I meant to come and write this about five hours ago. But I got distracted, as I am wont to do; by brown envelopes and coffee and rejigging the pipes under the bathroom sink and putting in a load of washing but forgetting detergent, or even to close the door until later when it's too late and I can see my keys spinning in clear water. And eventually by a film which Lena recommended to me almost a year ago but I...well, got distracted and never watched. So I finally unearthed it tonight, as a distraction from everything else that I should have been doing.
It was good, I see why she tried to make me watch it. But perhaps it's more fitting that I watch it now. The guy's wife dies, early on, and it takes until the end of the film for him to say it out loud. Finally he yells it so loud that his voice cracks, maybe he cracks too, a little. She said the whole thing reminded her of me. I can see why. It's grainy and dark and the main character is quiet, serious, out of place, shabby in dark clothes, with long-fingered hands, unshaven jaw and he uses ridiculous words. And he's completely lost, utterly devastated. Although those are things I've only picked up in the last six months.
Figure she wanted me to watch it so she could curl againt me with that knowing smile and nudge me whenever he did something that I do. Make jokes about how she deserves copyright payments for putting up with me. Kiss the corner of my mouth, realize I haven't shaved and nudge me again, bursting out in that huge, inappropriate laugh of hers. And I'd probably mutter at her and go back to my book, scribbling things in the margins and glancing at the movie over the top of it and my glasses. All of which will make her nudge me and demand to know why I'm in a film with ginger hair.
Instead I watched it alone in the basement, without reading, without any distractions for once. And without laughing. When he nearly cried, I nearly cried. But it doesn't take much to shove me to the edge of almost-crying. God only knows what it would take to make me actually cry, though, because that hasn't happened yet. Not because I'm a terrible person. Not because I didn't love her. Not because I don't miss her, God no, not that. But because nothing's pushed me to the point of shouting yet. Almost, teetered right on the edge of it a few times. Just cracking and yelling that she's dead, she's fucking dead and gone and never coming back. And the dam will break and my voice will crack and I'll cry. Probably in a heap on the floor. It won't bring her back, but it'd be nice to stop carrying it around, just for a little while.
Instead I watched it alone in the basement, without reading, without any distractions for once. And without laughing. When he nearly cried, I nearly cried. But it doesn't take much to shove me to the edge of almost-crying. God only knows what it would take to make me actually cry, though, because that hasn't happened yet. Not because I'm a terrible person. Not because I didn't love her. Not because I don't miss her, God no, not that. But because nothing's pushed me to the point of shouting yet. Almost, teetered right on the edge of it a few times. Just cracking and yelling that she's dead, she's fucking dead and gone and never coming back. And the dam will break and my voice will crack and I'll cry. Probably in a heap on the floor. It won't bring her back, but it'd be nice to stop carrying it around, just for a little while.
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