The reality of the chained prisoners is merely… shadows on a wall. They can’t move out of the cave and see what is yet to be experienced, all they can do is watch these shadows. It’s the experiences of the outside world translated into vague images. And they’ve learned to value these images.
They’re basically watching TV.
In Plato’s Allegory of the Cave, the one that is willing to step out of the cave is the enlightened one. To view the outside world, the green grass, the humans hunting down their prospective food, it should all come together, right? A new vocabulary, or in this case, experiences informing the imagery they’ve known.
Yet again, wouldn’t this outside world present as imagery? That’s all the prisoners know to term? Would they know they were in reality?
…
And… that’s how I got fired.
I got fired for enlightening my boss. As a small but well respected news company, I believed we should focus on representing stories that matter. The smaller stories of value, such as a long lost cat returned to its owners, or a local ice cream social hosted by 8 year olds, or just something that isn’t “crime”.
People see crime in the media ALL THE TIME. A child kidnapped, a grocery store robbed, a man mugged… These stories are just overrepresented. If people watched the news to be informed, crime is all they would know when it came to the news. And the viewers would deduct this world as no world to raise a child in.
Other companies could take those stories.
I didn’t want to cover a criminal case. The guy was involved with the FBI! I didn’t want to interview the victim. Every news channel would want to cover that, and I cared about my safety.
I wasn’t happy doing that. So I politely refused. I left a neatly folded note on my Boss’s desk that basically read “You suck at choosing stories.” Maybe I could’ve left an explanation. Shortly after, I was fired.
But I would like to think I walked out of the cave.
…
The sharp lights weaseled their way through the blinds into the bedroom. Words and instruments translated into noise as they muffled against the glass. It seemed familiar- the song.
My bed, under the windowsill, was lumpy to the foreign eye yet unsympathetic to my sleep. I burrowed under the blankets as they basked in the sparing streetlight, one eye forced shut by the springiness of my pillow and the other taut open staring at the boring old cracked wall. My belongings from work were scattered over the desk, the pens over the documents over the paperweight. And my notebook in the corner, unbothered.
It didn’t help that my notebook was turned to an unwritten page. A fresh page, illuminated by a convenient ray of light extending across the room.
Flying —– the —- to me; she —- in my —-
I needed to write. Something. I was a journalist after all.
She kept the —- for herself; Angered —- lined the —–
I couldn’t go back to my company. Though, no one said I had to stop journalism. Take a small story, make it big- that’s the formula. Easy enough..?
I leaped out of bed and made my way out of the apartment. With a shoe half-laced and a single phone in my pocket, I paced around the city.
it’s just a dream that never stays in color, feelings that will always be forgetful
What was I looking for? A story- that was clear. But how was I supposed to know when I had found it?
The moment I crossed the 6th block, I had found my story. The words were finally clear. There my story lay, Derrick Frane, sitting on a greyed bench listening to his own band on the loudspeaker of an insignificant boutique.
It would be small enough for this county and still touch the world : “From Wilnesburg to Global Music Legend- A Talk With Derrick Frane.” I was lucky enough to encounter a legend on his day of reminiscence.
Every news firm would know my name. Journalists may even want to cover me! I’m glad I was lucky, this broken musical legend was gonna be my next story.
with just one wish, I would hold it close to my heart.
…
“So why’d you quit music?”
“Excuse me?”
He looked distastefully at my mouth. I didn’t see anything wrong with my question, so I pitched it again.
“Why did you quit making music?”
“You’re really starting off with that? I give you the opportunity to interview me and you ask me the one question I’ve been asked for the last 30 years.”
“Well that’s what everyone wants to know. Why your band still makes music 30 years later without you, their original singer.”
“What makes you think I’ll answer that? And for you?” He strained his voice with that last “you”.
“You’re just like any other journalist. No, you’re worse! You approach me at 4am, ask to interview me with no context, don’t tell me anything about yourself, and ask me the SAME question every journalist has asked me. What about a ’what is your favorite song?’ or ‘what music do you plan to release?’ or even a ‘how are you?’ would have been nice!”
