I, Too: Too Much, Too Soon
Erica Shindler Briggs | 27.May.10
Having lived on the edge for most of my life, I suppose it was only a matter of time before I fell off the cliff. My family was alerted, friends tried to help, my ex-husband tried to check me into an asylum. In the end, it was only by the grace of God that I managed to return from the fall without any permanent damage to myself, and my relationships. This “time away,” as I have come to call it, only lasted seven days, but it was the longest, most terrifying period of my life. It was also the most transforming. I have not been the same since, nor do I want to be. I have yet to write about it, mostly because I have no words to describe the experience, but also because I am afraid.
Madness is liberating in that there are no confines to limit stretches of the imagination, but it is for this same reason that madness is so hazardous. Extremes extend beyond ends, breach sensibilities. There is no balance, no logic, no order. Chaos reigns and there is no escape, because this madness is all in the mind. One doesn’t lose his mind, he gets lost within it. “The Diaries of Vaslav Nijinsky” by Paul Cox articulate this point well. He was so “deep within myself” he lost himself, both figuratively and literally.
A narcissist at heart, as most artists (and writers) are, Nijinsky was a master of his own feelings. “I think little and therefore understand everything I feel.... I am feeling in the flesh.... I do not think and therefore cannot go mad.” Madmen never think they’re mad. They live in their dreams without awareness that they are dreaming, but different from sleepwalking, they are fully awake, alert and active in a dreamstate. Thus, the usual maps and signs that warn or guide no longer apply. Left becomes right, u-turns become circular driveways where madness drives round and round until one starts to believe that what is at the center of the way is all there is. Nijinsky’s diaries touched my fear of returning to this place.
After less than a minute of watching this film, I felt wary. The opening scene was like a dream; a lush forest, emerald green. Lithe figures dressed like exiled performers from Cirque de Soleil slip from behind trees, edging towards a narrow path to witness a funeral procession. People dressed in black carry a casket, unaware of the spirits watching them as they parade their loss. The bystanders are unresponsive; the dead watching the living mourn the dead. When the words of Nijinsky are dramatized, the initial wariness congeals in my bowels. I can see the edge and I do not want to continue further, but this was the assignment I agreed to complete, and so I continue to watch.
The combination of words and images can evoke a range of emotions. This is what makes film so powerfully influential. But even without words, images alone can alter perceptions. After viewing the silent film “Birth of a Nation”, American audiences were convinced that Blacks were evil heathens primed to assault the virtue of white women. Yet, this film’s power is contextual, as is all art. If promoted today, “A Birth of a Nation” would incite protests from both Whites and Blacks, rebuking its blatant racism. Viewed in Iceland, however, the film would likely fail to conjure any emotion either way, regardless of the historical era, because the issue of racism is insignificant in that culture.
Coupled with one’s social culture is intrapersonal culture: the language, thought, or scale of norm that takes place within each person. This adds to the complexity of perception. What is normal for one, could be abominable to another depending on their intrapersonal cultures. A man watching a rape scene could never feel the same way as a woman who had been raped watching the same scene. The context is distinctly different, if not diametrically opposed. The same could be said for “The Diaries of Vaslav Nijinsky”. One might consider the film an artistically ethereal and poignant documentary. I likened it to a horror film, causing considerable tension and anxiety. This film offended my intrapersonal culture, or more plainly, it molested my peace.
Those who have never experienced falling from the brink may find my reflection overstated and completely off the mark. In fact, to moderate tastes, Nijinsky’s struggle might be a beautiful testimony to the resilient spirit of humanity that would rather go mad that submit to external forces that quench an artist’s fire. The “dance of madness” may seem a bit odd, or even outlandish to the conservative, where the liberal or progressive might find it awe-inspiring and moving. It is unlikely that any of these audiences would be so stricken with distress that they would turn the film off. I did. I watched as long as I could, up to the dark scene focusing on a woman’s naked back which acted like a canvas for a shadow of what appeared to be a horned head. It shifted, exposing the outline of a face, mouth open as if screaming or consuming, or both. I had to turn it off. It was a matter of spiritual health.
Nijinsky’s story is too personal. I empathically understand the inner scale that can tip too far to one side. Without an anchor for grounding, fluidity can shipwreck a soul. My faith has become my anchor, but it was not always so. In my past life, before Christ, I was all emotion; oversensitive to subtleties, moved to tears too easily, past memories triggered by word or mere gesture. My emotions controlled me, compounded by my liberal tendency to over-think everything. I was too smart for my own good and too emotional to think sensibly. Everything was significant, so everything was urgent. The sea was always stormy, the threat of total meltdown eminent. I saw Nijinsky’s breakdown coming within the first 15 minutes of the film. I had no previous knowledge of him or his life, but I recognized his end because I am intimately aware of the symptoms of mechanical failure. “I’m not an ordinary man. I’m a dancer.” Differentness, otherness, separated and apart. Yes, here is where it begins.
