Well, it is like this, I turn on a piece of Philip Glass, or I read a poem,like the one above, and I burst into tears.
I’ve been doing this for days, bursting into tears. It’s like a waterfall has finally burst it’s already tumbling banks.
For days I’ve been watching movie after movie, listening to music after music in order to make me feel something… and what I’m left with are devastating questions:
Why do we grow old without the world around us respecting our wisdom? Why do our bodies survive illness after illness — mentally and physically — when there’s nothing to celebrate that win? Why aren’t we allowed to die when we want? Why do we live in a world that forces us to grow older and older while at the same time that world is ill-prepared for the enduring needs — mentally and physically — of old people. Why do we meet so many people and why do only a tiny number of them really make us feel safe? Why am I alone (Not lonely! That’s different!)?
What’s it all about, Alfie?
I saw a play last week — I think that set it all off. That and a reminder of my Nan’s birthday the day before I saw CARE at the @YoungVicTheatre in London.
I’ve gone into a film binge – THE HOURS, THE SALT PATH, THE WITCHES, ONE DAY (Anne Hathaway binge, anyone?), CONCLAVE, FOUR WEDDINGS AND A FUNERAL… anything to make me feel something…
THE HOURS came hand in hand with Philip Glass (@philipglass) which swiftly lead me to Gustav Mahler’s 5th and so on… Glass came recommended for meditating on life, its direction and its sanity and insanity. Trust me, Glass works — I’m listening to the soundtrack of THE HOURS as I am writing this.
Don’t be fooled… or over expectant — this essay does not come with an answer. It is a mere statement of the state my mind is in at present.
I want so much more than what my life is at the moment. I am comfortable, yes, and therefore may be wallowing in first world problems but, frankly, my dear, I don’t give a fuck. I’m stuck in comfortable! And since, most of the time anyway, I’m only allowing myself a small but potent amount of self-sabotage and deft destruction, I keep wondering what else there is in store.
Where am I going from here?
I think I should write a book!
I close with the words Michael Cunningham (@michaelcunningham_grig), the author of THE HOURS, put into Virginia Woolf’s mouth at the end of the suicide note to Leonard:
“To look life in the face. Always to look life in the face. And to know it for what it is. At last to know it. To love it for what it is. And then, to put it away. Leonard, always the years between us. Always the years. Always the love. Always the hours.”
Thank you @noyawritess for publishing your poem online — it reminded me of the years I spent destroying others because I felt unworthy of their love. Pushing them out of our nest because I felt unworthy of their comfort and warmth. And how I am dying to change that.
Frank Loman 