Preaching the Word

So last Sunday I found myself waking up at seven in the morning. For the past two weeks I'd been used to sleeping at five or six in the morning and waking up at around three or four, but Sunday was different. I had to be awake, alert, sharp and full of pep.

Because last Sunday I had to be on student time.

A few weeks before hand I got a call from a UiTM student, asking me if I was willing to give a talk together with two others of the film world for a workshop on making short films. It'd been about a year or two since I last spoke to UiTM students and I'd been planning a workshop myself so I figured it'd be a good testing ground.

So there I was, driving out to the Puncak Perdana campus of UiTM in Shah Alam on a Sunday morning, trying to stay awake with the aid of two cans of coffee, a shitload of cigarettes and Mos Def playing on the CD player.

The second I got there I met up with someone who I'd written to via e-mail, I think maybe even spoken over the phone, but had never actually met in person till now. The one and only Hassan Muthalib:

This is a man who's been involved in the Malaysian film industry for many, many years and a joy to talk to. The man's a walking encyclopaedia of film theory.

Also present was uber-editor and filmmaker Akashdeep Singh:

(Pardon the bad photoshopping. Trying to save pic space on this blog).

Whilst Hassan talked about film theory and Akash talked about how to get your ideas on screen (and he also showcased a cool little way to jot down ideas) I spoke mainly about the joys of DIY and being independent, showing them videos of different DIY techniques, how cameras that most in the film industry here would consider not good enough for film being used in not just indie productions but Hollywood productions too (such as Crank 2, shot with the Canon XHA1 and Canon F100). I showed them how I made my DIY depth-of-field adapter, how others have made their own steadicams and how regardless of what techniques and equipment you use, none of it is worth nothing without a good, solid story, honest and straight from the heart.

I think they dug it. I hope so, at least. Either that or I spoke English too damn fast.

After that there was the workshop:

Here the students had an hour to brainstorm a short film idea and present it to us. The ideas were great but there was one thing that bugged me: they were told they had to present their ideas in storyboard form.

This didn't make sense, as far as I was concerned. It didn't make sense to Hassan either (Akash had to leave before this part, unfortunately). To me, the most important thing of this 'pitching' session was to be able to convey their story in a way that we could understand, but they got so caught up in the storyboards they'd get too confused or pre-occupied with them. Story is story, plain and simple.

The whole thing was hella fun and I had a great time with the students. Apart from the whole pitching thing, the other thing that bugged me about the session was that these kids weren't exposed to as much as I felt they should be exposed to - other directors, other ways of shooting, cool ideas, all the many possibilities available. I felt it was important that they knew there was more than one way to skin a cat.

It made me realize how blessed I was that I was exposed to all these things that made me the filmmaker I am today. I got a chance to learn so much that has helped me get to where I am and the whole experience at the college energized me even more to get my damn workshop going, because how cool would that be? Tons of young punks, going out there and making more new and interesting movies in crazy ways that the old guard would never even dream of. Impressive, interesting, personal stories that demand your attention, grip you by the cojones and drag you across your seat like a cinematic teabagging.

Thanks, UiTM, and I hope I'll be seeing y'all real soon (especially if any of you guys take up the internship I pimped out).

What Women Want

For a moment, just a moment, I discovered what it's like to be a woman.

For the past few days my tummy's been giving me a bit of a problem. For a while it was constipated and there was a lot of gas related pain. Today, however, it seems to have turned into flaming diarrhea, probably as a result of the cilli tuna sandwiches and Maggi tom yam I've been eating today, leaving my corn-hole feeling like a car lighter.

So for the better part of the evening I had been hitting the toilet, and even though my ass felt like a Johnny Cash song ("Burning Ring of Fire", in case you were wondering), I was glad. At least it wasn't stuck and at least I didn't have the sharp gas pains anymore.

I must have gone up to the toilet about two or three times to take a dump and at one point went just to take a piss. About ten minutes ago, I went up to the toilet once again to take another dump. I grabbed a copy of Hellblazer (the Garth Ennis run), lit up a cigarette...

