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12 December 2008 @ 09:03 pm
Theatrical Muse: Week 261: Question 261  
Name: Dr. Sid Hammerback

Fandom: CSI: New York

Word Count: 930


Which fictional character would you like to be?


In fiction there is elusiveness. In fiction, we are given the chance to escape our world and to briefly see something different, spun out in the words of someone truly talented. In fiction we are handed a beautiful reprieve, a chance to experience something else, a chance to forget about our troubles and our mishaps for a while. That may be called escapism, the shirking of responsibilities that have been given and should be adhered to in order to create a more well functioning society, but I believe that we need fiction. As humans, as who we are, with the tragic and exhilarating lives that we have, we need art and fiction and music so we can thrive and have joy and share, most of all, so we can share things with one another.

When I was a young boy, I collected comic books. The Green Lantern, Flash, Superman, X-Men, Batman, because I liked them, I liked the stories, and I could see in these struggles of noble men and women, all those little hidden meanings. Valour, the rise over depravity, heroism, the singularity of one man or woman against adversity, and the collective nature of a group of heroes standing up to defeat a great foe. All these wonderful stories in picture and word format, crying out tales of things that we thrive on, showing all the joy and the pain that art could bring. When I was a child, comic books made me happy because I could imagine that somewhere, in my heart, those people, those characters, they existed, and with them, anything was possible. I was a smart boy, not a terribly unpopular one, but I was thin and wiry and sometimes full of all the knowledge I had. I got beat up sometimes, and when I came home with a split lip, a scrape on the knee, I wished I could be a hero, so I wouldn’t have to suffer the minor cruelties of people bigger than me.

Nowadays, and even in my younger years, I have just as equal admiration for books, for both modern and classic literature. I am by no means, someone who is a writer, but I have been reading and understanding many things of a written or artistic nature for a long time. I have studied English to a certain degree, so I understand all the veiled meanings and the intrepid escapades of sentences and paragraphs, of chapters and arrangements of verse. In my spare time, in-between living, cooking and examining the deceased, I do perfectly adore a good book, something to be drawn into, to consider and mull over without picking it to too many pieces, less it fall apart. I suppose, in drinking in tales of heroism, of adversity overcome, love won, even rapid eco feminism as it sometimes occurs, I have learnt life lessons, I have expanded my vocabulary, become a better person. I like a good book, because not all things have to be real, and the imagination is one of our most valuable mental tools.

By way of the life that I have lived, the experiences I have had and the knowledge that I have gained, I am a reasonably well spoken and imaginative individual. Having the repertoire of things I have read, I remember many fictional characters that I have been aware of in the long past, and in more recent times, that I would not have minded assuming the lives and experiences of. This is where I am tempted to drift into psychological and philosophical musings, but this is a mere imaginative exercise, the intention of which is to imagine, without any real culpability of excessive realism about it.

I suppose, if I could be a fictional character, I would be someone who went on a great adventure, had a great love, one of those tales of heroism and triumph over adversity. I would be Superman perhaps, or even Romeo, someone who could be great, someone who would be remembered if they ever disappeared. Someone to go down in history perhaps, a great figment of something otherworldly and imaginative. Yet that is what sets me apart from considering this an innermost desire. Being someone else, someone fictional, this is still an imaginative exercise, not something to be stored away in the depths of my psyche, to be brought up later, strung with ardour and emotion.

Despite what I have experienced, despite what tragedy I have seen, despite the horrific nature of the deaths of the people who pass by on my table in the morgue, given the chance however, I would not become someone else. I am too much in love with the life I have here in New York City, with the life I have led up until now, as well as the life I lead now, and the life I will continue to lead in the future. No matter what I have experienced, irrelevant of all the characters I have read of, the stories I have vivaciously lived through, imagining them as if they were real, I love my life. I love where I live, who I have lived with, and everything that I will ever gain as precious, everything precious, also, that I have ever lost. Imagination is all very fine, and I love mine dearly, for it has saved me and enthralled me for decades, but I love my own life, what I have, and have had, more so than anything else fictional constructed out of whim and sentences and prearranged narrative structures by people with magical hands and minds.
 
 
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