Spectre of Spartacism
13th December 2015, 01:36
Tonight I watched one of my favorite episodes of the Twilight Zone. It’s an adaptation of a French film shot in the early 1960s about a man convicted to death for, apparently, sabotaging railroad transport during the U.S. Civil War in the 1860s.
In the beginning the convicted man is placed into a noose tied to the top beam of a wooden bridge constructed about 100 feet over a creek. With all the pomp and ceremony of a 19th century execution, snare drums rattle, military orders barked. Then he is thrown off the edge of the bridge. The rope snaps, and the man plunges into the river below. Stunned, he swims as fast as he can away from the soldiers as they fire at him from afar with their rifles, missing him as he eventually comes ashore. The escapee then runs through the forest and eventually arrives at a home. He sees a beautiful and finely attired woman emerging from the front entrance and run toward him. As they approach one another they slow and prepare to embrace. Just as they are about to touch, they are interrupted by the jarring sound of choking. The man reaches around his neck. A jump-cut takes us back to the bridge, as the escapee turns out not to have escaped after all. His lifeless body swings haphazardly from the noose.
Who was this woman? Where was he running? Was she somebody he knew in real life? Was she just a fantasy he envisioned as he prepared to meet his end? And what difference would it make in any case? Either way, the dream is gone, and there was nothing he could do to bring it back as he stood on the edge of the bridge, neck in noose, contemplating an alternative to the remaining seconds of his life. For a moment in time, though, you are treated to his inner world and invited to consider what kind of world would have enabled that to become a reality.
But what happens when dreams die before the person does, when what were once the desires and joys of life become painful memories? Dreams aren’t just palliative visions of alternative futures. They can also be the painful reminders of lost opportunities, the dull droning pain of regrets.
I can tell you what happens. You begin to rely on distractions. A drink every few nights turns into a bottle a day, then two a day. At first you begin to fixate on what you did wrong and how you got to be in such a sad, pathetic state. Then you begin just not to care to contemplate the past too in depth. It’s too full of things you’d rather forget. Instead the future becomes clearer, but what consumes your mind are logistics regarding how not to have too much of a future. Suicide, formerly invoked as a weapon to shock or scare, more and more becomes a practical goal around which a strategy needs to be constructed. It becomes something you keep to yourself. You don’t want interlopers. Is there anything left in my possessions that I don’t want anybody to find? Are there people who should have things returned to them? What, really, is the most painless way to go? And why does everybody think that death is such a bad thing, when it can be a joyous release from a dead end?
http://i.imgur.com/SZM60VH.jpg
http://i.imgur.com/eWc4AxP.jpg
In the beginning the convicted man is placed into a noose tied to the top beam of a wooden bridge constructed about 100 feet over a creek. With all the pomp and ceremony of a 19th century execution, snare drums rattle, military orders barked. Then he is thrown off the edge of the bridge. The rope snaps, and the man plunges into the river below. Stunned, he swims as fast as he can away from the soldiers as they fire at him from afar with their rifles, missing him as he eventually comes ashore. The escapee then runs through the forest and eventually arrives at a home. He sees a beautiful and finely attired woman emerging from the front entrance and run toward him. As they approach one another they slow and prepare to embrace. Just as they are about to touch, they are interrupted by the jarring sound of choking. The man reaches around his neck. A jump-cut takes us back to the bridge, as the escapee turns out not to have escaped after all. His lifeless body swings haphazardly from the noose.
Who was this woman? Where was he running? Was she somebody he knew in real life? Was she just a fantasy he envisioned as he prepared to meet his end? And what difference would it make in any case? Either way, the dream is gone, and there was nothing he could do to bring it back as he stood on the edge of the bridge, neck in noose, contemplating an alternative to the remaining seconds of his life. For a moment in time, though, you are treated to his inner world and invited to consider what kind of world would have enabled that to become a reality.
But what happens when dreams die before the person does, when what were once the desires and joys of life become painful memories? Dreams aren’t just palliative visions of alternative futures. They can also be the painful reminders of lost opportunities, the dull droning pain of regrets.
I can tell you what happens. You begin to rely on distractions. A drink every few nights turns into a bottle a day, then two a day. At first you begin to fixate on what you did wrong and how you got to be in such a sad, pathetic state. Then you begin just not to care to contemplate the past too in depth. It’s too full of things you’d rather forget. Instead the future becomes clearer, but what consumes your mind are logistics regarding how not to have too much of a future. Suicide, formerly invoked as a weapon to shock or scare, more and more becomes a practical goal around which a strategy needs to be constructed. It becomes something you keep to yourself. You don’t want interlopers. Is there anything left in my possessions that I don’t want anybody to find? Are there people who should have things returned to them? What, really, is the most painless way to go? And why does everybody think that death is such a bad thing, when it can be a joyous release from a dead end?
http://i.imgur.com/SZM60VH.jpg
http://i.imgur.com/eWc4AxP.jpg