Accepting the Godhead

In Frank Herbert’s Dune Messiah, he writes about the Godhead. It’s a concept voiced by Paul Atreides, and one he wrestles with for a large portion of the novel.

As the Galactic Emperor, his Jihad has claimed the lives of billions and sterilized entire planets. The fire he started has raged and he fears the destructive potential still to come in his name. The godhead, as it’s defined, is his acceptance of the worship. To become of the mind that you are what people say you are when they speak with hyperbole sparked by incredible emotion.

If Paul were to accept the Godhead, it would spell the end of freedom in the universe and religious fascism would become the law by blood. Paul, in his prescience, is aware of this godhead, and sees the potential in not accepting; the ability to curtail what he had started. The golden path, and the alternative.

I know a man, older than me, who wants to see people reach their potential. I’ve worked with him for several years, and we became friends as well. This man has decades of experience our industry, he’s travelled the world for a multitude of reasons, and he has a depth that can be felt just being near him.

When I told him this, he replied with, “I’m just a guy who’s been around.” And it’s that humbleness that draws me to him. He could easily position himself as a superior in that way a person at that level can do, but he remains grounded and approachable—to the point where his accolades and experience come as a shock. The man is the definition of the unassuming.

I know another man, younger than me, who also wants to see people reach their potential. The difference is that the younger man has accepted the Godhead and turned his back on some of his “worshippers,” to continue with the Dune metaphor. It gave him an air of disingenuousness and gave of warning signals I didn’t know how to process. It’s been years since this guy has been in my life, but his personality stuck with me.

Here's where I show my true colours.

In Christopher Nolan’s The Dark Knight Rises, Joseph Gordon-Levitt plays a character named John Blake. Blake grew up in an orphanage, funded by the Waynes, after his mom died in childbirth and his dad was killed over gambling debts, a murder John witnessed firsthand. In the first act, he tells Bruce Wayne about recognizing the emotional mask Bruce wears every day to hide the pain, and at the same time insinuates that it’s why he knows Batman’s identity.

It's a scene that lasts less than three minutes and Christian Bale is only there to prompt JGL’s monologue. It’s maybe the stickiest piece of filmmaking that’s ever crossed my path, because the metaphor of recognizing your pain in others has been central to the formation of my core in my adult life.

After the anger burnt itself out and I began to heal again, it was pop culture—like it’s always been—acting as my parables. I grew up in the Catholic School system, and because of that I was taught the value of relating stories to real life at a very young age. That’s translated into a life where reading the news makes my brain recall scene after scene and line after line.

So, when I encountered this guy, wearing the insecurity on his sleeve and posturing, I got stuck thinking about John Bolton again. Well, John Bolton and King Geoffrey, when Tywin Lannister tells him “Any man who must say, ‘I am the King’, is no true king.”

This has happened over and over again in my life, what I feel is a confrontation with an alternate reality. People will remind me of someone who never existed—me, if things were differently ways.

I was a teenage Nazi in this life and in this world, there absolutely is a world out there where Skin Head Joel is a horrible stain on society because maybe I didn’t have the role models and friends that I do in this life. There’s a version of me who took to trombone as seriously as I took to guitar just two years later. There’s a version of me who really never grew up and got stuck in the cycle of “entry level positions”. There’s a version of me who didn’t care to solve the anger. There’s a version of me who died.

There are a million different versions of me that don’t exist, because I got lucky. But, it’s like the Macho Man said, “luck is when opportunity meets preparation, and I made that happen for myself.” I don’t undercut the work I have done, but the opportunities that have come my way have been fortunate to have the brain I have. It creates all these hypothetical versions of myself that I see in the most extreme personalities around me, and it’s what has kept me from reverting to one of these banished personalities.  

I meet so many people because of my career choice, exploring bite sized pieces of personalities. Some I want to lift pieces from, like the older man. He’s got a rock-like disposition I aspire to. But for every one of him, there’s ten people teaching me how not to behave. People that remind me of myself when I needed help the most, and it keeps me soft. It keeps the edge from forming for anything other than moments, it keeps the grudges at bay, and most importantly it keeps me happy.

I’ve got a memory of being a teenager where I’m telling myself that all I want to be when I grow up is happy. I think I’m finally getting a handle on things.