I wasn’t particularly known for my professionalism. Although, neither was he. Sure you notice other facial features when you make eye contact but my eyes were just a little, a little… above my mouth.
He had gotten up and began to walk away. But I needed this story.
“Fine, fine, I apologize for trying to skip ahead in the conversation!” I grabbed his hand. “My name is Matt and I’m a journalist for The Observer Times.” I couldn’t hide the nervousness in my face as I mentioned my previous company, but Frane didn’t know that. “I want to cover your story and just get to know you as a person and what you’re up to today.”
He raised his eyebrows and stared at me for what felt like a minute. This was going to be hard.
“So, how are you?”
…
“So when did that happen?”
“It happened in 1982. Not bad for our first record deal.”
“Okay. And what did you feel at the moment?”
“It was like the water that I was drowning in drained itself. I thought I was in the ocean but it turned out to be a mere swimming pool. Everything that I worked for, all the parties and even the classes I skipped couldn’t have been more worthwhile. It all became real.”
I scribbled down his answers on my notepad. It was becoming incomprehensible with time, but I had my phone transcribing to accompany the scratch.
“Alright. This is great. Thank you so much.” I extended my hand out to Frane and smiled.
He smiled back. “Anything else I could help you with?”
I had answers for everything related to the history of his music in his words, from when he first grew interested in music to when the band signed their first deal. This would all make an excellent story, but is this really… interesting?
“Yes, I think so. Actually, could I have your- number, in case I come up with any other questions?” I didn’t wish for it to seem like I didn’t care enough.
“Sure.”
I rushed back to my apartment and got seated at my desk. I had to write it down while it was still fresh.
I hashed out an article in 30 minutes. Verbatim to what he said- filled with quotes.
It was so accurate, it was boring.
Listening to him was boring. What did he tell me that would make the story? Everyone knows his history with the band, would his predictable perspective really bring out expression in the readers?
So I called him again in the morning.
…
Grey trench coat, grey hat, head down, back slouched. He almost blended in with the bench, yet the shadows from the sunlight worked diligently to give him some contrast.
“Why’d you quit music?”
“Again, you come back to this?”
“Yes, that’s all I have left to know.”
“You mean that’s all everyone wants to know.”
“Yes, that’s all everyone wants to know.”
No more being nice. I was gonna be straight to the point.
“Well I’m not answering that.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not answering that.”
“Fine, I would like to know. Not for the readers. I would like to know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
I sighed. “No. But this is my job. This is every journalist’s job. It’s not my fault I keep asking you this question, it’s what makes the story.”
“But you still have the choice to love what you do. Do you love torturing people?”
“No-” I pinched my nose bridge.
He sighed and stared at the loudspeaker with expectant eyes. People crossed us as they passed the boutique and obstructed his view.
This was going nowhere. It was my turn to leave.
I had gotten up from the bench and began to walk on, right until Frane said 4 words.
“I was going deaf.”
He was deaf? I didn’t notice a hearing aid, not in one but in neither ear.
He chuckled, hands in his lap. He looked to his left and right, over and over again, almost as if he didn’t want any passerby to hear what he had said.
“I was in the fast lane. At 30, I was 22- Deals, parties, connections, I was having fun for the first time in my life. Then my right ear started to give out.”
My mouth was slightly parted as I listened and I didn’t even try to hide it. A musician losing his hearing, it was heard of, that’s for sure. But that’s why he … quit?
“Lucky for you, you’re on my left. What are you doing just listening to me? Get your notepad out.”
…
“What about the day you left the band? How did that feel?”
“I can’t go back to the day I left. I can’t remember.”
What? How could he not remember?
“How could you not remember?”
“It was so long ago, I don’t remember the details. I don’t remember what I said. I don’t remember what the room looked like, I don’t remember the young faces of my bandmates. All I see is their tears. And my own.”
