Grim Rhapsody

Often, we make rash decisions. We make choices in emotionally-charged situations that we would not make were we to sit and think about it. I remember once reading that the only way to fully enjoy life is to live utterly in the present – to discard all thought of past experience and future consequence. Whoever wrote that was, without a doubt, immersed in the philosophy of Red.

If you have no idea what I’m talking about and are wondering who Red is, I suggest you read my post from six months ago, where I talked about how I’ve started thinking of people’s philosophies in terms of the five colors of the card game Magic. I wrote that post with the explicit purpose of writing down all the aspects of each color of my own outlook, starting with Black, and that’s still my overarching goal, but I’ve decided to use my own philosophy more as an example of how Magic’s colors apply to our real lives rather than the series’ focus.

Before we stop – or rather, sprint – and plunge headfirst into the red zone, note that from this point onward, at the end of each color’s post, I’ll be talking about the relationship between that color and the colors I’ve written about previously. Today, that means only the affinity between red and black, but expect these posts to grow in size from here on.

Damn the Consequences

I believe in being true to who you are. I believe in following your gut. I believe in not letting others stand in your way. I believe in doing what feels right.

That’s how Red would describe itself. The concept of Red describing itself could be paradoxical to some; a red person is often stereotyped as unintelligent, reckless, perhaps even slightly insane, and will rarely string together a relevant sentence. In this, Red is misunderstood. Last time I wrote about how we view the blacker fragments of our personalities – rarely do we consciously hide our deeply private and frequently brutal beliefs. More often, we forget they even exist when having fun or in social situations. Red, on the other hand, is the side that we love to hate. Every time we regret a hasty decision, wish we hadn’t followed an emotional impulse, groan about a drunken mistake – that’s our non-red parts hating our red part. If we were all completely red, there’d be no regret. More likely, there’d be a longing to continue feeling the surge of euphoria that briefly accompanies all those moments. While the rest of our mind is thinking about the consequences, Red is only interested in the present.

What happens when everyone follows their emotions, and only do what they feel is right for them? You get anarchy. No one is willing to step down and let someone else govern what they can and can’t do, and so conflict arises, usually of the violent sort. A red person doesn’t only act on whims, but believes that acting on what you feel is an inherent part of human nature. Anger, love, satisfaction – Red would tell you these are all vital parts of human experience, because we only ever experience life from our own point of view, and nothing trumps that. You only ever know what you feel. Anyone who tries to take that away must be forcefully stopped, and this is the essence of chaos.

Talking about one’s red side is often more personal than coldly observing the semantics of blue thought and the immoveable determination of white objectives. Most of the time, when we intimate red moments to one another, they’re accompanied by embarrassment, and we’re usually seeking advice on how to reverse the consequences. Yet contemporary society is becoming increasingly red, demonstrated aptly by the roaring nightlife, party culture and drug abuse prevalent in the news every day. Not that Red is inherently opposed to quietness: a red person would  be the first to tell you to relax and take a break if you were stressed about a work project, and also the most likely to encourage you to confront problems directly. In short, Red is about short-term, unabashed self-satisfaction, and is simultaneously praised and demonised for being such. I’m sure everyone knows someone who constantly complains about how human society revolves around “instant gratification”, yet that same person will read “Body and Soul” magazines because, in their words, “it’s important to meet your personal and emotional needs”. The only difference Red sees between these two things is that the former contains the word “instant”, which as Red will tell you, is a very attractive word.

My experience with Red will be similar to anyone else’s: in the heat of a moment, I have made decisions that I would not have made under different, more relaxed circumstances. Most of these decisions, I have regretted. Most of those, I have been able to remedy. The rest, I have been forced to move past. In the end, though, I would have to say that I am far less red than the vast majority of people, and there’s a strong possibility it is my “weakest” color (that is, the color least responsible for my “color wheel make-up”). However, as I outlined in The Stirring Shadow, I don’t believe anyone is completely devoid of the influences of any color. I share Red’s intolerance of restriction, and believe dealing with emotional problems is far healthier than sweeping them under the rug. Note that I said dealing with emotions, and not blindly satisfying every feeling of desire, lust, anger, revenge, and so forth. It is this destructive, mindless side of Red that I am most at odds with, and this is the part of Red that Black also dislikes.

