Typical me, typical me, typical me, typical me
Typical me, typical me, typical me
I started something and now I'm not too sure
~ The Smiths, 1987
All of a sudden I'd decided I wanted to be a filmmaker. I enrolled for a film production diploma, spent weeks researching cameras and equipment, bought all the required and relatively expensive kit, spent a good few weeks working out how it all worked, put together some production schedules, started the process of assembling a small guerrilla crew and put out casting calls for actors. Everything seemed to be coming together. I was so excited at the potential results that all my efforts and dedication would bring! Then, just as suddenly as my decision to embark on this exciting newfound journey as a filmmaker, I stopped everything I was doing in connection with it. I cancelled all that I had in the pipeline. I put the camera and the other equipment back in the boxes which have been sitting on shelves gathering dust ever since.
The wait to find out where I'd be going and what I'd be doing was nerve-racking. The sheer joy I felt when the news finally came was immeasurable. I had been accepted by my first choice of university to do the degree I wanted. My dream of a career as a mathematician and physicist was now swinging full steam ahead. I spent much of my time excitedly mapping out which modules I would be taking. Particle physics, astrophysics, quantum mechanics, complex numbers, game theory, group theory, and more; there was much to entice me! I was thrilled with the fascination and enthrallment all of this would bring. I had an unquenchable thirst to learn and discover as much as possible and fulfil my vision as an eminent scholar! It didn't last; I gave up, did very badly and got nowhere.
There are many other pivotal moments throughout my life that tell the same story. I could tell you about the job I'd been wanting to get for years, the jubilation on finally getting it and the subsequent complete loss of interest shortly after starting; the time I started another degree with the usual manic enthusiasm only to find that it faltered within the first few weeks leading me to withdraw; the period during lockdown where I developed a sudden and incredible desire to become a fine artist, spending weeks meticulously researching, learning and buying materials only to once again find the canvas of my enthusiasm torn to shreds; the time I realised I was destined to be a musician, the effort I put into music and songwriting and the endless search to find the perfect guitar. I bought an absolutely beautiful Fender stratocaster in a burgandy matte finish and maplewood neck only to find, shortly after, that the music just stopped for me.
During a conversation with a bunch of like-minded folk a few years ago, I outlined this perennial start-stop affliction that had overshadowed my life. In each case, I explained, I get a sudden urge to start something. Then, I devote all my time and energy to it, thoroughly and meticulously researching my new interest in every conceivable detail. I am always convinced it's something I really want to do and go all in with boundless enthusiasm and excitement. And in every single case, it all comes tumbling down barely before it's taken off. One of the group remarked, "hmm ... there's something going on for you there", to which the others nodded in agreement!
The room was dark, cold, silent. The curtains drawn. I'd been lying on my bed for hours. I had been trying to figure out what was going on for me. I have a vague recollection of feverishly wondering why my life was the way it was. An endless array of start-stops making it feel empty, cold, distant. At the time I lacked the capacity for any particularly revealing insight and the burden of my existentialist questioning remained heavy and challenging. I then made a decision: there was no point in trying to achieve anything because my efforts, my very identity, anything I ever did, was never acknowledged and, if it was, it wasn't good enough anyway. I was overwhelmed. I cried, and I cried and I cried. It was a life-changing moment: I resolved myself to a life of failure without even realising. I was seven.
The butterfly effect is "the sensitive dependence on initial conditions in which a small change in one state of a deterministic nonlinear system can result in large differences in a later state" (Wikipedia). The moment of decision I experienced, a critical determinant of how my future would unfold, was incredibly profound. I am able to trace back the really big decisions throughout my life, and the very path my entire life has taken, to one innocent flicker of thought I had one night in the room of my childhood. It was the moment my soul died. It was my butterfly moment.
I still have the Fender. It's leaning against the shelves with the storage boxes of film equipment, thickly coated with the dust of the life I never had.
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