The Unjustified Confidence of the Justifiable Man
by Sarah Reid
I think the worst part of my illness is its seductive nature; its all too likable premises. It’s like if I didn’t
suffer
from my destructive thinking, all unique and admirable
qualities that I hold would cease to exist. Everything I
like about myself is an automatic derivative of what I hate.
Critical, good, judgmental, iffy, and well, as for their
characteristic cousins, I’ll spare you the details. My
‘illness’, listen to me already, a drama king through
and
through, as if anxiety constitutes any real, authentic
disease, anyway, my illness is no illness at all. The
byproduct of an uneventful mind, a soul so full of ideas it
manifests them where they don’t belong. A walking oxymoron
really, I exude absolute self confidence as I walk a tight
rope of impending doubt. Name, Hunter S., with a last name
so unfortunate I choose not to mention it. Fine, you win,
Bigelow, I’ve always been so good at holding out! It
doesn’t
have near the ring as Thompson now does it. Suppose my
stories may never hold the precedent his did; my mom always
said it’s all in the name! Speaking of my mother,
she’s a
real piece of work, denial of her age being her true forte.
We’re more ‘friends’ then anything else, though I feel
she
chooses to block out the authentically depressive me. Most
people in this world have a beautiful gift for constructing
their own versions of their loved ones personalities; lucky
for them I’m really good at playing the part! All and all,
there is not a soul in this world who truly knows who I am.
The day this all changed for me may lack any extraordinary
event. Actually, to be perfectly honest, for most it went
completely unseen; a regular day filled with regular
business. For me though, oh for me, it was the realization
of realizations, the moment to call all mind bets off.
After yet another painstaking day of gaffing on the movie
set I know as the stepping stone to a hopeful directing
career, I ventured off to my creative writing class. I had
been doing this rather lame workshop thing for a couple
years now. It gave me a place to incessantly talk of my
writing, while others offered me feedback as to what I was
doing wrong; a perfect outlet to charge my creative mind.
Sheryl, the group’s instructor, had made us all pair up so
we could work more intimately with one of our peers. She
felt it the most effective way to unite fronts; writers meet
audience, audience, writers! Everyone else thought this was
a great idea; everyone else didn’t have John Watson as a
partner. I know it’s my own insecurities that make me hate
John. His typical answers, mixed with his uninspired ideas
remind me of all I fear. Each time he opens his mouth I am
certain that what is to come will be tragically simple, just
like John, SIMPLE. Sorry, so typical of my writing,
tangents on top of tangents, the critics will rave! Forgive
me please; let’s get back on track, back to the day which
was quickly given ‘the day’ title. By this very
encounter my
judgments of John were now a secret kept by more than just
myself. As good an actor as I am, the talent of the
nonverbal far exceeds my capabilities. John too, though also
among silence, heard my every thought. Sitting down to go
over our work for the week, John and I spoke only when we
felt necessary. He gave me the usual empty acknowledgements
of a job well done, while I insisted on his literary
brilliance. Both our performances of the appropriate had
weakened with our relationship, hanging our costumes to
gather dust. We were much too sick of the production to be
convincing, but still not quite ready to stop the show.
The real problem surrounding our everyday performances comes
when the actors can no longer decipher the mind from the
stage. If we could break this very relation that resides
between the two, we could weaken their voices. Unfortunately
for me, these voices are deafening. All that I act becomes
all that I think, while all that I think turns into how I
act. Seemingly small incidences to most, become catastrophic
to me, as there is no way of detaching even the tinniest of
variables. Why put so much emphasis on John’s every word,
feedback or joke? Good question, good fucking question!
*
John, having clearly had enough of the ridiculous workers
tension which now engulfed our time spent, made a very
unexpected choice that day; John allotted me the liberty of
the truth. After our usual awkward five minutes playing
catch up, he asked me what I really felt about his work.
With great conviction, he declared, “For God’s sakes
Hunter, enough with this condescending withholding dance,
what do you really think of my writing?”
*
Truth is associated with many admirable things; honor,
respect, trust and love. It can make a character, strengthen
a soul and free the damned. This being said, I feel it quite
probable to say, that though ‘truth’ has this very
impressive resume it is not going to be hired on by
friendliness. Truth and friendliness simply do not get
along.
Giving it a moment’s pause, as the question asked was of a
loaded variety with many possible responses, I took a minute
, and then chose from the buffet. “What do I think about
your work?” Just simple repetition, clever Hunter, clever,
an easy way to make seem you didn’t hear the question.
“Oh
cut the bullshit Hunter, (Huh!) I’m so sick of silently
watching you and your ethnocentricities. You’re my
‘sharing’
buddy, so share, what do you really think?” “John,
I’ve
told you, what are you talking about, is something wrong?”
“Oh yeah, there’s something wrong Hunter, there isn’t
a
corpse who couldn’t recognize just how wrong something is.
Now quit the comfort zone and say it, what do you really
think of my work, what do you think?” “What do I really
think, what do I really think? I think your being an
asshole. I think your writing is typical and uninspired. I
think we are all dumber for having listened to your pitches.
I really do think John that if you never wrote again no one
would ever notice!”
As I saw the blank faces turn towards the noise, I knew what
I had done. Given the chance to unveil I put down my mask
and let brutal truth claim its reservation. I let the actor
give in to its stage, leaving its corpse with no
justification for its performance. I had unnecessarily hurt
the untainted as a result of my own illness, my own
judgments. So caught up by my moment of weakness, my
illness of over thinking, I walked blindly through the
lecture room and out into the hall. I walked blindly into my
car and onto the streets. So blindly did I walk I left all
of my work behind. I left my autobiography, my lyrics, my
poetry, my life, all to sit so seductively in front of my
new enemy. I left my yet copyrighted ‘masterpiece’ to be
used and abused at Dear John’s leisure. Unwillingly left
to
write the epilogue for my behavior, John sat stilly. He had
known how I had felt about his work; for that he had not
required answers. What John sought instead was recognition
of my weaknesses, my all too self pronounced elitism.
Looking down to tastefully notice my work, then up to
discount any witnesses, John picked up my book and followed
my shadow into the street. He turned the corner, eventually
turned the pages, and then understood just how sweet revenge
can be. My once self fulfilling prophecy in the form of an
autobiography is now John’s published critique of my
character. I don’t know how much he’s changed it, I’m
sure
he’s tacked it up, but none the less, I hope you liked it.
Having just completed her Honours Communications degree at the University of Ottawa, Sarah has been doing freelance film work over the last year. She spent her final semester in Sydney Australia where she partook in poetry readings at the Brett Whitley Gallery. A veteran of the Ottawa Valley, Sarah has moved to Toronto to pursue a career in both her passions: film and writing.
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