Black and Red are “allied” colors; that is, they are adjacent in the color wheel and have overlap between their philosophies. Where Black and Red most overlap is in their the belief in the all-importance of the self; for Black, it is the survival of the self, and for Red, it is the satisfaction. Both colors share a common enemy in White, the incarnation of law and order, absolute morality, and the well-being of the group. So, we can postulate the basic characteristics of someone with strong roots in Black/Red: they live utterly for themselves, have no rules and no reservations, and no belief in right and wrong. In short, you end up with hedonism; at its most extreme, you end up with someone who will kill to survive and kill for pleasure. Granted, that extreme is thankfully rare in the real world, but just consider someone you may know who lies frequently, sometimes to further their own gains and sometimes, for no discernable reason at all. Fans of 2008’s The Dark Knight will probably have no trouble in accepting my word that The Joker is the epitome of fictional Black/Red characters.

It’s fitting that this post should be delayed for so long simply because I didn’t have the motivation to write it and therefore, did not. Hopefully the next instalment isn’t similarly delayed. Join me then when I talk about answers that lie within, the appeal of returning to nature, and the idea that we are all pieces in a grand, complex puzzle.

Until then, remember that playing with fire might leave you singed.

Are things only simple if you limit your exploration of them? Is every person a complex, multifaceted being? Is this balance between simplicity and complexity simple, or complex?

Recently I started seeing people as colors. Not hallucinogenic colors. Colors of the trading card game, Magic: the Gathering. Each of the game’s five colors has a different philosophy. The color wheel is aligned so as to create common ground and conflict between these five philosophies. When I first started playing the game, the colors were simple concepts. White is ordered. Blue is curious. Black is selfish. Red is chaotic. Green is natural. Even if you’ve never played or perhaps even heard of Magic, the concept is basic enough.

But when I started categorising people as a certain color or combination of colors, things started to grow more complex. Some are very easy to place; others take more thought. As time went on, I started wondering if it was even possible to define every individual’s philosophy in terms of these five colors, or if anyone was truly devoid of a particular color. Then I wondered if it was correct to create such boundaries; if I classified a friend as blue/white, does that mean they lack all traits of green, red and black altogether? Surely no one has such clear-cut beliefs. I eventually decided that while all colors will be present in some way in every person, nearly everyone has one or two major defining colors, and in all my categorisation so far, this has proved true.

Then, finally, I asked that inevitable question: what colors am I?

I have not yet been able to answer that question. My favourite colors within the game are blue, black and red. Should this directly align with who I am as a person? Most players I know of do share some major personality traits with the colors they most enjoy playing, but never has it aligned precisely.

Yet the more I considered the question, the more impossible it became to answer. I have, at one point or another, seen parts of all five colors within myself. Perhaps my colors are very obvious to my friends – certainly I rarely have trouble placing them. Most of the time, I imagine that they would see me as primarily blue and secondarily white. But is that really me? There are many aspects of white I dislike.

Obviously, the vast majority of people will not have a thorough understanding of Magic’s colors. Neither can I pursue this question any further on my own. Recently while listening to two of my most like-minded friends discussing their beliefs, I realised that while I understood exactly what each of them meant with every word, I didn’t have any personal opinion on any of it. I cannot recall ever feeling so impartial to such deep-rooted philosophies. One of those friends was utterly blue, perhaps with traces of white and black. The other was nearly entirely green. The major conflict between their viewpoints exactly matched the traditional conflict between those two colors. I won’t go into details, for those who don’t understand that conflict, but after this series, perhaps you will understand better and perhaps I will understand myself better.

Yes, a series of posts. I already mentioned that I recognise traits of all five colors within me. By writing them down, by having them read, I hope to figure out exactly what my beliefs are, because at the moment I feel like I have none at all. So, five posts, one on each color and how it relates to me. I decided I would do black first, because it confuses me the most. Sometimes, deep down, I feel very black; brutally honest thoughts that never rise to vocalisation. Obviously, they are the type of thoughts that are not heard by friends, just as black is the color that has none. If you knew someone who was easy to identifty as black, chances are slim that they would be a close friend. That’s why I want to get it out of the way. (Please note that at no point in this series am I referring to skin color or anything beyond the colors philosophies in Magic.)