...and I almost fell butt first into the toilet.

It turns out when I went to pee earlier I didn't put the toilet seat down. I understood the logic as to why women get mad when you don't put the toilet seat down but I always felt that if you're going to the toilet you'd check the status of the toilet seat and if it's up, put it down, the same way I'd expect any self respecting male to lift the toilet seat when they piss because no matter how big your cock is you can only aim that thing with, at the very most, 75% accuracy. Sometimes that dick will spray in directions you never thought was possible, such is the unpredictability of the penis.

But when I went up to take a dump it was second nature to just sit down because that's what I'd been doing for the past couple of hours and it never occured to me to check the toilet seat. Men (or at least, men like me) check the toilet seat's status because we stand for number one and sit for number two, but women do it all sitting down. It's second nature for them to take a seat without thinking because it's the default setting.

So there I was, my butt inches away from drowning in toilet water, offered a tiny glimpse of what it must be like to be a woman.

Chillin' With Dubya and Yoko

So I couldn't sleep last night, even though I was desperate to. It had been a pretty work-packed evening and I wanted to get some rest, but my room refused to cool down, regardless of what I did with the air conditioner.

When I woke up the next day I was still unrested and for the past week I'd been suffering some annoying aches in my shoulders, probably as a result of not sleeping properly or not in the proper position. By 3.30pm I couldn't hold out and had to take a nap where I dreamed of being in a supermarket in England buying lots of chocolates and sweets unavailable here. When I woke up, the shoulders were aching even more and I couldn't resist anymore. It was time. I had to do it. There was no other choice.

I had to venture into the world and get some Yoko Yoko.

Somehow I returned with not only the miracle cure that is Yoko Yoko, but also a tub of Haagen Daz cookies n' cream (not sure how that happened) and applied the Japanese wonder drug...

...and burned.

Seeing as I was still quite tired I popped open the ice cream and decided to pick a DVD from the unwatched stack - a pile of DVD's that I've bought over the years because I wanted to watch them, but wasn't in the mood to watch them yet. Picking one out from this stack is very difficult because it's not based on recommendation or knowledge, just feel.

And today I felt like watching 'W'.

I remember when I heard about the project and reacted with a simple "whaaat...?" Oliver Stone's directing it. "Whaaat...?" It's gonna star the jock from Goonies. "Whaaat...?" And the chick from Zack and Miri. "Whaaat...?"

Then I saw the trailer and thought, "waitaminute. Is this... is this a comedy?"

I thought it would come out in the cinemas here in Malaysia. From the looks of the trailer, why wouldn't it? The trailer pretty much made Dubya look like how the media had presented him throughout his term - a chimpanzee with the intellectual capacity of a termite's cock. It looked like it was taking the piss, and really, how could you not? How do you not take the piss out of someone who told the press, "I know the human being and fish can coexist peacefully" (Sep. 29, 2000)?

But imagine this, if you will: Imagine being at school and there, amongst all your other class mates, is the school idiot. I mean, this guy is dumb. He says so much stupid shit a single sound from his mouth guarantees laughs across the class and cafeteria. And you, being with your friends, join in. But one day you get to see him without your gang of friends and see him for what he is: not too bright, plain and simple. Doesn't mean you can't feel sorry for the guy, and you do.

Dubya's the school idiot. He just happened to also be the president.

There's a lot of fun to be had in this movie and, at least for me, I found myself caught completely off-guard feeling sorry for the guy. Now whilst all his press conferences and public appearances are all on record and the going-ons behind the scenes are probably works of fiction based on what facts the writers have, it sure makes for an interesting story about a man trying to get out of daddy's shadow.

It's not an incredible movie, by any means, and though the casting is spot on for most of the cast (Josh Brolin's come a long way since Goonies) some of the other supporting characters do tend to fall into stereotype. Even though Richard Dreyfuss and Scott Glen are brilliant as Cheney and Rumsfield respectively and Jeffrey Wright almost steals the spotlight as Powell, Thandie Newton's Condoleezza Rice feels like a comedic caricature (although kudos to hair and make-up. I had no idea it was Thandie).

