S. : Happy Birthday

Dear S.,

Happy Birthday!

I hope you don’t think it’s ridiculous that this letter is your spirit-father’s gift to you.  You probably do.  So what, am I writing this to your future self?  Happy 15^th birthday!  Why don’t I just wait and write to you then?  I don’t know.

Truth be told, I’ve never been very good with kids.  When I meet a four-year old I stretch out my hand to shake hers, and I say hello more formally than to a judge.  I typically avoid eye contact, but if I keep it, I make silly faces because, well, isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?  Sometimes I can let go for a little while, splash about in the pool or wrestle around on the couch, but eventually, without fail, I tighten up and go off by myself, or find an adult with whom to discuss the Arab Spring.

It’s not that I’m afraid of looking stupid (I am), but that I’m so desperate to improve myself, to prove it to others; for structure, for constructive exercise, for meaningful play.  See, don’t those phrases just make you want to puke?  That’s not play!  That’s not fun!  And by so avoiding the spontaneous and goofy and unnecessary, I miss out when the play evolves – as it often and naturally does – to something “worth the while”.  That’s the paradox of play: it has significance for the player only when the player does it without significance.  And thus the following paradox, more personal and barbed than the first: I spent years in university and months in workshops, learning and studying and practicing the art of play!  Who, you’re thinking, is this bonehead?

I’m your spirit-father, a sort of god-father minus religion, and your parents and I used to play together in the theatre.  Even though I’ve only met you the once (I’m the guy who taught you to hold CDs by the sides so you don’t scratch them), I take my role seriously.  Well, of course I take it seriously.  Did you read the above paragraph?  Anyway, I had this idea that I’d start writing you on your birthdays, and here I am.  Given that I’m psychologically incapable of simply saying hello, asking how you are, and telling you about what I’m doing, I figure this letter has to contain something; even if it’s just a big, bulbous sentimental stone, perhaps there’s some nugget of half-baked aphorism you can dig out, if you work at it.  That’s right: your birthday present is a job.  You’re welcome.

I didn’t plan this letter.  It’s coming out this way.  Forgive the lack of polish, but not only do I figure you deserve the right to get to know me, but that somewhere in the style is the theme: that theme of play.  So here goes.

From when I was seven until I was eleven, I attended a boarding school far away from home; in fact, I was so far away for so long at so young an age, that the school became home.  While I was there, perhaps because I was several years younger than the next youngest person in my dorm, I often found myself alone; I lived in my imagination.  I invented vampire stories, drew magical worlds on maps and diagrams, created treasure hunts and special swords, heroes with special powers, and vanquished enemies who would never remain vanquished.  I devoured X-Men comic books, Marvel trading cards, Transformers cartoons, and countless video games on Sega Master System and TurboGraphx 16.  All of this was like food, food I couldn’t get enough of.  It morphed in my mind to form composites, synthetic spaces where each element was at first borrowed, at second transformed, and at last belonged as if it could be nowhere else.  For me, these became better worlds, more real worlds, my worlds.  They are worlds that still, to this day, tick on, make me dance, and drag me away.  I played, I can’t tell you how much I played.

When I was at the school I was at first not afraid of my imagination, of what it meant to others or to my future, or even of what it made my body look like when I was in it (one friend at the time said I rode the “backwards motorcycle”).  My favourite thing to do on Sundays was to tie my Batman cape around my neck and go fly (or drive backwards) around the school campus.  So, it was natural to speak my fantasies, share them, and find others to bring them to life.  At some point, a group of us in the same class got together to play with superhero characters I’d made.  We’d act out the stories at the playground and torture the mere mortals who weren’t in on it.  One of us was very talented with a pencil, and he sketched out each hero on paper while on the back I wrote up the lists of special powers, weaknesses, traits and histories.  There was Blow Torch, who controlled fire.  Windwalker, who could fly.  Genesis, who was made of metal and could form any shape.  And there was Cyber Image, reserved for myself, who, well…  I’m pretty sure that if there was a special power available, he would have it.  We were called the X-Eagles.  We felt totally original.

I don’t remember the exact sequence of events, but cracks began to form in our team.  The conflict first presented itself in the improvised stories.  I’d suddenly find that two of the others were fighting against me, and that I had to make a sacrifice in the precious name of unity.  Then my teammates began inventing their own characteristics: new special powers, different backgrounds, stuff that sounded great for the player but (obviously for me, the Great Creator), contradicted the overall picture.  It was only a matter of time before my leadership would be questioned.  I steeled myself for the challenge, and readied my cards for the battle.  The coup d’état would happen in the playground, I was certain.  I would crush it.

