08/30/2024
I was asked today “what gives with the Mars Volta song & the line ‘I am of pockmarked shapes, the vermin you need to loathe’” in relation to my new novel Crimson Mirror. Well, it’s complicated, but I’ll try to boil it down as succinctly as possible.
One of, if not the most core of its themes is loss & the survivor’s guilt that can and often does come with that loss. This is especially true of loved ones and people who leave us prematurely, suddenly, tragically, and worst of all - preventably.
There’s a search we all undertake for meaning, for reason, and reconciliation in such a thing - and in one of life’s cruelest ironies, those of us capable of the most feeling and thoughtful of responses invariably turn the light of examination upon ourselves - eg. what could I have done differently, could I have prevented it, and so on. It’s a slippery slope, and it’s not long before one starts to blame themselves as being responsible or culpable.
Survivor’s guilt is a short-cycled species of internal suffering, meaning that once we’ve reached the delusional, destructive conclusion above, we’ll periodically but constantly remind ourselves of how we’d let those we’ve lost down to adequately punish ourselves for our transgression - this we believe eventually that we “deserve”.
The song uses the line in a slightly different context, but in Crimson Mirror it takes on a different meaning when it’s repeated, over and over again, in one characters’ internal prison in which they tell themselves “I am of pockmarked shapes, the vermin you need to loathe,” or, in other words, I am hideous and ugly, a terrible human being, and by you hating or despising me you make the loss of my loved one not the product of cruel chance, circumstance, or just unluck - for in that framing, our loss loses its significance and meaning.
The cold truth is this:
Our loved ones are sometimes just taken from us, pure and simple.
It’s rotten, it’s unfair, and it’s one of the very worst parts of living in my estimation. Here today, f**king gone tomorrow. I HATE IT. But it’s a lesson I only -just- learned, and I learned it only by writing this book.
I lost my best friend seventeen years ago like this, and I’ve destroyed myself from within in spectacular fashion at times and for long stretches, entirely trapped in a prison of my own making because I felt that it’s what I deserved. But I didn’t lose him, and it wasn’t my fault - he was taken from me, and from all of us.
I’ve at last shed that weight having written the catharsis in that point in the narrative, and that feeling of having that weight lifted can’t be accurately described with mere words.
My sincere hope is that even just one person out there who reads the book and deals with the same issue sees this as well, and with any luck will find even a measure of the same peace I did. You are not vermin. You are loved, and the first person who would tell you that is the very same one you’ve lost, wherever they are or may be.