And why couldn't they just hire the same guy that played Tony Blair in The Queen as opposed to Mr. Fantastic? I'm sorry, I like Iaon a lot as an actor, but for some reason throughout the one scene he has I kept thinking his arms were gonna stretch out.

Dubya's past doesn't forgive the amount of crap he's done not only to his own country but the whole world as we know it, but what do you expect when you put the class dunce in charge?

Don't "misunderestimate" this movie. "I think we agree, the past is over" and seeing these events through our own eyes over the past eight years doesn't mean there aren't any stories about it left to tell. And Dubya's an interesting character to study. There's a story there and you couldn't call it "a struggle between good and it's a struggle between evil" because we all witnessed that struggle in our lifetimes and heard the arguments. This is a story about a "poppy" and his junior and it's a fun one too.

In the Words of 'Risky Business'...

..."Sometimes you gotta say "What the Fuck", make your move. Joel, every now and then, saying "What the Fuck", brings freedom. Freedom brings opportunity, opportunity brings freedom."

Ever since I've moved from 20six to Terapad, I've been a bit more cautious than usual. Now, I'm not saying I didn't censor myself to some extent on 20six. Unless I fully intend to, I try not to slander people, use real names when bitching about someone and if something is asked to be private or should very obviously kept private, I keep it private.

Then again, by that rationality, my bowel movements and strange boils should very obviously be kept private, but I wrote about them anyway, so the jury's out on that one.

In some of the posts on this blog I've mentioned this, talked about how I've got to get my voice back the way it was back on the Ballad of Justin Guber, but it's not gonna happen is it? That was the voice of a 25 year old with nothing to lose, taking on the world and not giving a flying fuck.

And that 25 year old is no more. That 25 year old grew up, and shit happened, and he retreated. He hid from the world and kept it all pent up inside so that when it came out it was like watching a 16 year old in a 28 year old's body. Believe me, I have witnesses, and it's pissed the shit out of at least one of them (more on that later).

But let's get back to the 25 year old. I can't be the 25 year old anymore. He's dead and gone and was supposed to be replaced with something better. What happened along the way? What turned him into this little bitch? Wasn't he the cynical motherfucker who couldn't write about a personal, upsetting day without off-setting it by referencing scatology or bestiality at some point?

Well, without going through too much detail, he got fucked in the ass.

...

...no, not literally. I'm sorry, no offense, but I just don't swing that way.

(Though drunk enough I may consider a Dutch rudder).

But yeah. He got fucked in the ass and had the rug pulled under him at the same time (and even though it's a metaphor, if you imagine having the rug pulled from under you whilst being fucked in the ass you can imagine it would hurt).

I trusted the wrong people. I made the wrong decisions. I believed in the wrong path and ended up at a dead end. I burned the wrong bridges and stood by the side of the wrong damn person and ever since I realized it and walked out of that door and told myself I wouldn't endure it anymore I've been left incredibly numb. An entire world, an entire life, turned into a lie.

(See? That's where all the Plato bollocks came from. Ah, the allegories...)

Now, that's still pretty vague, but not as vague as past posts have been. And why was I so vague about the past posts? Because last year I knew he was reading this, wondering what I was doing, perhaps telling mutual friends about it whilst taking the piss in a further effort to make himself feel that his cock was bigger than a dildo in a Tinto Brass movie. I knew that, even though he was no longer on my friends lists on Facebook and Friendster and MySpace, he was checking up on my pages. I knew he was asking about me, talking shit about me, telling the world that I was the most untrustworthy being to ever walk the earth since the serpent said to Eve in the Garden of Eden, "go on, luv, take a bite. I know the Big Man said not to but it's bloody tasty."

I knew this was happening, because the words came back to me and I would listen, and smile a quiet smile. I didn't want to talk about it here like this because I didn't want to give the dude the satisfaction of seeing me pour my heart out over here, crying over spilt milk and bitching and whining.