Well, there was no coup d’état.  There was a declaration of independence.  The others all came up to me after class one day, and completely out of character announced that they were no longer in the X-Eagles.  They said I was too controlling.  They were forming a new group, the X-Terminators.  Of course, I questioned their originality.  But moreover I said they couldn’t take away the characters.  They laughed at that.  What made them mine?  They walked away and played in the playground without me.  It won’t last, I thought to myself.  They’ll want me back.

I was right, but it gave me no solace or pleasure.  The X-Terminators folded after about a week, and the least proud former member (Blow Torch) asked me if he could rejoin the X-Eagles.  I said yes, haughtily I’m sure, and probably demanded some sort of subtle penitence.  The others eventually asked if they could have me create new characters.  I think I agreed, but I don’t remember if that meant anything, if I gave them new suits of armour, or how it all played out.  The games died, and the characters got folded up and stored in the box of my brain.  I was done sharing the fruits of my imagination.  In the years to follow, and for many other reasons deserving (or not deserving) of another letter, I retreated further and further back into my mind.  I learned to do the “backwards motorcycle” sitting down, so I could sit in my desk in class and appear like I was paying attention.  I crawled away and to this day haven’t fully come out.

I’m not really sure what all of this means, to me or to you.  For the former, I should get a psychiatrist; for the latter, a moral.  So what’s the message?  Don’t be too controlling with other people?  Respect the imaginations of others?  Or, be yourself?  Cherish your imagination?  Maybe none of this will ever apply to you, because you’ll stay as unhindered, compassionate and idiosyncratic as you were when I met you.  I don’t know.  And now I feel lazy for writing all this stuff and not boiling it down to its essence.

There I go again, seeking structure, meaning, improvement.  If it’s true that the player only gains in play when she tries not to gain anything, like the actor who is most true when no longer acting, then I might just be the poorest player to ever play.

So that’s that, let’s leave it there.  Let me know if you find the nugget.

Have a great birthday.

Love,

QM

K. : Happy Birthday

Dear K.,

Happy Birthday!

This is an odd way to express that, isn’t it?  I could’ve send a postcard or email.  But I’ve had it in my head to write you letters for your birthday for some time now – well, for less than a year, of course – because you’re my goddaughter.  To be honest I’ve always been a little bewildered by what your parents expected of me when they asked me to take on the role.  Yes, I can look it up; I did look it up.  Classically and religiously, I’m supposed to teach you the Christian Lord’s Prayer and be a guide through life.  Me, a guide through life?  Are you laughing?  I suppose that’s a little less strange than teaching you a prayer.

I remember when I was a teenager, all green-limbed and red-faced unlike you, and your mom asked me to be your godparent.  I remember her and I giggled about it (whether to break the tension of a serious moment, or because it actually was hilarious that I had been picked, I don’t know).  I remember two things about your baptism: how you wouldn’t stop crying, and how embarrassed I was that I, your godparent, couldn’t make you stop.  In fact, I think you cried even more when I tried to hold you.  You never really liked me, did you?

I didn’t have a clue what I was supposed to do then, and I’m afraid I’m not much more advanced now, thirteen and a half years later.  But I did know at the time – right when I was your age – that it was important, honourable, and even with the religion aside, somehow sacred.  I am just as honoured and humbled today, if not more so, as I was when your mom asked me, in no small part because of how well you’ve ‘turned out’. 

But let’s toss these opening obfuscations away: we’ve still got that pesky guidance bit, don’t we?  So now what the hell am I supposed to say?

Moderation.  The ancient Greeks preached this one quite a lot.  It’s possible that all guidelines or advice or correction can fit into the Doctrine of the Mean, so I’d be remiss or at best half-finished in my epistle of advice if it wasn’t included.  It is simple in principle but perhaps impossible in execution.  Essentially: find the middle ground in all things.  Nourish the solution between the extremes.  Eat healthy, but still enjoy your food.  Spend time with your friends but don’t forget yourself.  Be patient, but know when to move.  Learn not just broadly, but deeply.  Get some sun, but don’t get burned.  Make waves, but don’t sink any ships.  Be ambitious, but don’t lose yourself in money or power.  Balance openness and decisiveness, justice and mercy, work and play, knowing and not knowing, the old and the new.  I think human beings are naturally attracted to excess, and naturally healthy in balance.  Without the tug and pull of radical ideas or whimsical fantasies, what would we all be?  Boring, most likely, or bloodless.  The trick of moderation, perhaps, is to go far, and then to return – to not become stuck.  Don’t hold the pendulum at one end, but let it swing.

