fears, our lowest selves, and we do stir it all up to see what we are really made of.
Some of us turn such dark rot over and over in our minds with a pitchfork- its fertility feeding our poetry and giving our lives and art a rich and juicy passion!
But my heart aches for anyone so isolated from their fellow man, for every teenager so bullied for being different, for every kid who’s parent stifles or dismisses artistic inclinations in favor of more “practical” or mainstream pursuits. My heart aches for every under diagnosed or under medicated mental illness.
For every deep wound closeted away from light and air, there is danger at the festering edge of the human spirit.
For some people, maybe a little piece of them dries up and falls away and they just live that proverbial life of quiet desperation.
For some, however, a dark power rises in some grand and brutal assertion- a suicidal mission of the soul.
And we can do not much but stand back, aghast at the horror of it; jolted awake for a moment to contemplate the difference between us and them.
What a tragedy for all those lost lives. But I grieve too for the lost soul of that young monster.