And, as we have seen over the past year, that really didn't work did it?

Instead, the readers of the Guber have slowly dwindled as the posts become more and more far apart, and when something does pop up, it's filled with ambiguity. More than that, it's filled with someone trying to emo out without being obvious.

What's the point? As the quote above says, sometimes you just have to say "what the fuck".

All that anger, that pain, that frustration and sadness has been pent up deep inside me like a fucking virus, slowly infecting every part of my body till it consumes me. And every time I've tried to put into words when talking to someone about how I feel about these events I censor myself just as much as I've been censoring myself here. And even when I try to explain those feelings and emotions swirling about within me and triggering all the fucked up emo moments I put the blame on something or someone else, I try and describe something else that may be bugging me, or blame the tiny moment that kicked it all off, but that's not what it's about.

It's been hard as hell trying to put it into words here. It's embarresing as hell too. All the confidence I used to have has dissolved into absolute self-hatred because ever since then I've blamed myself for everything. I hate myself for being so stupid as to have been suckered like that. I hate myself for allowing it to happen. I hate myself for not getting out sooner the second my gut told me something was wrong (and my gut told me something was wrong very early on). I can't help but think about how insanely stupid I was to have not seen what was starring me straight in the face and I've been punishing myself ever since, and every time those emotions all bottled up inside try and come out they come out hard, guns a-blazing, and shoots at all targets.
The fact that I've been turning to others to make me feel better isn't going to help. Me blaming it all on anyone else isn't going to help. And it's for the same reason that me being all twisty-turny on this blog in order to somehow subtlely express these pent up feelings on this blog doesn't help either.

Because where's the fucking truth in that?

This is a realization I've only known partly, but putting it in words here, like I used to back in the day, has allowed me to realize it a lot more fully and it's insanely fucking refreshing. I've been afraid of writing like this for the past year because it didn't feel right to pour all this out. I felt I didn't have the right to pour all this out, because I was so stupid, so make your bed and fucking deal with it. And how have I been dealing with it? By not facing up to it. How fucking stupid is that?

Fuck the Evil Fat Man. At the end of the day, from everything I've heard, his life has gotten way more shittier than mine will ever be. The Evil Fat Man can suck my dick for all I care.

Goddamn, it feels even more refreshing saying that. See, when I left that stupid situation the Evil Fat Man said to me, in between yelling at me, proving how good a 'friend' he was and blaming me for hurricane Katrina, that he knew exactly what I'd do after I leave. He said I'd be all depressed and emo and not do a damn thing and remain stagnant.

And I didn't want to prove him wrong.

But he was right about me in that respect. He knew me and he knew how I'd react. He knew I'd suffered depression, popped prozac and xanax and even hit up the valium at one point, and he knew that when the chips are down I wallow. Goddamn do I wallow.

I thought that by not letting myself wallow in my very obvious depression and keep moving forward by doing any filmmaking project that came my way that I would not only prove him wrong but also not be depressed.
How the fuck could I have not been depressed? How could that not have affected me?! It was good to move forward, but it wasn't good to keep all the shit pent up inside because now it's not only affecting me but all those around me. At the very least, he was right about that.

I was not, however, responsible for hurricane Katrina.

The shit's even affected my work, which just got me in even more of a rut. In my effort to 'move forward' I have done a lot of work, it has to be said. But am I proud of my work? Hard to say. I'm in my element when I direct what I write, because it's a story I want to tell and, more importantly, if it's shit, it's my responsibility and I'll bear that burden.

I remember the first time I shot something that I didn't write - it was almost three years ago. I'd been directing a few episodes of Dark City that I had written and the producers were pretty happy with the way I work. At the last minute, it turned out one of the directors couldn't direct one of the episodes and I shall not say who (see that? I just censored myself a bit in order to not bitch about someone). They called me two days before and I thought to myself, "what the hell. Work is work and I'll get paid".

My God, was that painful.