The audio montage was discordant, similar to what might be played in a paranormal movie in the moments before the demon takes possession of a body. “I feel what Christ felt. I am like Buddha. I am the Buddhist god and every kind of god. I know each of them, I have met them all. I am god in man. God is within me and I am within him.” With these words, I knew: he is mad. His next words confirmed it: “I am a madman who loves mankind. My madness is my love towards mankind.” Though his thoughts are wrapped up in pretty paper and a satin bow, he was mad nonetheless.
His commentary on his own god-likeness is mild compared to the darker reflections of his life. He writes with raw honesty about vile acts. He doesn’t deny the evil of performing such acts, but his admission has no hint of shame, rather he seems fascinated with them. He writes as if he is an objective observer of his actions, and can therefore separate himself from the act. In fact, he must disconnect his spirit from his body to maintain sanity, but in the end the separation disconnects him from reality. At least, I imagine that is what must have happened, since I didn’t finish watching the film.
Hearing the flow of Nijinsky’s writing vacillate between lovely and filthy, expressed as prisms of light shattered by consuming darkness, reminded me of an all-too-familiar rhythm; a pattern I’d repeated in my own life. I, too, wrote down the sordid details of my story. I’d collected these contemplations in large Rubbermaid storage boxes. In September of 2008, ninety-five percent of these writings, about twenty years worth of life experience, was burned in my backyard fire pit. After I returned from my time away, I had to get rid of the evidence, all the thoughts and events that led up to the madness. I didn’t want anyone to find out that I, too, was a madwoman, not so long ago. While viewing “The Diaries of Vaslav Nijinsky” I could see, in slow motion, sheets from those reams of papers reform, jumping out of the fire, the written words returning to be read, details of debauchery expressed in that voice - mourning, travailing, dying - coming back to be heard, to consume. It was too much, too soon, too close to home. I had to end it, to protect my sanity, to save my soul.
Madness is liberating in that there are no confines to limit stretches of the imagination, but it is for this same reason that madness is so hazardous. Extremes extend beyond ends, breach sensibilities. There is no balance, no logic, no order. Chaos reigns and there is no escape, because this madness is all in the mind. One doesn’t lose his mind, he gets lost within it. “The Diaries of Vaslav Nijinsky” by Paul Cox articulate this point well. He was so “deep within myself” he lost himself, both figuratively and literally.
A narcissist at heart, as most artists (and writers) are, Nijinsky was a master of his own feelings. “I think little and therefore understand everything I feel.... I am feeling in the flesh.... I do not think and therefore cannot go mad.” Madmen never think they’re mad. They live in their dreams without awareness that they are dreaming, but different from sleepwalking, they are fully awake, alert and active in a dreamstate. Thus, the usual maps and signs that warn or guide no longer apply. Left becomes right, u-turns become circular driveways where madness drives round and round until one starts to believe that what is at the center of the way is all there is. Nijinsky’s diaries touched my fear of returning to this place.
After less than a minute of watching this film, I felt wary. The opening scene was like a dream; a lush forest, emerald green. Lithe figures dressed like exiled performers from Cirque de Soleil slip from behind trees, edging towards a narrow path to witness a funeral procession. People dressed in black carry a casket, unaware of the spirits watching them as they parade their loss. The bystanders are unresponsive; the dead watching the living mourn the dead. When the words of Nijinsky are dramatized, the initial wariness congeals in my bowels. I can see the edge and I do not want to continue further, but this was the assignment I agreed to complete, and so I continue to watch.
The combination of words and images can evoke a range of emotions. This is what makes film so powerfully influential. But even without words, images alone can alter perceptions. After viewing the silent film “Birth of a Nation”, American audiences were convinced that Blacks were evil heathens primed to assault the virtue of white women. Yet, this film’s power is contextual, as is all art. If promoted today, “A Birth of a Nation” would incite protests from both Whites and Blacks, rebuking its blatant racism. Viewed in Iceland, however, the film would likely fail to conjure any emotion either way, regardless of the historical era, because the issue of racism is insignificant in that culture.
Coupled with one’s social culture is intrapersonal culture: the language, thought, or scale of norm that takes place within each person. This adds to the complexity of perception. What is normal for one, could be abominable to another depending on their intrapersonal cultures. A man watching a rape scene could never feel the same way as a woman who had been raped watching the same scene. The context is distinctly different, if not diametrically opposed. The same could be said for “The Diaries of Vaslav Nijinsky”. One might consider the film an artistically ethereal and poignant documentary. I likened it to a horror film, causing considerable tension and anxiety. This film offended my intrapersonal culture, or more plainly, it molested my peace.
