The way he explained it, you’d think the whole world was falling apart all fire and brimstone and “So much pain! You don’t even understand!”
No, I don’t understand. Explain it to me again.
“We’re out of Pop-Tarts. Gone. All of them. What am I supposed to eat for breakfast tomorrow?”
Because waffles, pancakes, oatmeal, and fruit don’t count.
“Pick a Goddamn Cantaloupe: How to Be a Better Decision Maker”
“Who the Fuck Eats Crunchy Peanut Butter? How to Live in a Diverse World”
“Just Say ‘NO!’ A Guide to Shopping With Children”
“There is No Such Thing As Too Much Ice Cream: A Single Girl’s Guide to Happiness”
“15 Items or Less: The Decline of Language in the Modern Age”
Left work early for a “doctor’s appointment.” This beer is my doctor.
I love State of the Union night.
And what if you could live off the words that you read, the words that you wrote, so that when you sleepily shuffle to the kitchen in the morning and muscle memory propels your right arm towards the coffee filter and your left arm towards the ceramic container you purchased during that impromptu drive to Mexico, instead of scooping out Starbucks Fair Trade Certified Italian Roast, your spoon overflows with Hemingway and Tolstoy, and when you reach into the refrigerator to grab a grapefruit, you find the essay you wrote in seventh grade that won you $500 from the American Legion and a handful of PizzaHut coupons. And all of these words that have inspired you and excited you and angered you and loved you become part of you. All of these words that have consumed you emotionally now fulfill you physically. And you can eat the adjectives and rinse them down with verbs and chew them into letters that become fuel for new characters, new stories, new ways to explore that which makes you you. And you long to read and you long to write because without new words, you will starve. Without new words you will stop being you.
As I often do on a Saturday night when the boy is with my parents, tonight I went to the movies. Alone. The list of current films I want to see is long, so I chose based on movie theater and start time. I went to see “Shame,” a film about emotional availability and having it in either too much or not enough amounts. The movie takes place in New York, and there is an incredibly moving scene in which Carey Mulligan sings “New York, New York.” New York is my home, and I am far away from home. I like seeing reminders of its existence. The main character is a sex addict, and the film contains scenes so raw, so honest, they hurt. It was beautiful and hard to watch.
The movie ended around 11:30. I should have gone home; I didn’t.
Instead, I decided to see another movie. I chose to see “Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close.” I wasn’t sure if it was something I should see. I loved the book and didn’t want it ruined. Also, the subject matter so closely mirrors my own life experiences. The book was difficult for me to read, and I was a wreck during and long after the reading. As is my nature, I weighed the pros and cons of seeing the movie, decided it was in my best interest to not see it, and then got in my car and drove to the movie theater.
I drove to the movie theater (the theater where I saw “Shame” does not offer midnight showings), purchased my second movie ticket of the night, held my breath and waited for the movie to start.
Movies never just start.
The first preview was the re-release of “Titanic.”
We saw “Titanic together, him and me. We saw it at the movie theater on Broadway and 84th. I picked the restaurant, he picked the movie. (A benefit of his early death is his inability to deny my claims.) He picked “Titanic.” I teased him about it. I teased him that night and many nights after. He picked “Titanic.”
Tonight, sitting alone in a Las Vegas movie theater, while waiting for a movie about the day he died, I saw a preview about a movie we saw together.
Life is fucking ridiculous.
***
I like to think of myself as pretty self-aware. I know (usually) how I will react in certain situations, what situations I should avoid, which ones I should seek out. Knowing a thing and doing a thing don’t always go together.
Things I do that I should not:
Smoke.
Drink in excessive amounts when out alone.
Not speak to people for days/weeks/months/years at a time.
Obsess over things that can not be changed.
Also:
Sex with strangers.
It has happened on more than one occasion (although, to be honest, I don’t keep a tally), that I will go on a date with a very nice gentleman. We will have a good time. The evening ends. He will walk me to my car. And rather than driving home, I drive to a bar, alone. More times than not, I leave that bar, not alone.
I feel no shame.
In tonight’s first movie, there was a similar behavior. Meet someone nice, say goodnight, find someone temporary.
It works.
Temporarily.
But seeing it on screen was difficult. I saw the hurt that inspired the destructive behavior. I saw the hurt the destructive behavior caused. I saw myself.
Tonight’s second movie was about a child whose father died on “the worst day.” He wandered my home looking to answer questions that can not be answered. I saw how absurd it can be to try to make sense of the senseless. I saw how obsessing over the past only destroys your present. I saw myself.
In one night, I saw myself through the eyes of a sex addict and through the eyes of a child.
Life is fucking ridiculous.
***
Jonathan Safran Foer is a very visual author. “Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close” ends with a flipbook. It is of the “falling man” picture that was taken on that September morning. But rather than the man falling down, the pictures are reversed so that he is falling up.
He is falling up.
***
When “Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close” ended, I sat in the theater, crying, motionless. The tears weren’t from sadness, at least not completely. The movie is hopeful. What else is it to be human than to be hopeful? At the end of this movie, through my tears (a very human phenomenon), I was so goddamn glad to be a human.
I am so goddamn glad to be a human.
Life is fucking ridiculous. We hurt, each of us in our own way and each of us from different things. We hurt, and we do things to make the hurt go away. I’m not naive enough to think that hurt one day won’t exist. But maybe when we fall, instead of falling down, we can fall up.
I live in a world that destroys everything I love for monetary gain.
I pull into my assigned space, put my car into park, remove the keys, and sigh. Lunch break is over and with it ends the temporary sense of contentment that comes with reading in solitude at the park just around the corner from my office. Back to the real world. I exit my desperate-to-be-washed car, grab the Starbucks cup containing my grande soy no water chai, and begin the walk to my building. Parking spaces are assigned by income level. Partners and senior associates are provided covered parking close to the building; my car is exposed, parked far, far away. I am wearing a too-fashionable-for work dress, patterned tights and stiletto boots. A too-expensive bag is hanging from the crook my arm makes while holding my drink and is a comical reminder of a time when labels and status meant something to me. I still love this bag. I click-click my way to the building and arrive back at my desk almost a full ten minutes before I need to be sitting there. I reach into my bag, pull out my current reading selection, and smile. The real world can wait ten more minutes.
GPOYW - “Me, now, white glasses, yellow t-shirt” edition.
I love like Lennie loves, wholly, completely and with so much force that it causes harm. I want to express my love in a tangible way, but that expression manifests itself as a broken neck, except mine, not his. I need a George, someone to say, “Christa, take it easy, slow it down.” I find myself mumbling “I just want to pet the rabbits.” And why shouldn’t I want that? It’s a simple enough dream. But simple isn’t always easy, and dreams don’t always come true.
Maybe I don’t want the dream, at least not really. Maybe I like the idea of the dream more than the dream itself.
I love the idea of spending a lazy Sunday with someone I love, reading, watching a movie, going for a hike. But history has proven that I prefer to read and watch movies and hike in solitude.
And yet, and still, I want to pet the rabbits.
So then, so now, I try to learn how to take it easy, how to slow it down.
How to love with a manageable force, a force that is still me, that is still mine, but a force that won’t break my neck.