The production didn't allow much room for pre-production so, at the very least, I'd request to meet the main cast beforehand so I can gauge them, get to know them, and talk them through the story. To get to know them I'd usually ask questions about films, such as who are their favorite actors, what's their favorite movie, etc. One of them mentioned to local actors who I shall not mention here (see that? Protecting myself from slander... or is it libel?) and the other one mentioned her favorite movie was the 'Sound of Music' (nothing wrong with that, I guess. Just a weird point of inspiration for a budding actress. And I prefer 'Mary Poppins'),
The third one said his favorite actor was Sarah Michelle Geller.

"Really?" I replied.

"Yeah, I really liked her in X-Files."

God, help me.

And when it came to the production, I noticed I directed very differently from when I was directing my own scripts. When I directed my own scripts, I knew what shots were needed and what shots I wanted. I composed based on the story, what would work best, and shot nothing more than that. I shot what was required to tell the story well.

With this, my only thought was, "how can I make this shot cool so that I don't get bored directing this crap?"
That's how I've been directing for the past year. And whilst it's been a great free exercise on seeing what works and what doesn't with film equipment and filmmaking in general, it's incredibly depressing. There was one series I was shooting where every time I got the next episode's script my jaw would either drop down to the ground at its stupidity or the crew would find me unable to stand because I'm holding tightly onto my bulbous belly from laughing my bulbous ass off at its stupidity.

Yes, I have gotten even more bulbous by the day.

Making other people's stories come to life has been a painful experience and it's depressed me like fuck, true, but it was also the thing to blame for the week and my undirected emo outburst on the subject ended up affecting someone very close to me. That in turn led me to bouts of depression on that subject, and it's left me like the dude from the movie 'Pi', pacing around the room alone, my brow in a permanent position of absolute stress, frustrated as fuck with an extra dollop of down (and by 'Pi' I mean the math symbol, not a bad spelling for a tasty apple filled treat).

Though the strains between us upset me, that person isn't to blame for my emotional freak outs. Trying to create Tiffany cuff links out of the rancid turds that people pass as a screenplay are not to blame. Even the Evil Fat Man is not to blame (though he can go fuck himself anyway).

It's all down to me in the end, isn't it? And even though I've been blaming myself and hating myself and hitting myself every which way as every day passes more and more I've been going about it the wrong way.
Because blaming isn't really the way. Taking responsibility is.

The negatives are negative, I'm not gonna take that away from 'em. But there are positives too. The Evil Fat Man fucked me over, but I got out, didn't I? It took a fuck-of-a-long time but I got out in the end, thank God. And even though the scripts haven't been to my liking and the stories aren't the ones I want to tell that doesn't mean I haven't had a blast with the people I've been working with. Almost all the cast members I've met in the past year have been brilliant people (and I can't stress 'almost' enough) and a number of them have ended up being good friends. I've always enjoyed working with the crew I worked with last year and this year I had the opportunity to work with a brand new crew, which was a great experience. Sure, there was a teething period, but in the end I can honestly say I wouldn't hesitate to work with them again. And even though being a freelancer is a tough gig, especially in these Hard Times, but I'm my own boss and I earn my keep. I put food on the table and even enough to buy the things that make me smile and maybe even a little something for the people close to me.

The music side of me took a severe beating, that has to be said. Thanks to the events of last year and the bridges that had been burnt my band has suffered, and I really regret that, but we're taking steps to move forward and even in the dumb-ass state that I've been in I realized how much I neglected my Sixers family and have been trying to take the steps to rectify it and now we're recording and gigging more than we ever have.
One of my films has been affected big time by the bollocks, and even with this realization that one's still not an easy one to fix up because so much of the story is tied to my past, but it has to be completed. I can't allow myself to let it fall by the way side. It may not have come out the way I wanted it to but there's a story there, a real story that came from the heart and all it needs is to be put together the right way. One of my friend's films has been affected by this cock-and-bull too and buddy, if you're reading this, I'm sorry it's taken so long. I know I've been blaming the work but it's not really one to blame, is it? It'll be done, and sooner than you may think.