Those who have never experienced falling from the brink may find my reflection overstated and completely off the mark. In fact, to moderate tastes, Nijinsky’s struggle might be a beautiful testimony to the resilient spirit of humanity that would rather go mad that submit to external forces that quench an artist’s fire. The “dance of madness” may seem a bit odd, or even outlandish to the conservative, where the liberal or progressive might find it awe-inspiring and moving. It is unlikely that any of these audiences would be so stricken with distress that they would turn the film off. I did. I watched as long as I could, up to the dark scene focusing on a woman’s naked back which acted like a canvas for a shadow of what appeared to be a horned head. It shifted, exposing the outline of a face, mouth open as if screaming or consuming, or both. I had to turn it off. It was a matter of spiritual health.
My description of this scene does nothing to convey what I felt as I viewed it:
complete despair. Wretchedness, destitute, loathsome, enslaved, obsessed, possessed. Even when seen, I don’t imagine many would view this scene and “feel me” as Nijinsky was so fond of saying. Honestly, were my emotions so strong, I had to turn the film off? Yes. It is at this point where I might lose my position, but I must state it nonetheless. As a body can carry a disease or a cure, it has become my belief that all media is capable of carrying more than emotions and thoughts. Watching a certain kind of film can transmit an unknown spirit. Unknown and unwanted. I felt the threat of such spirits attached to this film. Even now, as I write these words, I pray against any spirits that might be recalled as I consider the right words to describe the feelings mentioned above. Yes, I believe despair is a spirit, as are addiction, perversion, lust, depression. Pride. Madness. My response to this film should not be interpreted as criticism of Cox. His showcase of Nijinsky’s life was cinematically engaging; like the Russian babushka doll this re-enactment was art inside of art, shadows of shadows. Nijinsky’s words were more than a simple narration, they haunted each scene. Yet, unlike apparitions, Cox made his story come alive, resurrecting his tormented spirit. This is why I turned the film off; Cox made it too real for me. I have worn Nijinsky’s thorns. My soul has wept. Though our art varied, I, too, sought love like Nijinsky. Through dance, Nijinsky gained applause, “not opinion” but “a feeling of love for the artist,” affirmation that what he felt inside was real and not just verbose demonstrations of emotion. I used my art as a means of expressing what was inside, but too often found myself trapped within the expression, frustrated that the art was flat compared to my feelings playing in 3-D. I couldn’t be understood because the art couldn’t speak deeply enough. Like Nijinsky, “I tremble when people don’t understand me.”
Nijinsky’s story is too personal. I empathically understand the inner scale that can tip too far to one side. Without an anchor for grounding, fluidity can shipwreck a soul. My faith has become my anchor, but it was not always so. In my past life, before Christ, I was all emotion; oversensitive to subtleties, moved to tears too easily, past memories triggered by word or mere gesture. My emotions controlled me, compounded by my liberal tendency to over-think everything. I was too smart for my own good and too emotional to think sensibly. Everything was significant, so everything was urgent. The sea was always stormy, the threat of total meltdown eminent. I saw Nijinsky’s breakdown coming within the first 15 minutes of the film. I had no previous knowledge of him or his life, but I recognized his end because I am intimately aware of the symptoms of mechanical failure. “I’m not an ordinary man. I’m a dancer.” Differentness, otherness, separated and apart. Yes, here is where it begins.
The audio montage was discordant, similar to what might be played in a paranormal movie in the moments before the demon takes possession of a body. “I feel what Christ felt. I am like Buddha. I am the Buddhist god and every kind of god. I know each of them, I have met them all. I am god in man. God is within me and I am within him.” With these words, I knew: he is mad. His next words confirmed it: “I am a madman who loves mankind. My madness is my love towards mankind.” Though his thoughts are wrapped up in pretty paper and a satin bow, he was mad nonetheless.
His commentary on his own god-likeness is mild compared to the darker reflections of his life. He writes with raw honesty about vile acts. He doesn’t deny the evil of performing such acts, but his admission has no hint of shame, rather he seems fascinated with them. He writes as if he is an objective observer of his actions, and can therefore separate himself from the act. In fact, he must disconnect his spirit from his body to maintain sanity, but in the end the separation disconnects him from reality. At least, I imagine that is what must have happened, since I didn’t finish watching the film.
Hearing the flow of Nijinsky’s writing vacillate between lovely and filthy, expressed as prisms of light shattered by consuming darkness, reminded me of an all-too-familiar rhythm; a pattern I’d repeated in my own life. I, too, wrote down the sordid details of my story. I’d collected these contemplations in large Rubbermaid storage boxes. In September of 2008, ninety-five percent of these writings, about twenty years worth of life experience, was burned in my backyard fire pit. After I returned from my time away, I had to get rid of the evidence, all the thoughts and events that led up to the madness. I didn’t want anyone to find out that I, too, was a madwoman, not so long ago. While viewing “The Diaries of Vaslav Nijinsky” I could see, in slow motion, sheets from those reams of papers reform, jumping out of the fire, the written words returning to be read, details of debauchery expressed in that voice - mourning, travailing, dying - coming back to be heard, to consume. It was too much, too soon, too close to home. I had to end it, to protect my sanity, to save my soul.
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1. Posted on 27.May.10 From: Peacho
Having visited the edge myself, I can only agree with your every word.