“But what about when I asked you how it felt when the band received its first record deal? You said all your struggles seemed small at that moment and you felt your dreams manifest.”
“You see, I said the water I was drowning in drained itself. I didn’t say I was happy or that my struggles were an illusion-”
His face suddenly wrinkled. He was noticeably angry and I wasn’t sure why. He opened and closed his mouth in the same repetitive fashion he looked left and right. He wanted to speak and I could tell that.
“Look, Matt, you have a motive. And I know that. This story may make your whole career. You’re, what 26-”
“24.”
“Ok, yes, you’re 24. But you’re making this about you and you know that. I know that.”
“Making this about me? I’m not the well known music legend, you are. Your account is the one that makes the story, not mine.”
“But you’re not being truthful with me! I can tell, I can see it in your eyes!” He was yelling at this point. “You approach me with the same question over and over again with such ferocity, and you don’t see what’s wrong!”
“I’m Trying to se-”
“No, you don’t care what I have to say. I don’t want to answer that question. Maybe you should understand why I don’t want to answer before knowing the answer.”
I clicked my pen and set it to the notepad with no hesitation. What I wrote down didn’t matter anymore.
“Fine. Why do you not want to answer the question?”
“Because you don’t know how it feels to lose your hearing. How it feels to love music so deeply and build a purpose around song and then to inevitably lose. It means more to me than it could mean to anyone else. And yet, I can’t put it in words.”
“Put what into words?”
“There’s no words to describe what I felt when I knew I should leave. And when I did leave. And the pain my bandmates must have felt.
“But, there are. You felt hopeless and guilty and-”
“That is what you see. It’s not truthful! You need my experiences, my feelings, my values…”
He looked distraught, speechless, tapping his foot anxiously. Yet, there were subtle changes in his expression. I was about to get an answer. For real.
“I have kept this memory buried for several years, maybe it’s time it comes out. I began to lose hearing in my right ear at the age of 32. I was losing it- fast. I knew I would have to resign to it, so I started working harder. The harder I worked, the faster it seemed to go. I had to stop before I could lose everything. And so, I said farewell to my bandmates. They didn’t know.”
“You didn’t tell them you were losing your hearing?”
“They wouldn’t know how it felt.”
We sat in silence for a couple minutes.
“You’re a journalist, I’m sure you know the words to bring the magic back into the story.”
And his last 6 words shattered the ego I had built myself around:
“I don’t care what you write.”
…
It’s been almost 10 years since I met Frane..
I never published his story.
I took pride in my skills. My vocabulary- I knew exactly which words turn heads, that’s how I landed the job with the Observer Times in the first place, a job I so seemingly threw away by being a jerk.
But that’s exactly what words are for! They’re supposed to help us communicate our experiences to others, to give us the chance to record and share our experiences. After rewriting Frane’s story multiple times, however, I realized that very skill would fail him.
I understand now why Frane would dodge the question. He could begin to explain his account with intentions of vibrancy and realism, yet no complexity of words could convey his experience with the same intensity he felt it, all because I wasn’t Frane. It would be a story lost in translation.
Frane feared others reading his story, rather interpreting his story. But when he answered the question with an almost blunt recollection, I realized he just wanted to get it off his chest.
I’ve held many roles in multiple companies, some considerably more influential than The Observer Times. From global affairs to global efforts, I’ve completely lost sight of what I originally joined the journalism field for- the smaller stories.
All the words I write now are carefully curated for a larger audience. All the research, the interviews, the sheer effort I spend writing is to convey the truth. But is that what the people see?
Today, I write my account. Not his.
Maybe the words are mere shadows. All that matters is the words have taken shape.
…
The Loudspeaker turned on.
Flying with the angels to me; she landed in my hands
She kept the memory for herself; Angered stares lined the room
its just a dream that never stays in color, feelings that will always be forgetful
with just one wish, I would hold it close to my heart.
Frame went back to reminiscing while I walked away.