Pessimism, enemy number one.

I am currently enrolled in a modern political theory class and so far it has been fascinating. The professor has been focusing on classic theorists and applying their teachings to today's current political situation. Thus far we have studied Machiavelli, who is a genius through and through. Recently he had us watch the classic film "The man who shot Liberty Valance." starring John Wayne and James Stuart. It deals with many important issues, among them being how a town or a state should be run. The two opposing views clash throughout the film, Wayne advocating an anarchy of sorts, a man who solves his own problems and then there is Stuart who is a man of law and order and government. The beautiful thing about the film is that it isn't overbearing and overplayed, the way they advocate their beliefs isn't on the surface, you have to look and really analyze the film to understand the two.

The bit that I focused on, was not the main story line, as fascinating as it was. There was something else at play, the subject of proper journalism. There are two different journalists in the film. The one in the beginning, Maxwell Scott, and the one in the past, Dutton Peabody. The two are exactly opposite when it comes to journalistic integrity.

Peabody can be characterized as not only the sole Newspaper man in the entire town, but also the town drunk. The audience grows fond of his wit and antics throughout the movie. It is clear that Peabody is a raging alcoholic, so much so that when the bar is closed during elections, he nearly has a panic attack. Despite all of this, when it comes to the news, he is a devout and honorable man. He is the only one brave enough to speak up against Liberty Valance. John Wayne waves his gun about threateningly, Stuart speaks of the law and persecuting him, but it is Peabody who writes the truth about Valance, knowing full well it could get him killed. Peabody is constantly scavenging town, searching for a story, trying to find the truth. When nominated for office, Peabody has no desire to take up such a post because of his desire to stay completely committed to keeping politicians on their toes. He speaks out in protest upon the nomination and says,

"Good people of Shinbone; I, I'm your conscience, I'm the small voice that thunders in the night, I'm your watchdog who howls against the wolves, I, I'm your father confessor!"

This is the kind of journalist I want to be. One who shuns any opportunities that involve putting down the pen and picking up the mask. He is brilliant, a drunken mad man, but brilliant.

Maxell on the other hand, embodies all that I loathe in journalism. He is rude, pushy and self absorbed. He uses the readers as an excuse to act like an ass. When Stuart is sitting in the funeral home, observing the coffin, Maxwell enters and shouts that he needs a story, that the people have a right to know. He interrupts the moment of grievance for his precious story and then once he gets it, he hides the truth and throws it away. Maxwell is the character who famously said

"No, sir. This is the West, sir. When the legend becomes fact, print the legend."

He hides the real story in order to protect the people in ignorance, to keep the idyllic form of life that everyone is so used to. What Maxwell did was decide that he knew what was best for everyone else. It is not a journalist's place to make such judgments. When it comes down to it, a journalist needs to be ferocious and stop at nothing to get the story, but when he gets it he needs to type it up in an unbiased fashion and put it to print. No one needs to hear his opinion, if he wants to share his opinion, he can do that on his own time. Stories printed in a paper are supposed to be factual. There is no need for flowery language and grand assumptions on the writer's part. Maxwell had an obligation to print that story. He had no place to cover it up, the fact that Stuart was telling him at all was fascinating, if a Senator gives away such a massive tale, you type it up and distribute it to the people! Especially if it redeems a man who was so wronged and so overlooked by history, a man worthy of praise and honor.

I currently can't help but find myself in a state of pessimism though, these Maxwells of journalism seem to be the only journalists out there, or they are at least the majority. How in the world am I supposed to change anything when I am so outnumbered? What can I possibly do in the face of such odds? All I can do is try, all I can do is actually care, unlike most of my colleagues. I'm just going to jump and hope at some point during the fall, I'll evolve and grow wings.

What the fuck was I thinking?

Truth tends to be a pesky noun. Often times in life you will find that people claim that they are the advocates of truth, but more often than not they are actually the people that fear it the most. I tend to be one of those hypocrites. Constantly I search for what is true or real in life, but when it comes down to looking inside of myself and dealing with the ugly truth that directly effects me, that's a completely different story.

I enjoy criticism, I thrill in knowing what people really think of me, but if it has to do with a character flaw I am loathe to realize it. Mainly because of my personality, once I see a problem I have to fix it, I won't rest until I find a solution. So as a result I will stew and focus on nothing but this sliver of truth until it drives me absolutely mad.

I have an immense amount of respect for those who can self evaluate with little fear, who can admit when they are wrong and be happy with themselves. If I see in myself a single flaw that is my fault, I can't forgive that single weakness. I'll beat up on myself until I feel that I've thrashed my dying inner child into submission. I've discovered a new chink in my armor today, one that I've known about all along, but I finally got a really good look at it.

I have this marvelous ability to attract or be attracted to dysfunctionality. I find it in people, I find it in work, I find it in myself. I am fascinated by notoriously damaged people, like the writers and journalists that are depicted as being rather insane self medicaters. Their lives are tragic, because despite their brilliance in so many areas they still have no insight or control in their own existances. There is something so raw and real about that, so ironic... I feel that I went from someone who has had her head on her shoulders to this (as a friend coined) burning ball of fuck. Slowly I've been morphing myself into the cliche.

Perhaps the fact that I am aware of all of this is the most worrying piece of the puzzle. I see myself heading in a poor direction, and like some freak who gets off on desctruction I am bighting my lip and clenching my fists with a feeling of elation in my soul all the while.

It is also quite possible this is all in my head, that I am full of shit.

Ah well..

This was all brought on when a good friend revealed the true motives of a mutual acquaintence. It was just further proof that I have impossible expectations. I go for the wrong thing, always.

I think my own issues can be linked to the American society at large. Perhaps as a nation we are all masochists. We all secretly want to see the world burn but have to keep our faces clear and bright and filled with hope. I've been reading Machiavelli, and his works point out one clear fact about humans. You must not assume that all people are evil, but the evil they are capable of. If we are not looking to put ourselves into ruin, just for that one aggrandizing and glorious moment where we can pull ourselves out of the wreckage and receive praise for our strength of will, then we are sadists. We want to see others hurt so that we can remind ourselves of our humanity. If no one was ever hurt or no one ever tried to hurt another, then we would never have the chance to show everyone how thoughtful and caring we are. It is all a grand show we put on for other people, Social Sadism and Masochism are the giant pink elephants in every home. We all know that they are there, but we continue to watch the news and hope for something catastrophic.

So perhaps I am not so strange, perhaps I am just like everyone else after all.


Then again, I find that very unlikely.