In the Fog

The fog is all around Wyatt. I can’t pull him out now. He has only two options: remain in fog or come to our side. Brady and I are here on this side. 

I discovered Brady here with me at dinner the other day—actually before dinner: he asked me about Wyatt and I responded, and he cowed me with his eyes. I jumped, rabbit-like, away from his eyes, feet grinding invisible grain beneath me. I know he sees I’ve apprehended some truth, I saw it in his eyes. At dinner he doesn’t talk to me, he doesn’t open to me. His questions are broken and half-responded. He has responses for his own questions. Wyatt, a child, plays along, whirling his ice-cream with a spoon. I, too, am a child, but I’m out of the fog—I think—with Brady. Brady and I know we’re out and know the other’s out. We both vie for influence over Wyatt’s mind. Wyatt, blank, without understanding, believes I am on a journey with him; he thinks Brady is static, found a comfortable place. Brady and I hurtle at a million miles an hour through information and thoughts, we don’t stop. Wyatt’s mind is stuck in a rut, wheels floating round in infinite mud, blind to truth. We have yet to throw out ropes, but we are both scrambling to find the best way to do so. Wyatt thinks he can influence my mind—he hasn’t yet. He’s just made me sad for him. He resents my pity, yet he takes it. He can’t buck this burden I’ve let fall. Only I can remove it. How can I remove it while he remains enshrouded in fog. Step through the door and we’ll be equals. 

But Wyatt doesn’t know. He wonders why I don’t take his advice. I already know how the game is played, I see it from the outside. Brady and I do. Brady’s a few meters ahead of me—hurtling, as always—but a few meters makes a world of difference. Brady, I know what you’re up to. Good man, but unclear motives.

Why didn’t Brady reveal himself at dinner? I know he knew I knew. He wouldn’t throw his eyes at mine; he wouldn’t be straightforward. He leaned his head back and moaned of a brain freeze. The great equalizer, I joke. Wyatt laughs, Brady keeps his eyes tightly shut, head folded back onto the booth seat. Uhhh, he moans through grated teeth. I take the liberty of glaring at the bottom of his chin. It’s wiry with grey hair, like mine with black. I look back at Wyatt: his head bobs with childish mirth. Why can’t he see. 

A Brief Analysis of Edge of Tomorty: Rick Die Repeat

   

     Well bois, we did it. After two years of waiting, Season 4 is upon us. Hopefully you spent that time doing something productive instead of just sitting around and shitposting like an incel. If you haven't already watched the season premiere, I suggest you do so before reading this analysis. Working (and legal) link here: https://www.adultswim.com/videos/rick-and-morty/

     Roiland and Harmon clearly put their time into making this premiere well worth while. I didn't know what to expect after waiting 2 years, but I definitely wasn't expecting something this grandiose, and was not disappointed.

     Our misadventures begin as has come to be expected at this point: at the breakfast table. This time around, however, the remnants of family drama in season 3 are at the forefront of the scene. Rick is no longer "Completely in control" of the family as he was in the beginning of season three, and is clearly still peeved about it, but I will touch more on that later.

     As the episode progresses (without too many spoilers), we see firsthand some dynamic character changes. Firstly, Morty is no longer the helpless, pathetic 14-year-old from previous seasons. He has grown increasingly cynical of Rick and forgoes all caution, striving only to satisfy himself, no longer playing the role of a mindless sidekick, as is reinforced also by the new family relations.

     At the same time, Rick experiences closure to the old way the Smith family functioned. It becomes clear that his threat of always switching to a better reality is rather empty as he is repeatedly cloned into alternate realities, where he experiences Ricks and Morties who take on exotic roles, from hardcore fascists to insect killing wasps. Wasp Rick tells C137, "When you're born that big an asshole, the least you can do is have a little empathy. Now come have dinner with my family." As C137 has dinner with the Wasp Smith family, he undergoes some self-reflection as he sees how well the Wasp Smiths get along and agree with each other. "We're Wasps, not Monsters," Says Wasp Rick.
     "I guess I don't have it as bad as I thought," says C137 to himself.

    After a wild battle sequence involving a Giant holographic Rick made flesh, the episode concludes with the gang deciding that it is important to both plan ahead and live in the moment, a theme we will likely see repeating later this season.

CLOSING THOUGHTS

 - The creators successfully managed to make light of extreme left/right wing politics that have arisen in the US today. Not only were these themes appropriately handled, but were comedic regardless of the viewer's political ideology, a feat which is rarely seen today.

 - Many references of lore were used throughout this episode. Whether this will continue throughout Season 4 is yet to be seen, but it was refreshing to see the levels of continuity in which the creators will go to.

 - As was implied by Rick's multiple reality shifts, we will likely see multiple Ricks again this season, and possibly Evil Morty.

 - Despite previous concerns, the show remains as edgy, charged, and graphic as ever, which should please many hardcore fans

 - The show continues to break the fourth wall on a semi-regular basis, again continuing themes from previous seasons.

 - Mr. Goldenfold is still one of the most iconic and humorous characters in the series, in my humble opinion.

Pain as Pleasure

A friend of mine recently recommended an episode of Black Mirror to me, in which a doctor is able to feel his patients' pain. The doctor finds himself enjoying the pain, to the point where he is unable to perform his job correctly. Eventually, he realizes he can enjoy pain by hurting himself, and the rest of the episode features him "cutting bits of his body off."
Though I'm not a masochist, or into self harming, I do identify with the doctor in some way. Take hot-sauce, for example. Plenty of people enjoy hot-sauce, and I can't speak for any of them, but personally, I enjoy the pain. I remember eating crushed ghost peppers sophomore year in track season: I told my pals it invigorated me, but I just enjoyed the pleasure I derived from the pain.
My first memorable exposure to enjoyment of pain goes back to visits to the D.O. as a child. As the doctor pressed and pulled the muscles in my neck and back, I found myself relishing every moment, especially the uncomfortable ones.
I should clarify that this is not sexual pleasure, but a unique, mild euphoria that is exclusively induced by pain.
Another similar physical experience is the use of a TENS unit. I'm not sure what these are typically for, but I have enjoyed many hours on the table at the chiropractor being zapped by this pleasure-generating pence machine. When turned all the way up, the TENS keep forcing one's muscles to contract, and can hurt quite a bit. At points, it's so pleasurable that I am basically laughing and drooling into the face towel while convulsing uncontrollably. It sounds disgusting, but feels extraordinary.
These physical pleasures are lovely, but they are nothing compared to the enjoyment induced by emotional pain. At this point, it becomes more about the aesthetic than the pleasure. Imagine an artist making a beautiful art piece, and then destroying it in a creative, unique way. Was the art the piece that was destroyed, or does the art encompass both the destroyed piece and the entire act? Obviously, half the artistry is the creative act of destruction