More Than Meets The Eye
Writing about thoughts, about pictures, about a central idea � it�s something one doesn�t practice very often, except for in a writing class. Once in a while, there is just some sort of essence that flows off some image or situation that makes one want to go ahead and write, and write. These times, it�s just about the thought, not about the trial of a thought.
Take a scene from the new version of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. It�s light outside, and a bunch of kids are driving down the road toward that unplaceable destination, ostensibly to watch some concert. But it is something in their path that makes this destination so unreal, for the trip is not about the concert, it�s about getting there. Road trip is the call; road trip, with your friends, is the best thing to happen to spring break. Besides Cancun. So we have the more down-to-earth guy driving � he has that faraway look, like he�s rehearsing his lines for when the cop shows, or what other things they can do with the� see, they�re traveling with a dead hitchhiker in their backseat. This hitchhiker happened to shoot herself in the van, leaving her brains in a bloody art nouveau piece on the back windshield. Mr. Practical in the driver seat is thinking about what to do. He�s the one who leads, because he�s calm, rational, and the one who will be group mediator. However, he�s not free from tension, because invariably, Mr. Practical has to have a beautiful girlfriend who demands his attention and his support. In the stereotypical teen movie, we can see her yelling at him for not being on her side, attached at the hip and the jealous accusations settle in. So his hand is also resting on his head and saying, not only do I have to take care of the situation, I also have to deal with personalities. Hers, and all theirs. The cow on his dashboard sits there, just like the troll and the hula dancer. Incongruous.
The hotheaded nerdish type in the back � he of the weed habit, he who takes a bit much and has violent tensions within him that only physically manifest in an obvious selfishness and anger at persons unknown, the oppressors. Who is holding me back> Someone is, and I�m taking charge of my destiny as I haven�t been able to until right now. And so I will, if it means pushing everybody that cares for me out of the way, because I can only fight for my rights when it�s do or die, and not before. It�s this that has him continually without the woman. Doesn�t he feel a little out of place in this van, on this trip? Maybe this setup is wrong too, for he would feel socially acceptable with others like him, in a way more smoked out van that isn�t traveling through Bible Belt country but sticking to the delivery routes down the interstate. But maybe, there�s this other dimension: I�m too cool for others like me. And even if it�s awkward, this is where I must be, because something tells me I want me to be here, among others that have somebody when I have none. I can be belligerent too, because I don�t need anyone. Not because I can�t have anyone. The little mustache sticks indifferently to his thin and narrow face.
This mess of personalities needs more people: Mr. Practical�s girlfriend, a hysterical play-off of her, and this madwoman�s manly but absorbed hookup. The girlfriend sits in the front, her cowboy hat screaming a pose, her white shirt accenting her features only promoting her hardness, her grace under fire. I won�t give in, her chin says. Her eyes squint out, asking the world to give her its worst. But there it is: the high cheekbones, the deadest mouth, the hand lying relaxed but still firm over her lap. On this plane, she is the equal of Mr. Practical; she sits by his side and acts aloof because she must. She doesn�t want to be mollycoddled. If she must be handled, it�s gotta be rough and firm. Just the way she likes it. Her friend sits in the back, almost directly in front of the dead woman. Her face is a mess of blotches. Clearly, she is not handling this as well. Her mouth has puckered into the look of the unhappy, and we can see that the pout is coming soon. The question will soon come spilling out of her high-pitched, shrill voice: why did we pick her up anyway? I can�t do this, I want to go home, I want� to die. It would be her boy toy�s job to comfort her, but it seems acceptable to both that it should be the female friend, and not the boyfriend to do this. Dear, you�re going to fight. And eventually � we can see it � she will. The underdog, the so-called abused� she will fight back, perhaps fiercest of all. Fiercest, that is, in her mind. The usual horror movie has girls like her fight rather pathetically and end up carved or stuck with butcher knives to the wall. But she did fight back. And for her sad, decrepit end, we respect her, for finding it within the ditz to produce a righteous anger.