April 29, 2018
Submitted by: Paul Riley
What I remember first is the darkness. On the edges of the scene, it's a starless black. In the middle is a man fleeing from the unseen driver peering through the windshield. We see this man's stumbling gait and know he will not escape. What chance does a broken body stand against 20th century technology? It will not take long.
He collapses. We see his pudgy face bewildered and afraid; we see the physique of every paunchy father who spends his workday sitting; we see defeat.
But the man stands and takes a moment to view his adversary, eyes to high beams. It's in that moment that he sees an opening, a chance to survive. In reverse, the car speeds away, but can't escape the blazing path that has sprung from the hands of this man. The video ends in flames. Nobody gets out alive.
"Karma Police" by Radiohead has never left my memory since I first saw it nearly 20 years ago. But less important to me is the video. It's one brief lyric that has clawed its way into my brain, never to leave, a perfect phrase that resurfaces in all those moments of sober realization: "For a minute there, I lost myself."
I've been thinking at lot about the gap between who I want to be and the person who actually shows up to play each morning. I often feel like I'm not living up to the ideal version of Paul Riley that I've developed over three decades of reading, discussing and idolizing. And when I fall short, I feel like the ideal me stays on the bench while another version runs out to the field, gnashing his teeth at enemies real and imagined, stumbling over himself like a fool.
It's in these moments when I consider the many mistakes I've made out of anger and sadness. I think of the friends I've hurt, the friends I've lost, the venomous bile of hatred and rage I've spat out to flood the streets of cities and towns I speed through on my way to a better place to be. In so many ways, I've failed.
Then I remember what I've known for years: there are three Paul Rileys. There's the ideal: the wannabe Mr. Rogers whose limitless compassion and curiosity prevents him from contributing to the suffering or distress of anyone. There's the dismal me: the despicable creature skulking through the world with malice toward all and charity toward none. There's the real me: somewhere between, unable to be either of the other imagined persons because there will always be distance from the ideal as well as from the villain. They exist to provide context for the real me. They allow me to place myself on a continuum and recalibrate if necessary.
I think of that man in the video, the one pursued by a faceless driver. I think of his pasty face, his squinting eyes, his resignation at the end of the road. And I remember that I don't have to keep running, that when I fall, I can choose to stand up, to turn around, look at where I am and make a choice.
So here I am today: reflecting on three or four years of discontent and anger, choosing to stand up. I tell myself, "For a minute there, I lost myself," and I get back to work.