Stories

I’ve been eating a lot of Pimento cheese. It’s kind of stupid, but I was inspired to try it because Mike Ehrmantraut eats it in Better Call Saul. That used to be, and probably still is, my favorite show. I used to feel just like Jimmy McGill. Some guy, fundamentally decent, slipping endlessly towards his dark destiny. Punished endlessly for being “good,” but rewarded by the world when he finally gave into his true nature.

***That age old internet adage***
And that was the moment Jimmy became Saul.

I could talk at length at why it’s stupid and self-indulgent to consider myself analogous to Jimmy, but I’m going to zoom out as I do and talk about how stupid and self-indulgent it is to compare yourself to any character at all. My entire life I spent understanding the world through the lens of stories I’ve consumed. “Oh, that [event] reminds me of [that movie] .” “If we were in [TV Show] , I’d be [Shameless Protagonist] and you’d be [Condescending Secondary Character] .” “After [their fictional breakup] , they did [the exact same stupid shit I did] .” It’s a recursive pattern. I’m like Jimmy McGill. How? Well, because Jimmy McGill is like me.

When your entire worldview is a house of mirrors it’s difficult to know which “you” is the actual source of the reflection. Who am I without my stories? Would I be the same person if I had a different story?

I thought of a funny idea the other day— your backstory doesn’t matter. Let’s say you walk up to a stranger and say “hi.” You could make up an entirely new backstory about yourself and they wouldn’t know. What does it matter, in that moment, whether I went to UofA or UCLA? What does it matter that I’m from Washington and not New York? What does it matter if my name is Marcello or Max? You might be tempted to say— well, it’s what happens next that matters. I disagree, at least ontologically. For every person you meet, you may as well have rendered into existence just a few frames before. Your past is irrelevant to them, no matter what your past is, because they weren’t around for it. What does matter is if what you relay to them is true. It doesn’t matter that I went to UofA vs UCLA— but it would matter if I went to UofA but said I went to UCLA. The truth of the retelling matters for exactly the same reason the fact of the retelling does not— who I am, in this moment, is the only thing. How I am, and the way I present myself to this hypothetical stranger, could have been formed whether I grew up in Washington or New York. They will, in an instant, retrofit a backstory for me to make the path I took line up with the face I am presenting. However, if that path culminates in a lie, then the entire path just led to me being a liar. In this present moment, all they know of me is that truth. So hello stranger— who am I? Marcello? Or Max?

***To be honest***
I don’t even know which perspective I’m writing the blog from anymore.

I’ve lost track of which one is the lie and which one is the truth. But it’s okay. It doesn’t really matter anymore. The stories we tell ourselves will never be fully accurate to reality, because by nature, reality is not a story. The literal truth of the story matters less than the emotional truth. At least, that’s how I see the world, and I’m done feeling guilty about it. For years I’ve been deleting pictures from Instagram, going by different name, moving apartments and convincing myself that any of that changes anything. We live in a time where it is no longer possible not to perform for the world. So rather than performing authenticity, is it not more authentic to simply perform?

Scattered dreams, far-off memories. A year or so back, we got in an argument and I, like I was wont to do then, compared myself to Jimmy McGill. To me, it was an honest expression of grief and pain and frustration. Jimmy’s story was simply a proxy I could use— a shorthand. He was always down. He used that as an explanation for his sadsack behavior. She had never seen the show, so my shorthand was irrelevant. What she saw was a man experiencing life through someone else’s script. And in that moment, she knew our worldviews couldn’t collide. She could see what I couldn’t— these stories are fed to us meticulously through stagecraft and scripts and color grading and reshoots. She, in her line of work, had seen it from the inside. Lived it. I still believed in the magic. It still worked on me. She, who for her whole life told these stories, was begging me— tacitly— to be there, presently, and exist for better or worse. But I— who spent my whole life consuming these stories— went no deeper than the characters she played. Another joke— a man who sees the world through stories falls in love with a woman who tells them. I think you can guess the punchline.

I tried, in our aftermath, to be present with the world. To exist, moment to moment. To lay in the hammock, to water my pothos, to put on the sweater. But I can’t. To me, the hammock is a plot twist, the pothos is a MacGuffin and the sweater is the end credits. I can’t even think about the past without integrating it into a narrative. Why am I even writing this now? I’ve spent so long waiting— processing— existing— just to get overwhelmed and return right here, to the page. To my movies. To my songs, to my stories. So why fight any longer? Maybe I just need to get off this treadmill and give into my nature. Become the character. Stop pretending to be “real.” Ironically, it’s the most truthful thing I can do.

So maybe I am like Jimmy. Maybe this is the moment Jimmy becomes Saul. Bravo Vince. This sounds dramatic, but I am clear, I am level, and I am ready. I think you are all aware that something big is coming.

I wrote a story: A man plays one guy who writes songs and another guy who writes a movie about himself writing a play. And at the end of it, he finds out if there’s really someone at the end of the hall of mirrors or if the reflections keep going, going, forever.

Welcome to True Modern Romance.

Talk soon -mbk