Here I am, trying my best to be Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window. I’ve got the banged up foot and oodles of time on my hands, as well as binocs and a perverse sense of curiosity. I stare across the street at my
neighbors’ windows, but do they cooperate? No! Not a one is having a failed romance for public consumption, much less committing a murder for me to solve. And believe it or not, some of them are so rude as to close their blinds and draw their curtains, frustrating me and my desire to know all about them. I try to drag Julia into joining my speculations à la Grace Kelly, but she must do the 9-5 gig and take care of Cassidy before and after that.
People always dissemble, Rear Window seems to say, thus the only way to truly know them is surreptitiously. We look from behind and see through their eyes--we know what they are trying to hide and discover the truth of them. This sort of voyeurism requires active conjecture and it is this extrospection which forms the basis for a certain type of psychological sophistication. Looking inward only gets us so far when surveying the outer boundaries of the human psyche--we must look beyond ourselves to see the full range of our capabilities.
I sit in our living room--shut in and looking out. My mind wanders hither and thither and I invent what I require. There is something inherently immature in devoting one’s time to imagination and art, while others toil in the day to day, but also something essential. It is the creative process that elevates us, in whatever form it arises, and without it there is no point to the mundane toiling that comprises so much of our lives. So c’mon nabes, gimme a break and spice it up! Don’t shut me out--raise your blinds. I need something to work with here. Don’t do it for me, don’t do it for you--do it for Art! Do it for Lit! I promise I won’t tell anyone…but then I might.
