Turn and Face the Strange

A common presumption runs through the e-mails that whatever the problem, Future Me will have more courage, more power to act.

Lifted from an interesting article over here that lets you archive and send an e-mail to your future self.

I recently flipped through Moneyball, which attempts to examine the system behind Billy Beane's operation of the Oakland A's (baseball, for those of you who are sportily ignorant), and one of Beane's driving tenets is that people don't change. This is why certain statistical categories are better predictors of major league success than others; because the trends that a person establishes over their college career will continue in later life. Of course, in his case he's talking about their tendencies as baseball hitters, not trying to make some sort of grand statement about life.

I also stayed up way too late watching Unforgiven a few nights ago, a movie in which Clint Eastwood spends the first half repeating, "I ain't like that no more," but he is; indeed, it is all he is, as suggested by the very title of the movie - it doesn't matter what he goes on to do with his life, his past and his past identity will always a part of him. Externally he's changed, but the core remains, waiting to be called upon.

I'm sure there are all sorts of literary sources which point towards the possibility of change and redemption, but if we're being honest, what makes those stories attractive is the idea that someone can change, that people can identify and rectify their faults, which somehow makes up for any horrible things they might have done in the past, right? Perhaps the reason why people find those stories so attractive is because they identify our own fears about the actual impossibility of change and subsequent redemption, and assuage them with a fluffy little fairy tale about how anything is possible.

I know, I'm going out on a limb here, but it's been a while since I've written anything.

As a random aside, I feel pretty confident saying that Clint Eastwood gives the best reading of the word, "Yeah," in the history of cinema.

Some Things'll Never...

I was recently informed of two things: that I dote on the women I become attached to, and that I'm far less entertaining when I'm sappy.

The person who said the former went on to say that it made me "safe," as far as women were concerned; that it was neither good, nor bad in and of itself; that it simply was.

Personally, I find that thought repulsive, all the more so because it's true.

One of the things in Sandman that speaks to me is the theme of change that runs through it, a theme which necessarily is found in any good story that spans several years in its telling. Morpheus changes throughout the series (indeed, throughout his "lifetime", as the series depicts him at many different points in his existence), but in the end is forced (or, perhaps, chooses) to face his limitations. And so, tiring of the struggle, he moves on.

I do not know if it is possible for people to change.

That reeks of such self-indulgence. "People can't change, so why bother trying?" I don't mean it to that extreme; as I've said in this space before, just because there might not be the possibility of wholesale change or amelioration, it does not follow that we should not strive to be better than we are.

In some ways, I suppose I do not want to change; perhaps that is the true problem. I've never wanted to be the cloying, annoying person draped all over a significant other in public, but when I care for someone I see nothing wrong with letting them know. I love fiercely and I love passionately, and I don't think those are bad things. They are somewhat nonsensical (I shudder at the use of adverbs, and hear acting teachers saying, "Show me 'fiercely,' you silly bastard."), but not categorically bad.

Still, it seems to be undesireable to project so much onto someone else, both for one's own identity and because it's unfair (not to mention annoying) to that person. I'm sure in my case it comes from my own specific circumstances and background; I could spend all sorts of time wallowing in a pathetic Psych 101 exploration of my neuroses.

I think I'll avoid that. For now.

Suffice to say I am aware of this shortcoming in myself, and am seeking a middle ground.