Tuesday, March 20, 2012

spoiler alert

well I just ruined any chance at having a peaceful sleep tonight. Just finished watching, The Cook, The Thief, his Wife and her Lover. Holy balls amazing and terrifying. At one point, I was sick to my stomach - literally, emphatically experiencing what it would be like to have someone attempt to feed me my belly button, and then later to watch the soul- less creature (The Thief) be fed the man that he brutally murdered by stuffing him with the pages of the French Revolution.

It's not really a "date night" movie, per se, but the romance portion, or the love portion, is quite palpable.

I am privileged to say, that after so many nights of crying alone in this apartment, feeling alone - not just "by myself in the room" kind of alone, but alone in my suffering, alone in my life, without even a friend to find relation of this kind of suffering, I found a piece of my humanity in one of the raw cinematic scenes. The wife finds her lover's body, brutally murdered by her husband, only hours after she has left his side, and her reaction (after a brief silence) is to tell him that she is tired and that she is going to sleep. She covers his body with a blanket and stretches out his arm - and as I watch with sobered reservation, she curls up next him and tells his corpse that when she wakes up she wants him to kiss her. And then she wants him to make her breakfast. Toast and marmalade. It wasn't just denial. It was a sweet protection of her heart. It was a savoring of her love. It was not done. And she held that love, as it would never be again, while his body laid there. Until the morning when he did not kiss her and she agreed that she would have to make her own breakfast and that it was done.

How that pain swirls around in my heart and shoulders and stomach, coating my guts with the utter devastation of love. How beautiful is that pain. If not to have it, to have known it.

If you haven't seen the movie I totes recommend it. Maybe just not right before bed.

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