The Stirring Shadow

My philosophy is simple: You have to learn to adapt to the world the way it is, not the way you want it to be. I accept that people are selfish. My philosophy takes this as a given. We can sit and moan about how it isn’t fair, or we can take steps to give ourselves the best chance to thrive within this environment.

From the words of the color Black itself, “interviewed” by Magic designer Mark Rosewater as part of a series. It’s this series that originally caused me to begin looking at people through the lens of the color wheel, so I’ll be quoting from it fairly often.

Black, to summise in several words, looks out for itself. In its purest form, it shuns hierarchy, it shuns morality, it shuns law and order. Black believes that humans are inherently selfish, and that to believe otherwise is self-delusion. Black has a very nihilistic outlook on existence. There is nothing beyond what you strive to create for yourself, and you cannot trust others to create it for you. You can never fully trust others, period. Black believes that capitalism is the only working form of government: to give each individual the opportunity and the motivation to build themselves up, in the form of materalistic reward. It’s up to each individual to put in the effort and be rewarded in return. No teamwork, no one enforcing their beliefs upon anyone else. Violence must be used as necessary in one’s own pursuit of power. Some attribute Black with the the quality of “evil”, but Black does not recognise such concepts, which require the necessity of absolute truths in their definitions.

It’s easy to see where my more prominent black beliefs come from. I do not believe in any higher power. I do not accept anyone forcing their beliefs upon anyone else. I do not recognise universal, objective truths or a system of morality that is objectively superior to any other, nor do I recognise much objectivitity in general, and in that sense I am at least influenced by existentialism.

This is not to say that all atheists or even existentialists have large black segments in their philosophy. Both atheism and existentialism often go hand-in-hand with humanism, but such a suggestion of each individual having an intrinsic worth and importance is white/green, completely against black philosophy, and it is here that my differences with Black are brought to the fore. I always consider others – perhaps too much for my own good – and would not step on them or exploit them for my own gain.

Or, perhaps, so I would like to believe. I may not use people blatantly, but that isn’t to say I don’t manipulate them. Perhaps one could describe it as being careful with one’s words. Sometimes it will be for my own gain, sometimes it will be because I believe I know what’s best for them better than they do (a black/white trait), but usually it’s just a reluctance to offend anyone – to keep as many connections and friendships open as possible. This is because there is no sense in terminating a relationship that could prove fruitful in the future, which is essentially a selfish motive. This blue/black way of thinking doesn’t surface very often – as I said above, it’s not the sort of thing you go around warning people about – but I think it is one of the more black parts of me.

If you were to look at all the characters I’ve created in the past couple of years, a theme would emerge: they are all cold towards humanity, all completely without relationships, all utterly self-consumed – all black. I become so involved in creating these characters that it often makes me feel ill with anxiety that I may, deep down, be one of them. But Black often crosses paths with postmodernism, and in this case I am black once more in my belief that everything is a mask. When I’m with others, I’m friendly and always willing to meet new people. When I’m alone, I’m dark and brooding and consuming, sometimes so much so that I’m afraid that writing it here will convince my friends that I am a sociopath. Neither is my “real self” with the other being a “mask”; they are all me. One side belongs to this world, human society, and does what it can to fit in. The other side is utterly detached, ruthless, hidden and ambitious, not belonging but doing what it takes to fit in.

Does that make me radically different to others? No. I am certain that most people have such a black facet to them, but by its very nature, it remains under the surface. It may vary in intensity; I have several friends who I am sure are far more black than myself, and I can see the difference in how they think with friends and how they think alone. It is not that they are putting on an act or a mask – they are sincere in their friendship – but rather that different aspects come out at different times. It is not a question of sincerity, merely visibility.

Hopefully you managed to get through all that without either becoming too confused about what Black entails (or being convinced I’m an evil megalomaniac). If you want some examples of black characters in popular culture, I can give some classics: George Constanza is probably the most iconic, always willing to stoop to any level to further his own motives; Daffy Duck shows that you can have a likeable black character. Bart Simpson and Lex Luthor are also very black.

Well, that’s all for now. I don’t know when I’ll post the next part, but I have a lot of free time now. Join me then when I talk about pyromaniacal urges, wild sex flings and rebellious attitudes.

Otherwise, remember that even that the most black and white of issues are just that: black and white.

