I just choked on focaccia. I sucked it in, it teetered, everything slowed down, I coughed with what was left of the air in my lungs, it came back up. I was writing a note to my roommates when it happened. I’m going to take back the note.
I went to see the early showing of Superman last night. We were there almost 4 hours total. I’ve never went to an early showing, so I was pleased to see the people dressed up in tight, leotard, Superman garb, cheering and clapping. The movie was too long. The attempts at humor were unsuccessful. Parker Posey was at her worst (and I love her). Kate Bosworth’s acting was terrible and her character was pissy. Kevin Spacey and Brandon Routh were both fine actors in this movie.
The love story between Lois Lane and Superman was complicated and tragic, depressing. I couldn’t help but make absurd connections between their love story and my own love life. Even though everyone else was cheering and excited, I left the movie feeling sad about the love story. I just couldn’t get over it. But, it’s Superman. Why do I even bother?
On the way home, I slowed the car for a fresh cat down in the road. The Russian insisted I pull over. He jumped out of the car. As he gingerly touched the cat, slowly, carefully, it began to breathe, gasp. I yelled from the car, “Watch out!” as a giant dodge truck dieseled passed him, not even slowing, maybe speeding up to swerve around him. (35 in a 15 mph.) The Russian carefully lifted the cat and took it to some nearby lawn. A matching white cat watched us from a ways off. The struck cat couldn’t close it’s mouth; it just gaped bloody and gasping. I was worried about loose bones and internal pockets where blood had gushed in, but the Russian insisted on petting it and trying to soothe it. “Isn’t there a pet hospital nearby?” he wanted to know. He got mad when I said that it’s probably going to die anyway. He kept petting it. He went between sad, then launched into tirades about stupid drivers and responsibility to living creatures, and then sad again.
I went to sleep thinking about settling and intimacy and character and leaving gasping cats to die in people’s lawns.
The new geraniums are potted and probably dying. Something that might be mold has formed from keeping them too long in the vase for rooting. This blossom is the most vibrant, brilliant color I’ve seen in a geranium so I’m not willing to give up yet. I can always get another start from Mom’s mother plant if I want.
The houseguest went well, confirming once again that I don’t want to be with the Canadian. The void in the Russian’s life left him realizing how much he missed me and wanted to be with me. This is a good thing because I’m liking him more.
The first two weeks we were neutral. The third week I liked him more, and he liked me more after the fourth week. Have I mentioned that relationships scare me?
Gpa said of the Russian, “I was quite impressed with the Russian. He’s a real person. He’s smart and quirky.” Gpa’s approval is all I need.
Last night I told the Russian I wouldn’t be seeing him tonight because I’m planning on having an affair with the Canadian, who is passing through on his way to summer work. I believe in honesty. But, since he’s just not that into me, he didn’t seem to care. That, or he didn’t take me seriously.
In other news, I’ve been dating the Russian—a fetish I picked up on Sundays at Boulevard Park, watching the Russian boys from some Slavic church playing soccer with their shirts off. Yes please!
Scrubs has been a big part of the last 24 hours. Last night, once alone, I watched two discs of it from the kitchen, where I was sitting on the counter with my feet soaking in the sink, next to a butcher knife that I forgot to put away. I was trying not to fall on it. I gave myself a pedicure, skipping the nail polish part. I’m letting them breathe.
I’ve cried a little almost everyday for a week and a half, nothing specific to speak of. I can’t pinpoint it: sadness, melancholy, joy, gratitude. Life is overwhelming these days, and this time I cannot blame hormones.
And a thought continued from a comment earlier:
Relationships are absurd. The lust, the love, the irrational loneliness when they are away. But, when I come to the realization, when I have to see them for who they really are and acknowledge that they are not my creation, I start to lose interest. Then the grotesque always comes later. The body next to me—I imagine it digesting food, gurgling, big feet and strange smells. Could it be true that I’m not physically attracted to other people, just myself and the character (of my creation) that I’ve imposed on the body that is next to me? I mean, I love them, I lust them, but once that wears off and he is no longer my creation, I lose some of that. I hope that my relationships are childish and immature and that this mentality will change.
I date men who make good characters. To me, this is their most valuable quality. Unfortunately “characters” don’t always make good lovers. Or maybe they are people and I make them into characters. Either way it’s a pattern, it’s perverse.
I just watched Show Me Love (original title: Fucking Åmål). At first, I wasn’t sure why it was called Show Me Love because the words “fucking Åmål” are repeated all over the movie (which, I know, would immediately disqualify the movie for some of you). The only clue was when the credits started to role and a pop song called “Show Me Love” started to play. Eh.
I like how I was sympathetic towards these characters, but thought they were stupid and unthinking at the same time, especially the character Elin. Also, I believed Agnes’ crush. That was real to me. For the most part, these weren’t girls who were making smart, thoughtful choices. They were just young girls acting without thinking. It was similar to the movie Thirteen in that regard. The impulsive, complete lack of self-awareness in Elin is so accurate of 14 year old girl behavior.
There is an ignorance on their part about the role of sex in a relationship. If they thought they were in love, then sex would be intimate, something to bring them closer. Bragging to their peers just made it a spectacle. For me, only the last line in the movie seemed to cheapen the relationship and the love they claimed to have for each other.
The character of Agnes was hard to believe. She had such a young face that I couldn’t believe she was so sexually driven. I believed the crush, but some of the other stuff was hard for me. She looked too young to care about sexuality yet.
The film also manages to avoid the male pornographer’s gaze that can be so indicative of films about adolescent sexuality. (I’m thinking Kids here.) I think this voyeuristic view is avoided (somewhat) because the sexual scenes were limited and purposeful.