Mav The Writer: The Lost Years

There’s a time in my life that I cannot write about. There’s no story there that would be of interest to my audience. I even get bored, thinking about it. From my teens to my very early 30s, I neither acted upon nor reacted to the world.

I did my thing. I wrote in various mediums, I went to karaoke twice a week, I read my work at open mics, I had my artwork in a gallery, I went back to school and earned my degree, I experimented in photography, and I worked various low-paying jobs with colorful people. But for the most part it was my lost years. I took no risks and barely ventured out of my comfort zone. I hardly dared to ask out females, fearing what they might have thought of me.

Is time ever really lost? Does the brain collect and process data and turn it into wisdom no matter the circumstance? And do movies, books, and music count as life experience?

I got into a shoving match in second grade, and it’s one of my sweetest moments. Some kid bullied my best friend on the playground. He was high up on himself, because all the girls followed him around during recess. I cursed at him and pushed him to the ground. All the girls came after me and yelled at me. The bully stood back up and cried. It felt good.

The world acted, I reacted, and in turn I existed. Beginning, middle and end.

We grade our lives on curves and our view of ourselves is rich with self-talk rebuttals.

I see no good in those years except that it makes my story different.

To excavate our lives for a happy ending can be a brutal endeavor, but a necessary one if the left foot is to move in front of the right and the right foot is to move in front of the left. I still can’t write a lick about that era.

The Dunbar Number ©2016 by Marc Alexander Valle

First published in The Lehigh Valley Vanguard  ©2016

If you keep your mind open and listen to someone’s view, you can believe anything.

People on the ‘left’ always seem right, logical, thorough. People on the ‘right’ always seem right, thorough, logical.

Clinging to their views like a cat to its master’s when it’s about to go into a tub.

You second guess yourself.

You figure it out again,

you come up with new points, arguments, philosophies,

you tell yourself that your view is free from the influence of experience,

you tell yourself that you’re not free from the influence of experience, but still must be right.

Like you happened to have fallen out of a womb that landed you into the right time, place, race and class in history.

But have you ever met someone that admits to having the wrong point of view? I have. The person’s name is ___________. The person has asked to remain unidentified but has this to say: The momentum of cause and effect acts on us all, acts within us, acts without us. Don’t listen to me. Don’t give up. Don’t ever give up.

The Valle Cinema Ramblings, Vol 3: Mulholland Drive

This piece subscribes to the theory that the two stories in Mulholland Drive are parallel universes. Not that I personally believe in that theory. I just found the dream theory too hard to write about.

I will refer to the characters in Universe A, the first part of the film, with an (A) at the end of their name. I will refer to the characters in Universe B, the second part of the film, with a (B) at the end of their name.

Adam-(B) is in love with Camilla Rhodes-(B), who is the love interest of Diane Selwyn-(B), who in Universe A is Betty-(A), who falls in love with Rita-(A), who in Universe B is Camilla Rhodes-(B), who is the love interest of Adam-(B).

Mulholland Drive is a circle with detours. Eventually, you’ll find yourself on Mulholland Drive. For example:

Betty-(A) = Diane-(B)

Betty-(B) = Diane the Waitress-(A)

Diane the Waitress-(A) = Betty the Waitress-(B)

Betty the Waitress-(B) serves coffee to Diane-(B)

Diane the Waitress-(A) serves coffee to Betty-(A)

The fabric of space/time has broken in Mulholland Drive. Two universes have been torn and sown together haphazardly to form a mangled circle.

We go in circles in our lives. Unless we move forward, we meet the same kind of people and enter the same scenarios. This leads to the same kind of dreams, fantasies and delusions. Diane-(B) believes that she can’t move forward without Camilla-(B) in her life. Has this emotional distress caused the temporal disruption? Or are we always feeding off of delusion, it feeding off of us?

Mulholland Drive is about the tragedy of romantic love. Diane doesn’t subscribe to the philosophy, “If you love them, leave them.” She wants Camilla in a box where only she has the key. Love is anything but freedom.

When we love someone we’re tied to them, a balloon string tied to a child’s finger. A child that can let go at any whim. Is the lover the child or the balloon?

And does Betty-(A) really need to help Rita-(A) find her identity? With no idea who she is, Rita-(B) is virtually untouched by the world like a puppy. Betty-(A) can mold her into anything she wants her to be. Like an abuser, she keeps her close…in a box.

Analyzing Mulholland Drive is like trying to shoot a moving target from a mile away. A soon as you think you have it boxed in, the film presents a hole in your logic. You find yourself going in circles until it spits you out at the beginning of the circle, which has no beginning. Instead, we search for a box and a key that will help us bypass the mystery and give us the answers. But all we find is beautiful production design, excellent cinematic craftsmanship and the feeling that we’ve learned something about life. And that’s all we can ask for.

A New Theory

My 10-year-old self said to my 13-year-old brother, “So before our time there was The Great Depression. And before The Great Depression there was The Old West. And before that there was The American Revolution. And before that was medieval times. And before that there was Rome. And before that there were dinosaurs. And before that there was the Big Bang. And what was before that? Well, it must come from a time where there is no time.”

“What?” my brother said.

“It all has to come from something,” I said.

He didn’t hesitate, “Get out of here!”

The moral: Never hassle your 13-year-old brother with philosophical ruminations on the universe. Especially, when he’s listening to fart competitions on Howard Stern.