When I was four years old, my father shot me. 

I know that it was not his fault. He asked me not to play on the new slide, but I disobeyed him. I didn’t listen to his warning about what would happen if I did. When he found me sitting on the patch of dirt at its foot, he sighed, but without hesitation pulled out his revolver and shot me in the stomach. 

Three weeks later, I came back home from the hospital. The incident was covered up. My father was a very influential man. Rumours floated around town, but they were not enough to puncture my father’s charitable image. Even I didn’t hold anything against him. But from then on I was always the girl with the scar. 

For my father’s birthday the following year, I painted my love for him a rock, even though he had asked for a wall of paintings. He didn’t like my rock. He said I should be more thankful to him. I tried to tell him that I couldn’t paint a wall. He said I would have no dinner that night, and I would be locked in the basement furnace if next year’s gift wasn’t to his liking. I knew that he was allowed to, because he was my father and I owed everything to him. 

When I started school, I had a nice teacher called Mr Lee. When he found out who my father was, he seemed sad and told me I could ask him for help if I was ever in trouble. So I told him that the previous month, my father had bought me a puppy, then told me to drown it. Crying and with trembling hands, I had lowered it into the bathtub, but as soon as it touched the water he had stopped me and said I could keep the puppy. 

I think Mr Lee told the principal, because the next day my father was very angry. He had me transferred to another class and said not to talk to any teachers about personal things again. I asked where my puppy was. My father told me that he had put her in the furnace, for my own good. I didn’t believe him. But I never saw my puppy again. 

For the ten years I was in school, my father gave me different lessons at home. He would give me rules that I hadn’t learned in school. The first thing he said was that I had to always love him, or he would punish me. He told me that I must spend one day each week at home with him to prove I loved him. He told me never to question him, and to hate anyone who did. He told me horrible things would happen to me if I ever disobeyed him. I was afraid. 

When I was sixteen, I made friends with another girl. Then one time something happened between us. My father found out, and whipped me. Then we packed up and left town. I was too scared to go near a girl again for a long time. 

My father owned a mansion in another town. There were a few families renting rooms in it. My father took their money and kicked them out, so we could live there. I saw a woman crying with her baby. There was nothing anyone could do. Except my father.

My father invited over some men he knew. They were all a lot older than me. He offered me to them as a wife. One of them accepted, and we became married. I had no choice. But I knew my father was doing what was best for me. 

The following month, our country went to war. The army was not afraid of defeat. My father’s company made their weapons. Their weapons were the best in the world. All my father asked in exchange for the weapons was that he chose which country was attacked. I heard stories about rivers of blood left in the army’s path. I heard stories about children impaled against rocks, and thrown off cliffs. I didn’t believe my father would let that happen, just so he could get more land.

When I was twenty, I finally parted with my father. He was too old to run his company, so he chose someone in his place while he lived in another country. He chose a man named Chris. Everyone agreed Chris was nicer than my father. When he came for dinner with the other company members, he would tell stories. Everyone looked up to him. He put some of the company’s funds into a new medicine. He saved some lives, but eventually became too busy. Sometimes I wondered if he could save more if he wanted to. 

Then the riots happened. There were riots against the company’s weapons, which had killed thousands of people. They attacked the main building. Chris was shot in the struggle. They attacked our mansion and I was forced by another man. 

My father returned to deal with the disaster. He and my husband hated me. They said I had committed adultery. They didn’t care that it wasn’t my fault. That I had no choice. My father had finally had enough. He grabbed me and pushed me into the furnace. I was in there for half a minute before someone pulled me out. 

I opened my blistered eyes, crying from the pain, and saw a squad of policemen. Two had my father handcuffed and pinned against the wall. One was calling for an ambulance. Another was telling my father that he had got away with crimes for too long, and would be tried for hundreds and hundreds of cases of abuse, war crimes, and even more. My father received more than fifty life sentences in jail. He was only there for two years before he died.

I spent seven years receiving counselling for twenty years of what I learned had been terror on every level imaginable. I had bad scars all over my body from the burns, to join the one where my father had first shot me for being too curious. Despite that, I had opened my eyes to everything else. For the first time in almost thirty years, I tasted more freedom in the air than pain or fear. I knew that it wasn’t all lost.