Brokenness (The Turntable)

     The simplest metaphor is often the best and, paradoxically, the most complex.

     Many metaphors suffer from an excessive specificity. The scope of the metaphor becomes limited and is only applicable to a single situation and, despite being tailor-made for that situation, creates many holes in logic that detract from the message (see: Frog Sadist post). Such metaphors often create a "Well, duh," moment for the reader, who, rather than having a revelatory experience, ends up feeling offended that the author would use such an asinine explanation to handhold them through an excerpt.

     Additionally, long, arduous metaphors leave the reader stumped. He or she is forced to re-read a section multiple times to dissect the meaning from the text, leading to frustration rather than gratification.

     Finally, metaphors can be too idiomatic. With idioms, not only is the meaning self-evident for anyone that would derive substance from it and thus arbitrary and cliché, but for those unfamiliar with it due to language or regional differences it reads as gibberish and serves to confound the reader rather than enlighten.

     These are obviously not definitive rules. Some of the best metaphors are pithy and specific metaphors that astound with the quality, cleverness, and/ or deftness of the comparison; when a metaphor is expounded upon with layer after layer of detail and continuity, each layer can seem to exponentially increase the reader's insight and appreciation (see: allegories); even idiomatic sayings can be cleverly deployed (typically in an ironic sense). The issues aforementioned are simply pratfalls that we as linguistic beings are prone to falling into.

     Even when employed deftly, metaphors of these kinds are fleeting. If they are used repeatedly, their cleverness and depth rapidly fade. The metaphor becomes a shadow of its former self, eventually fading into a spectre that will simply haunt the text rather than breathe life into it.

     There are metaphors, however, that seem to grow stronger every time that they are employed. These metaphors are basic, universal, and thematic. They evoke different meanings and responses depending on the situation. They have been around almost as long as the written word itself, found in the great Greek epics, Eastern writings, various scriptures, and of course modern literature.

     One such metaphor is "brokenness." I have been thinking about this metaphor a lot in my own life and every time I do I seem to come up with a different perspective on it.

     Brokenness as a metaphor has become so common that we don't notice it most of the time it is used. "I'm broken," is the reflexive response when you don't feel whole, that something is missing, whether that is due to something serious like a break-up, death, not landing a job that was within your grasp, or betrayal, or something trivial like a loss by a favorite sports team, the cable going out, or finding that the milk carton has been returned to the fridge empty. It's a simple way of conveying a complex emotion and conforms to whatever vessel it is placed in like water.

     The image of brokenness goes far beyond just the feeling of emptiness, incompleteness, or failure.  You've probably never thought about it, but the image beautifully extends beyond the initial shattered or empty feeling to the recovery stage as well. When something is broken, it will take intentional time and energy to fix it, and even after it is fixed it will never be the same, almost always resulting in a lack of quality.

     When a pot breaks, you can glue it back together and re-glaze it, but it will always have cracks and the structural integrity will always be compromised. When a road has collapsed from a pothole, it is fixed with a patch of asphalt to resolve the issue. The ride will always be bumpier in that one spot, though, and the scar of fresh tarmac will always be there. When our bodies heal, the wound is tender and much more susceptible to damage. We have to fend off infection and protect the wound, and no matter how well we do that we will still have a scar for the rest of our lives, resulting in a grotesque disfiguration and less sensation due to thicker skin. The applications for these extensions on the basic theme of brokenness are fairly self-evident, so you can derive them yourself. There is a central theme, though: brokenness never fully resolves, it just gets a little better with care and time.

     The reason this image has been bouncing around my skull is obvious; I am dealing with brokenness in my life right now. I am constantly battling the clinical depression that I have genetically inherited, coping with the loss of my father, struggling with college, having no idea even the general discipline I want to find a career in, and being unable to find a job. I am more broken now than I thought was possible. And the problem with being broken is that all structural integrity is gone, so now the simplest issues like losing internet or not finishing a run can ruin my day, whereas before I could let anything just bounce off of me and move on.

     I'm attempting my rudimentary repairs, but it's hard not to either look back at everything that has broken me or look forward at what I fear I will become- a grotesque reflection of my former self.

     There is hope from this metaphor though. Just a glimpse of it. Because, on rare occasion, brokenness leads to a stronger, better product in the end. In materials manufacturing, many materials are intentionally allowed to break because the material will actually form a stronger bond along the breaks. The material is imperfect and scarred, but strong and utilitarian. When a house is being built and is found to be unsound, it must be torn down and rebuilt from the foundation up. This is a costly endeavor, both financially and chronologically, but ultimately creates a home that will not need to constantly be repaired or that will endanger those that seek shelter in it. In electronics, gutting old, faulty parts and replacing them with newer, better ones results in a product greater than the original one. In any of these cases, you have to be willing to sacrifice lots of time and energy and the final form likely won't be what you had set out for, but if these sacrifices are made the dividends are great.

     I am currently trying to repair my turntable. It lost the signal from the left channel one day. I found out by dumb luck that tilting the table up at an angle would resolve the issue, but each day the angle got steeper. Eventually, I was past the forty-five degree boundary and the needle couldn't even stay on the vinyl anymore. So I had to do without the left channel. After my dad died, all I wanted to do was listen to his favorite records on the turntable that he gave me. But they sounded hollow and incomplete with only half of the song coming through the speakers. In a way, it was appropriate; the songs reflected my emotional and psychological state, as well as my feelings and emotions regarding my dad.

     The turntable is the closest tie that I have left to my dad, and even though it is only valued at around $50 nowadays I can't bring myself to replace it. I mean, I had already replaced the needle cartridge on it for the cost of the entire player, and that was while he was still alive. So I devoted 2 straight days to opening up the chassis, testing everything, and re-soldering bad connections. I figured out the issues and was certain that my patch jobs, as unglamorous as they were with globs of solder and electrical tape everywhere, would bring the machine back to it's former glory. Then, as I closed it up, all of my connections broke again beyond repair. I almost embedded the damned thing in the wall. My failure to fix the brokenness of the turntable reflected my inability to fix the brokenness inside myself. It represented a continually growing gap between my father and myself. I was the turntable, analog in a digital world, a relic handed down from the last generation with faulty wiring unwilling to be mended, desperately clinging to the after images of better times.

     My setback with the turntable is certainly a major one; my best attempts at repair have only made matters worse. The internal wiring can be replaced, though. The bad parts can be gutted and replaced with newer, better pieces. I can resurrect the treasure that my dad gave me and even include a little bit of myself in it. And of course I can still get help from a professional, albeit at an exorbitant rate. I am still the turntable. I can still do all of these things. I still have hope.