Thursday, August 18, 2016

Back To The Future 2: a psychotic musing, along with a novelty grease

We ask ourselves, as Marty sees the broken vision of his future self, will he learn his lesson?

Sometimes something can bring to mind a snatch of memory.


Anyhow.  What a familiar looking future, but with technology.  The hoverboard.  The heater coat.  The motorized shoe laces.  None of which came to pass.  Such a famous film, but what failed prophecy.

But in the future, there is Fistful of Dollars, which foretells the trainwreck of a sequel which was set in the old west.  Which kinda makes the third film a codified retelling of the second film.  Wow.

A dark future wrested from the hands of Biff Tannon, by the diligence of Marty.

The Leone film was the first in a progression, an artistic cycle that became ever grander in each picture.  The soundtrack had something like eight songs.  Some of these were repeated quite a bit in the film.  There were two people in town besides Clint and the gangs.  Clint's anti-hero did not even have the dignity of a name.  This was then a quick meditation on Kurosawa's Yojimbo, and it splashed, glittering in all its simplicity, like a golden nugget can be pure and simple, yet luster in the light.

But if you could change the future, would you?  If you could see the dullness of the future, would you want to change it, even if the personal cost was great?

Hope is essential to nudge us forward, as the turtle-nose of the future slow pushes us through the sand.  Look behind you at the path you have left.  Look ahead and think of the wonders waiting.  But be honest with yourself, this time.  What wonders await you?

I remember at 17 looking ahead with my imagination and seeing nothing.  I was correct, like a good fortune-teller, in some regards, for there were many, many empty moments, but there have also been great lessons.

In personal crisis, I redefined the world in my mind, then redefined myself.  I didn't find myself lacking, for I know there are untapped capacities in this man, but it was the world that looked at me, defined me, underestimated me.

I so hate being misunderstood.

Sometimes something can bring back a snatch of memory, of both the good and bad-for I must cherish both, even looking upon past tribulation with a kind of pride at having survived, an edified hindsight.

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