Something Wicked

I was raised to be a good boy.  From my earliest days I was taught by my parents to tell the truth, be kind to others, "keep my nose clean," "keep my gun in my pocket," and more.  For the most part, it worked.  (Okay, by the time I was 13 my gun came out of my pocket a lot, but at least I had the good-boy decency to feel bad about it when, starting at 17, I started aiming it at others.)  In fact, it worked so well that I have struggled as an adult to do some of the things that any psychologically healthy adult should do: establish boundaries, act without undue regard for the approval or acceptance of others, disappoint others (with integrity) in order to be true to oneself, be assertive (not rude) with others so as not to be run over by them.  Time and again I have struggled with these healthy behaviors because the "good boy" in me is afraid I'm doing something wrong.  Over time, the "good man" in me has come to see that they are not only useful, but essential if I am to live authentically.

One problem with trying to be good all the time is that our "bad" stuff  must find expression one way or another.  In my case, the short-haired teenager who got straight A's and was an alter boy secretly smoked.  This was one way I could be "bad" without being too bad - my parents did it after all, so how bad could it be?  As an adult I carried this habit forward for many years and added over indulgence of spirits to the mix.  Through the years my good friends, Beer and Wine, and occasionally their nasty uncle, Scotch,  came to my aid in two ways: they helped me slow down my hyper-active mind and, more to the point, they loosened me up so my "devilish" side could come out to play.  I was not generally mean, but bolder, more flirtatious, raunchier, and so on.  Another way the "bad" stuff came out in me was through sulking around, fighting with, and criticizing those I loved the most (while generally being funny, bright and supportive to the greater world).

Robert Johnson, in his wonderful little book, "Owning Your Own Shadow," explains all this in terms of the Jungian concept of "shadow":

 The shadow is that which has not entered adequately into the consciousness.  It is the despised quarter of our being.  It often has an energy potential nearly as great as that of our ego.  If it accumulates more energy than our ego, it erupts as overpowering rage or some indiscretion that slips past us; or we have a depression or an accident that seems to have its own purpose.  The shadow gone autonomous is a terrible monster in our psychic house.

 Johnson asserts that there can be no light within our psyches without dark to balance it.  So if we try to be good in our lives, live in accordance with our highest selves, is it necessary that we must act out the dark stuff in a harmful way just to maintain this balance?  No, says Johnson, for the following reason:

It is possible to live one's ideals, do one's best, be courteous, do well at work, and live a decent civilized life if we ritually acknowledge this other dimension of reality.  The unconscious cannot tell the difference between a "real" act and a symbolic one.  This means that we can aspire to beauty and goodness - and pay out that darkness in a symbolic way.

I am well into rehearsals for Macbeth - in fact we open four weeks from today.  I have to say that I am greatly enjoying playing the "hellhound" Macbeth.  That dark side of me that needs a way out finds full symbolic expression when I stare at my sword onstage and growl, "The castle of Macduff I will surprise;/ Seize upon Fife; give to the edge o' the sword/ His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls that trace him in his line."  Oh, yeah.  It feels good to act bad.  But does it make me a better person the rest of the time?  I don't know for sure.  But it feels good enough that I might just have to find some other bloody, symbolic, act to embrace once the play is over and I am once again just a mild mannered attorney.  "Something wicked this way comes..." - at least in my ritual life.  And the good man smiles.

Las Vegas Illusions

There is a great line in Alanis Morissette's song, "21 things i want in a lover": "do you see everything as an illusion but enjoy it even though you are not of it?"  (As an aside, by actual count I have 18.5 of the 21 things she wants in a lover.  I'm still waiting for her call.  Sorry, Cary, I love you but, well, you know.  On the other hand I'll understand if you answer Prince's call when it comes.)

Many spiritual traditions hold that much, if not all, of the world is an illusion, an illusion that deceives us through our desires and our fears, keeps us trapped in the past and worried about the future, and prevents us from awakening to the eternal truth of the moment and being one with the universe.  If this point of view is correct, we might actually view Las Vegas as a kind of spiritual boot camp.

I first had this thought five or six years ago when I went on a solo trip to the strip.  At the time I was romantically unattached, struggling with a job I really disliked, feeling alienated from my young-adult daughters (whom I loved more than anything), rehashing the past, trying to figure out how to redeem what was left of my future, and not seeing, let alone, enjoying the sweetness of life.  So what did I do?  Well in addition to playing some blackjack, taking a flight over the Hoover Dam and Grand Canyon, going to see Cirque du Soleil's, "Mystere," and drinking lots of wine, I walked the strip.  And what did I see?  Over there fake New York City.  Over there, fake Paris.  Over there, fake Venice.  How about a fake Arthurian castle?  A fake Great Pyramid?  Fake Roman Forum?  There they are!  Fake pirates and a fake volcano - wow!  Real white tigers posed with a couple of scary German types with fake faces and hair.  Small Mexican-Americans snapping and handing out cards with air-brushed women with fake boobs.  And running through it all - like condensed, dark-side blood - greed, desire, fear, lust, laughter, tears, longing, and more.  I walked and walked, listening to my iPod, and soaked it all in.  It's easy to see how life is an illusion when you're in a place that is specifically designed to sell the illusion to you.  It's easy if you take the time to look.

Last weekend I was in Las Vegas with some friends of mine to see the sun for a few days, enjoy some male bonding, and to lose some money on football's "big game."  I knew it was an illusion, but I enjoyed it.  I had my friend, Dave, take a picture of me near the fake canals of the Venetian hotel.

Back in April of 2007 I was in the "real" Venice with my daughter, Taylor, to celebrate her college graduation.  She snapped a picture of me by the "real" canals of Venice.

When I think about my two experiences there is, in one sense, no comparison.  I mean, come on!  Venice?  The food, the wine, the architecture, the gondolas, the unique (not always pleasant) smells, the shops.  But, wait a minute - there were loud tourists, tacky souvenirs, chain stores, small hotel rooms and, yes, even Italian bedbugs.  It wasn't always a perfect experience but, at its best, and when my daughter and I were most enjoying ourselves over good food and wine, or seeing some particularly beautiful site, it was a very real experience in a very real moment.  And so was Las Vegas, in its own way and for its own reasons.  My connection with Dave, Tony and Rick, the good humor, the good food, the good entertainment, none of that was less real - or less significant - just because we were in a place so obviously "fake."  The moment - moment by moment - was exactly what it was supposed to be.  All that was required by me was to be there (really be there) to witness.

Alanis, honey, do you agree?