Nymphomaniac Vol. I (Lars Von Trier, 2013)
How old was I? 9 maybe. But then I tend to think 'I was about 9' as the lead-in for a large number of stories. Too large, in fact, for that to be correct all the time. A year can only be so eventful.
All the same, I was about 9 years old, and at school, and it had snowed. That's the context. As you might imagine, there was all manner of snowball fights, and snowmen being built, and everything else that you could possibly expect children to do with snow. Meanwhile, I was busy thinking about something that was shortly to ruin my day.
I had a picture in my head: a picture of a hood perfectly filled with snow. I found it pleasing. And more than that, I knew that once that hood was lifted hilarity would ensue. I turned this picture into reality on an unknowing girl in my class while we took part in a snowball fight. The laying of the snow in the hood was perfect: completely unnoticed and silent. I knew that when the snowball fight became fierce she would pull her hood up to protect herself. And then we would all laugh uproariously. But that's not how it went.
Yes, the hood went up. Yes, my plan worked perfectly. But there was no laughter. There was only tears, and rage, and adults getting involved, and shouting, and accusations. Not what I wanted at all. But then this started to become something of a pattern. I'd imagine something, make it happen, and people would get hurt and upset. Never the plan, but always the outcome. But hey, aren't we all little Kierkegaardian thought experiments at that age? Not merely thinking through our options, but bringing them into being? Yeah, of course. You see a friend or Teacher bending over in front of you, you are holding a slingshot and a tomato. Who's going to be happy with all thought and no action in that setting? No one, that's who.
On the flip side, there was the eating. Every day at school during lunch the Monitors (ladies who would walk up and down checking that everyone was eating) would tell me to finish my main course. And every day I told them that I was saving that bit. We went through this pantomime for years, with them either not remembering, understanding, or caring about what I was saying. You see, I'd worked out that I enjoyed meals more if I ate all the things I didn't like first, and then ate my favourite bit last. That way you were left with the taste of the best part.
It's something that I do to this day, with pretty much everything: do the difficult/more unpleasant things first, and finish with the more enjoyable/easier choices. And here's a tip: it's a way to ensure that everything actually gets done. Look at the discarded plates next time you're in a restaurant or cafe, strewn with leftover, unwanted food. If we all left the best for last then little would be wasted. Because we'd finish it. Eyes on the prize. But I understand that deferring pleasure is not something that comes easily to many. More's the pity, as sometimes it seems to me that going straight for the thing you want almost ensures you lose interest/excitement in whatever you're doing. Anyway, everyone's free to do whatever they want, even if I strongly disagree with that thing. But let's summarise.
I guess what's going on here is two things: one is aspects which don't exist which are brought into being by someone, and the other is things which do exist which are then organised and controlled by the same someone. That's a pretty succinct summary of pretty much everything that we do. We create things which aren't already happening, and then we organise things which are happening. There is a third, terrible thing. Obviously. And I don't know about you, but I live with the feeling that that terrible third thing is always right there, on the periphery of my vision, about to break. The third thing is that which we did not bring into being, and which we can not control. It throws us this way and that. It's the storm. And through all of the levity and sadness of the choices we make and the control we bring, that third thing is always sitting there, breathing heavily, and waiting for its time.
All the same, I was about 9 years old, and at school, and it had snowed. That's the context. As you might imagine, there was all manner of snowball fights, and snowmen being built, and everything else that you could possibly expect children to do with snow. Meanwhile, I was busy thinking about something that was shortly to ruin my day.
I had a picture in my head: a picture of a hood perfectly filled with snow. I found it pleasing. And more than that, I knew that once that hood was lifted hilarity would ensue. I turned this picture into reality on an unknowing girl in my class while we took part in a snowball fight. The laying of the snow in the hood was perfect: completely unnoticed and silent. I knew that when the snowball fight became fierce she would pull her hood up to protect herself. And then we would all laugh uproariously. But that's not how it went.
Yes, the hood went up. Yes, my plan worked perfectly. But there was no laughter. There was only tears, and rage, and adults getting involved, and shouting, and accusations. Not what I wanted at all. But then this started to become something of a pattern. I'd imagine something, make it happen, and people would get hurt and upset. Never the plan, but always the outcome. But hey, aren't we all little Kierkegaardian thought experiments at that age? Not merely thinking through our options, but bringing them into being? Yeah, of course. You see a friend or Teacher bending over in front of you, you are holding a slingshot and a tomato. Who's going to be happy with all thought and no action in that setting? No one, that's who.
On the flip side, there was the eating. Every day at school during lunch the Monitors (ladies who would walk up and down checking that everyone was eating) would tell me to finish my main course. And every day I told them that I was saving that bit. We went through this pantomime for years, with them either not remembering, understanding, or caring about what I was saying. You see, I'd worked out that I enjoyed meals more if I ate all the things I didn't like first, and then ate my favourite bit last. That way you were left with the taste of the best part.
It's something that I do to this day, with pretty much everything: do the difficult/more unpleasant things first, and finish with the more enjoyable/easier choices. And here's a tip: it's a way to ensure that everything actually gets done. Look at the discarded plates next time you're in a restaurant or cafe, strewn with leftover, unwanted food. If we all left the best for last then little would be wasted. Because we'd finish it. Eyes on the prize. But I understand that deferring pleasure is not something that comes easily to many. More's the pity, as sometimes it seems to me that going straight for the thing you want almost ensures you lose interest/excitement in whatever you're doing. Anyway, everyone's free to do whatever they want, even if I strongly disagree with that thing. But let's summarise.
I guess what's going on here is two things: one is aspects which don't exist which are brought into being by someone, and the other is things which do exist which are then organised and controlled by the same someone. That's a pretty succinct summary of pretty much everything that we do. We create things which aren't already happening, and then we organise things which are happening. There is a third, terrible thing. Obviously. And I don't know about you, but I live with the feeling that that terrible third thing is always right there, on the periphery of my vision, about to break. The third thing is that which we did not bring into being, and which we can not control. It throws us this way and that. It's the storm. And through all of the levity and sadness of the choices we make and the control we bring, that third thing is always sitting there, breathing heavily, and waiting for its time.