The Jacket
Maybe I'm just getting old and worn out.
Maybe it's because i've been up since 2 a.m. this morning. Maybe it's the medication or lack thereof. Maybe it's the moon.
This movie. This damn movie just hit me in that secret place you live; that private grotto where you stake out your last stand, you and all your fears.
It wasn't enough to cry during the movie. I ended up crying afterwards as well.
Maybe I'm just tired, and getting soft and sentimental in my dotage.
But I hate crying. I hate it.
There is a horrific beauty in this movie, in more ways than one. Ironically, I was looking for poems on beauty today to send to some friends. And here I come home to a horrorshow marvel, a poetic phantasm.
But more than that, here is the piercing heartache of terrible purpose. The kind of purpose that destroys as it fulfills. And failure to fulfill is beyond destruction. It's worse than death.
Failure means you stay here and live forever, knowing in your heart you took the wrong train.
Typing it out makes it easier. We are, after all, reactive creatures and require proof in the pudding. So after making a lifetime out of dodging destiny, it becomes easy to dismiss existential worry--there's no evidence. None except that wriggling, niggling, mildew worm that shuffles just to the right of your line of sight: missed ya, missed ya, missed ya. . .
Tomorrow is almost here, look at all this sensory input. Hard and concrete. Large and discrete. Easy to measure, easy to feel. None of this gobbledegook, if you will.
But the 33rd was the last hurrah, so take one last look at this sacred heart before it explodes. Cos everybody knows.
Maybe it's because i've been up since 2 a.m. this morning. Maybe it's the medication or lack thereof. Maybe it's the moon.
This movie. This damn movie just hit me in that secret place you live; that private grotto where you stake out your last stand, you and all your fears.
It wasn't enough to cry during the movie. I ended up crying afterwards as well.
Maybe I'm just tired, and getting soft and sentimental in my dotage.
But I hate crying. I hate it.
There is a horrific beauty in this movie, in more ways than one. Ironically, I was looking for poems on beauty today to send to some friends. And here I come home to a horrorshow marvel, a poetic phantasm.
But more than that, here is the piercing heartache of terrible purpose. The kind of purpose that destroys as it fulfills. And failure to fulfill is beyond destruction. It's worse than death.
Failure means you stay here and live forever, knowing in your heart you took the wrong train.
Typing it out makes it easier. We are, after all, reactive creatures and require proof in the pudding. So after making a lifetime out of dodging destiny, it becomes easy to dismiss existential worry--there's no evidence. None except that wriggling, niggling, mildew worm that shuffles just to the right of your line of sight: missed ya, missed ya, missed ya. . .
Tomorrow is almost here, look at all this sensory input. Hard and concrete. Large and discrete. Easy to measure, easy to feel. None of this gobbledegook, if you will.
But the 33rd was the last hurrah, so take one last look at this sacred heart before it explodes. Cos everybody knows.