Hey World, how the hell are ya?
It's always somewhat difficult to think or write about yourself with clarity. Honesty is easy, but the biggest lies we tell are always to ourselves. As Cassius explains to the ill-starred Brutus:And it is very much lamented Brutus,
That you haue no such Mirrors, as will turne
Your hidden worthinesse into your eye,
That you might see your shadow
...
Therefore good Brutus, be prepar'd to heare:
And since you know, you cannot see your selfe
So well as by Reflection; I your Glasse,
Will modestly discouer to your selfe
That of your selfe, which you yet know not of.
We look always for ourselves in the reflection of others around us. From time to time we solicit the advice of friends, but I think more often we instinctively look for signs and signals, discerning from what we know about them what they can tell us about ourselves.
I have been enjoying my reflection recently in people and events; but it has also occurred to me that there can't be much that's more horrifying than looking into a mirror which once reflected you as a radiant source, and find yourself altered into a monster. As metaphors for the trauma of break-ups go, this could be worse. It doesn't quite reflect my experiences however, which have generally been a kind of fading out, rather than one last fiery invective.
Sometimes I think that the reflection is more like a time capsule of who you were when you first met someone. For the ultimate frisbee crowd, I suppose I'm generally genial and overwhelmingly organized; not lacking for skill, but definitely talent. Intense on the sideline, but not without some restraint, and a fair dealer. For the gamers, I'm over-analysis Mash: the deconstruction kingpin, never without a biting quip or at least a bite. For the kids at work, I'm the grouchy old timer lurking with all the answers in the back office; not unkind, but not kindly. It is the difference in reflections which give them perspective. Different people at different times.
This, of course, cuts both ways. The reflection in me of old friends overlaps imperfectly with new facts. Marriages, homes, babies... I doubt they see these things when talking to me.
Ultimately, Cassius sold Brutus one possible truth, a truth which consumed Brutus from the inside. Brutus was primed for this version of himself, history practically demanded of him that he find a tyrant to slay! The only alternative offered by mythic history would be to settle England. He chose his friends because of the self-image they offered him: the noble, the just, the heroic. Shakespeare's Brutus was those things in part only - he was arrogant, wilful, politically naive and tactically inept. Far from being a mirror, Cassius was a painter, and Brutus liked what he saw.
That you haue no such Mirrors, as will turne
Your hidden worthinesse into your eye,
That you might see your shadow
...
Therefore good Brutus, be prepar'd to heare:
And since you know, you cannot see your selfe
So well as by Reflection; I your Glasse,
Will modestly discouer to your selfe
That of your selfe, which you yet know not of.
We look always for ourselves in the reflection of others around us. From time to time we solicit the advice of friends, but I think more often we instinctively look for signs and signals, discerning from what we know about them what they can tell us about ourselves.
I have been enjoying my reflection recently in people and events; but it has also occurred to me that there can't be much that's more horrifying than looking into a mirror which once reflected you as a radiant source, and find yourself altered into a monster. As metaphors for the trauma of break-ups go, this could be worse. It doesn't quite reflect my experiences however, which have generally been a kind of fading out, rather than one last fiery invective.
Sometimes I think that the reflection is more like a time capsule of who you were when you first met someone. For the ultimate frisbee crowd, I suppose I'm generally genial and overwhelmingly organized; not lacking for skill, but definitely talent. Intense on the sideline, but not without some restraint, and a fair dealer. For the gamers, I'm over-analysis Mash: the deconstruction kingpin, never without a biting quip or at least a bite. For the kids at work, I'm the grouchy old timer lurking with all the answers in the back office; not unkind, but not kindly. It is the difference in reflections which give them perspective. Different people at different times.
This, of course, cuts both ways. The reflection in me of old friends overlaps imperfectly with new facts. Marriages, homes, babies... I doubt they see these things when talking to me.
Ultimately, Cassius sold Brutus one possible truth, a truth which consumed Brutus from the inside. Brutus was primed for this version of himself, history practically demanded of him that he find a tyrant to slay! The only alternative offered by mythic history would be to settle England. He chose his friends because of the self-image they offered him: the noble, the just, the heroic. Shakespeare's Brutus was those things in part only - he was arrogant, wilful, politically naive and tactically inept. Far from being a mirror, Cassius was a painter, and Brutus liked what he saw.