Read Kafka.  I could’ve just said, Read; but given that I’ve named you ‘K.’ in this letter, I couldn’t help but make the connection.  Read The Trial or The Castle and you’ll know what I mean.  Love, loss, fear, dreaming, friendship, bewilderment, bureaucracy, memory, and the machinery of the modern world: it’s all in his writing.  And best of all, it’s never quite complete.  Some readers hate this, but I think it’s liberating: you have to do a little work, fill in the pieces, make assumptions, posit solutions, and so forth.  You might not like Kafka, or not yet.  His writing is old-fashioned, long-winded, and takes some practice.  But the deeper advice still stands: read.  The power of the written word, which places you in direct conversation with the writer, is one of the greatest achievements of our species.

While driving, assume everyone else is an idiot; while not, assume the opposite.  My mom gave me the first half to this, and I’ve idealistically added part two.  You can’t control the actions of others, especially not from a steel box on wheels going 120 km/h, so don’t try.  Instead of shouting or honking, assume the other guy doesn’t know what he’s doing; so when he cuts you off, or turns too widely, or tailgates you all aswerve, you won’t be surprised, and you’ll have created a safe and open space for him to be a complete loser.  Likewise for any dangerous situation involving other people who might very well be damn stupid.  On the other hand, when you’re not under the threat of traffic and lane-changing, remember that everyone knows something you don’t, has been somewhere you haven’t, and might help you when you can’t help yourself.  They say if you assume the worst you’ll never be disappointed.  But if you assume the best, you might just discover it.

Listen.  This is a continuation of the last one.  Don’t judge or dismiss, even when someone has gone out of their way to be judged or dismissed; because if you listen, even your enemies can teach you how to defeat them.  I was once in a pub in Brighton, south of London, when a local heard my accent and figured I’d be the right set of ears for his bigotry.  He started saying that “Hitler got it right”, “the Arabs want everyone to be Muslim terrorists,” and a bunch of other ignorant bile.  I could’ve walked away, and I could’ve put up a fight.  Instead, I listened, and asked questions, and listened, and asked questions, and listened, and asked questions.  Eventually, despite the few drinks he’d had, his face sank, his shoulders slumped, and he had nothing more to say.  He was twisted in his own fears and lies and false logic, and was eventually dumbfounded by himself.  I did barely anything at all, expended almost no energy, and still, ignorance won the battle against itself.  In chess, novices stick to their pieces, their calculations, their plans; they can win when their opponent does the same.  But the really good players are always playing on both sides of the board, in the mind of the other, sympathising and learning and listening; their opponents will always reveal how they may be beaten.  But you don’t have to take this advice so aggressively: everyone’s got a story.  Everyone’s got a thing that’ll wow you or thrill you or make you laugh or cry.  And listening doesn’t just give you the chance to hear the story, it gives them the chance to tell it.  My mom gave me this advice too.

Exercise.  This has nothing to do with how you look, and everything to do with how you feel.  It might not be important yet, because you’re moving all the time.  But later on, you’ll feel cranky or frustrated or tired and won’t know why.  Your body wants to move; and not just move, it wants to be challenged, so that it may learn and grow.  Let me get technical.  Television and the internet, 3D films and omnipresent advertising, mobile phones and, soon enough, online eyewear – these are all vehicles for delivering to you the widest possible variety of the most intense possible stimuli, with the greatest possible results (buy more stuff, visit more sites, go to more movies, etc.).  This sounds great, but your body isn’t thinking about fantasy worlds and caramel chocolate bars.  It’s thinking, as its ancestors did hundreds of thousands of years ago: fight or flight.  Every time your body thinks fight or flight, it essentially boosts itself with chemicals, like adrenaline.  Adrenaline is there for you to sprint away from a lion or rush with your spear against a boar.  It’s there to help you move.  If you don’t move, it gets stuck in your body, and forms reservoirs of tension.  So when you get excited by a film or music video or a clothing sale, or if you’re driving through bad traffic and assuming everyone else is an idiot, you will most likely be sitting, and the adrenaline will go nowhere.  You need to move; maybe not then, but soon; maybe even move when you have no good reason to.  The same is true with caramel chocolate bars and all other sweets: your brain thinks it’s fruit, and has been trained by the same thousands of years of evolution to get as much as possible, as fruit used to be scarce.  It’s part of why we can get so moody: too much sugar, not enough good stuff, sends us for a loop.  And it’s part of why obesity rates are so high, and getting higher, around the world: we’re just following our instincts and the paths of least resistance.  So we need to train ourselves.  The mind works in the same way.  Watch the ice cream, exercise your body and your brain, and you’ll wonder why you ever let yourself get so twisted up in the first place.

Framing.  When taking photos, always remember to frame it just right. 

Now, after my chunks of unsolicited advice to you, I have to ask: got any for me?  Yeah, yeah, I’m already seeing your first line: follow your own advice…  I’m trying!  In the meantime, happy birthday, good luck, have a great one, and all that jazz.  You deserve it.

Your honoured and bewildered godparent,

QM