All the acts of love that go unseen and unknown, where do all those thoughts and gestures go, the ones that live inside of us and become expressed in our daily lives; our words, our food, our way to work.
These gestures misdirect others. Instead of knowing you, they learn the remnants of your lost love. Your sudden predilection for Italian food- the one you love is living in Rome. You make your pizza pilgrimage because this act is a living memory to feel a little closer, a gesture of love. The real story, the true story happening in the under currents of someone’s mind, can make us all seem a little like Hitchcock’s Psycho.
The spitting image of a upstanding white American male, Norman personifies his psycho by cross-dressing, imprinting on the American imagination that a man dressed as a woman can easily fall into violent instability. Norman misses his mother to such an extent that his psyche takes it one step further and his personality splits and becomes the other. However, the split has its flaws. The mother Norman introduces to us is only an interpretation of his mother, distorted by Norman’s own fears and desires.
Say a new person meets someone already in love such as Norman and his love for his deceased mother. As you are getting to know this person, some of his phrases could actually be quotes from the beloved; his fascination with vinyl, the beloved was a DJ; his fascination with a certain city, his beloved suggested he make a visit.
Now you’ve gathered all these golden nuggets of information, the treasured and interesting remains of your beloved. You find yourself twittering that phrase, including his specific word choice in an article. You develop an interest in vinyl and make efforts to visit Singapore.
Then someone falls in love with you, reads your articles and becomes interested in Singapore thinking this is you when in fact it was a memory of someone twice removed or who knows how far it goes back and to who or what was the original.
This happens in Psycho, these redherrings to the truth. The characters think they know the plot but the plot is actually a drama within a drama. It becomes another case of Rosencrantz and Gildenstern. You think you’re getting Hamlet or that you are Hamlet but you’re just unlucky, like Rosencrantz and Gildenstern, carrying around fool’s gold. Where does all that unseen love go?