living with Certain Women

I haven’t had this dwelling on feelings and thoughts in a while. Or rather… that’s not true. There’ve been some intense storms of sensations, feelings and re-motions while through the Method classes. But their intensity and to a certain degree the inability to hold and elaborate that intensity over time have left me numb. I miss writing and sitting with it like this for a while. Befuddled by a predication for living wordless realities. (That’s a half cooked ‘lesson’ I still need to digest.)
Shallow sensation of content. As when you know it’s base-less. That you just wander aimlessly fooled by the fact that you seem to be doing something about yourself. Through these classes,the therapy, through the dance, the physical post-op recovery. The house, the memories, the finding of breathing space after grief, the fulgurant flirtations.
What do you mean to SIT WITH IT ?!?

Certain Women. (by Kelly Reichardt) Watched them intently and gradually slid into that ring of emotive landscape you spot sometimes – a halo – over transitional realities. Moments when the story changes. Or forebodings of such narrative alter(n)ations. This is what that opening scene in this film, or the repeated surrounding mountainous far-aways, the snow dust here and there, turned on in me.  A collection of 3-4 short stories, vaguely overlapping, in or around the same industrial American northwest town.
Gladstone – a native american kind of girl falling with stupid total ingenuity for another young woman – is one of the revelations of this film. How little acts can weigh in so much substance. When falling asleep is like a death out of grief. With the heart line driving slowly astray into the wilted meadow.
The cold dressing up their solitude and strange attachments with the grey grain of their life. There is a very feminine intimacy of want, of wordless needs. Of affirmations or contractions with or from those around.
Michele Williams – the… ahh, now I see, this film won the Best Film award at the BFI London Film Festival this autumn. And I was THERE! It was on my list, but swapped it for others. It was a chance to see Kristen Stewart’s yet again testing herself. And she did. Growing steadily into the thick of it. but then again… – I hold Michele Williams closer to my breath over this film, and “Manchester by the Sea” and “Blue Valentine”.
Laura Dern, yes, I forgot about you. Physically conflictual image. Her passed youth hanging in bed after an affair. By contrast her elegant charisma when out on the street. Her unresolved derailed client- lawyer relationship with this other stranger – a client. The discomfort and forced empathy.
Impressions of Carver. Or what I felt America was about when traveling with Cristina mid-heart through it. Or the trespasses of “Paris, Texas”. That sorrow taste of what’s really what in those vast planes and sudden land-scars. I ran these across to the two guys behind after the film end. Yes! So did they.
I could talk ..
Sitting in the middle of it with birds of summer nesting – quails. Their song. How that was the final only means of communication and echo of life between Michelle’s character and the old man.

Next to me a late 60s-early 70s couple. Behind me two friends. Same age as me probably. About 10-15 people in the whole 80 seat cinema theatre. Th ones next and behind.. we all sit through the end credits. Barely daring to move. In the middle of the dark I feel a growing need for embrace. As if it’s happening silently. Hands passing calmly under sweaters. Feeling the smooth breathing skin under it. That want of watching all of this together with someone who can touch the same intimate reality. Barely moving, Just being there. A memory of student years. When first in a relationship with Gim. Our first night – the morning after. In class (funny, in spite of Gim and I so starkly un-friends to each other now, that I believe was one of the founding moments of my enduring relationship with CnS. We’d just come from a birthday party of the couple). G n I sitting in the front desk of a small class. Her class. C, S and M around us. I was barely holding my head up. Leaning into my hand pretending to write. Sleeping. G touch-holding my thigh secretly under the desk. And diligently taking notes. The light of wonders fusing that morning into my dreams. She suddenly slowly sliding her hand under my head-resting arm, my breath, slipping into my skin so she could taste my sleep. Skin touching skin like a hiss kiss. Just between the two of us. Our intimate wonder of love. Who else could tell? Rodin statues vibrating in the sun, whisper-loving in the shadows of our souls. That slide into my dream that morning at class was one of the “why”s she’s still in my memory like a dear thing. Otherwise… dusky dark.
I had been preparing for this it seemed. As the mornings when with Rk before G. In a similar setup, when drawing on extreme lack of sleep I’d start writing .. stream of consciousness. Fragments of songs? a poem? She’d remind me of the shards of surrealism in me then. In those word. Amusingly hard to fathom. She’d come to get some meaning out of it much later when accidentally cross-referencing. Too late. How that relationship was a sort of a warming up for the extremes lived with G.

How living “complications” have a linearity to it that is multi coloured and unexpected. But in the end simple. A matter of life and death. A hope of life.


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