Things are looking up more than I could ever imagine. Good things have been falling on my lap one after the other but I've been too caught up in my own bullshit to notice just how good it's been.

Writing all this doesn't fix it all. I wish it did, but let's face facts, if all it took to get over something that's really deeply affecting you was to write something like this then give the world a laptop. This is just a realization, and a much needed one. I now know what ails me.

Some of you may ask, "so why are you writing it here?"

Simple. Because "what the fuck". Because writers write, and the very first intention of blogging from the beginning was to use it to write randomness when I had nothing else to write because at least I'd be writing. And I'm writing this here because the one thing this blog has been missing is a little more honesty. A little more nakedness. For a moment I thought of taking this and the last two posts off of the automatic Facebook notes thingey because it's a bit too public - so many people I meet and see day to day are on my Facebook and it felt like a "look at me, I'm so down, sympathize with me" type post.

Then I realized I'd done that quite a few times already.

So fuck hiding it from Facebook. That's not the point of typing something on the internet. You write something on-line because it's public and writing all this publicly is incredibly refreshing (whoah... that words been repeated a bit too much. Bad writing). It's like being a literary nudist. This post is like a naked Guber standing in your back garden, waving at you and dancing to 'In the Club' by 50 Cent and the mild censorship are the random leaves and bushes in the garden that somehow always end up covering the really naughty bits no matter where I turn like the orgy in 'Eyes Wide Shut'.

(In fact, you should be glad it's a post as opposed to me standing naked in your garden waving at you with only a shrubery to cover my naughty bits. You wouldn't want a big-bellied Malay man in your garden waving at you. Especially not at this time of the night. That's just weird.)

It all comes down to regret, and I've been regretting the Bad Days for too damn long. If there are any regrets I have over the events of the past year, it's the hurt that I've caused to those around me, especially those that really, truly didn't deserve it. You were affected in the aftermath and you didn't deserve to be hurt so bad.
I'd like to say that I am now 'cured' but that's still a long road ahead. I hope this nakedness was worth it, because it has never felt so good to write in this blog since the good old days, and to see my own fingers clickety-clack in tandem with my brain and to see my brain shoot off from the last paragraph I write to another direction I never thought of as opposed to following the prepared route that my scared side has decreed as the correct course of action when attempting to express myself is something I haven't done in a damn long time and I hope it's not all for nought.

I started off writing this post with a lot of fire in my belly, but as I continued writing the fire soothed and I didn't even realize which direction the blog had gone until I re-read it. And to all the friends that have stood by me through these tough times, I thank you, salute you, and wave my nakedness at you (in a good way). Without you guys, God knows what direction I may have ended up on this rocky road.

Here's to things getting better. Here's to hoping I get my shit togther. Here's to more nakedness.

P.S. I think the universe has a sense of humor. On that last line I realized what was playing on my iTunes - 'Free Falling' by Tom Petty. Appropriate? I hope so. Either that or I've misread the lyrics and the song's about jumping off a cliff.

P.P.S. Then again, the post opens with a quote from a Tom Cruise movie and after I finished writing it my computer plays a song made famous in a scene from a Tom Cruise movie.

P.P.S.S. It was 'Jerry Maguire'.

Superman's Secret

 For the copyright holders and hardcore fans, this is a work of absolute fiction not intended to tie in with the DC universe in any way. It was just a little story that came about in my head that I thought would be interesting.

Everybody in Metropolis knew Superman. He was everywhere. You may not have seen him face to face, but you'd have seen him at some point, swooshing through the sky, always ready to help and to fight for truth, justice and the American way.

Everybody knew Superman, and everybody loved him.

No one knew Superman nor loved Superman more than Lois Lane, intrepid reporter at the Daily Planet. Her colleague Clark never thought much of the subject but Lois did, day in and day out. She thought about Superman and marveled at him and wondered where he came from, what he was really like, who he really was.

She had interviewed him, sure. And he had taken her in his arms and flew her across the sky. For the briefest of moments she experienced his world and it exhilarated her beyond comprehension.

And the feeling wasn't unrequited. Superman felt a kinship with her, a connection. Perhaps there was someone on this planet he could finally open up to, tell his secrets, and never be alone again.

One night, as Lois leaned by her balcony, staring at the Metropolis skyline, Superman swooped down gently, his cape flowing in the breeze. Even though Lois had seen him fly a thousand times the sight of it amazed her every time. At that moment, Lois would do anything to be with him, to feel the way he made her feel every day. She thought it would be worth anything.

But not this.

Superman told her, in full confidence, who he really was. He told her how she had been by his side every day but knew him by another name - Clark. He told her without hesitation, assuming she'd understand.

She didn't. After hearing what he had to say Lois made an excuse and entered her apartment.

The next day Clark saw Lois at work. She treated him like she always did, spoke to him like she always had and didn't mention a word about the night before.

That night Superman went to her balcony but she wasn't home. With his super hearing he heard the cries for help as a monorail train derailed and went to the rescue.

There, in the crowd, she saw Lois writing notes as Jimmy snapped away. When Superman came to say hello he expected her to act differently towards him but she was the same as she'd always been. She treated him like she always did, spoke to him like she always had...

...and didn't mention a word about the night before.

Because everybody in Metropolis knew Superman. He was everywhere. But Lois now knew a little more. She had always wanted to be special, but now that she was she wished she could be like everybody else again.

Because everybody thought they knew Superman, and everybody loved him.

Knowing the Shadows is Only Half the Battle

The other day I was wall-to-wall chatting with an old friend in the States, the Brycester. I hadn't heard from the guy in years, and when I asked where he'd been he made a reference to Plato's Cave.

Story goes something like this: imagine there were these prisoners in this cave and have been there all their lives. They're facing a large wall in the cave and behind them is what appears to be another wall, but above there's actually another level where their captors are. The captors have a big fire and cast shadows on the wall in front of the prisoners. Now, to these prisoners, these shadows are their whole world, it's all they know. When they see a shadow of a chicken, they call it a chicken because as far as they know it is a chicken.They don't know about the fire and the captors and the fact that these are the ones casting a shadow of a chicken.
What these captors are doing hoisting a chicken about aimlessly behind a fire as opposed to roasting the fucker is beyond me, but anyway...

Now, imagine one of the prisoners got free. Imagine he turned around, saw the other level, saw his captors and realized they were casting these shadows. He'd been in a dark cave for so long, with nothing but the diffused light from the fire. Imagine if he looked into the fire, how bright it would be.

Imagine the fear in that person, the confusion, the anger - everything he knew to be real was a mere shadow, an illusion. This was the real world, and it was strange and painful and bright.

However, eventually the prisoner would acclimatize, even be happier, knowing the truth. But that prisoner would never be able to go back to his fellow prisoners. He'd never be able to convince them without freeing them first and showing it to them first hand, they'd just think he's nuts. And he'd never be able to go back to the way he used to be, not with the knowledge he now has.

Plato used this allegory to illustrate "our nature in its education and want of education". What we know to be truth until discovering the truth. Knowledge is power, and once knowledge is known, going back to ignorance is impossible.

And though the Brycester may still wonder whether it is his hands or just a shadow, I on the other hand got out of the cave...

...but I'm still not quite acclimatized. I still haven't fully accepted the facts yet, I'm still reeling, affected by the truth. And in truth, a part of me wishes I could go back to the cave, but there's no way. There's no way I can return to that level of ignorance. The truth was staring me at the face the whole time, but all I saw was shadows.

That discovery of knowledge threw my entire world in skew and I've been trying to balance myself ever since, and even though I thought I'd made some headway it turned out I was still biding time, distracting myself with work thinking I was moving forward, making my way out further from the cave and into the real world so that I could cast my eyes on the sun, but I'm not there yet. I'm still down at the crossroads.

But I'm trying. I'm trying real hard to step out into the sun.