(no subject)
I'm working a half-day today, and on a whim decided to re-watch Go Fish. It's one of those deeply flawed movies that is nevertheless very ingrained in my psyche. When I was seventeen and rented it with my first girlfriend I remember being amazed at, "all! those! real! lesbians!". It was an incredible feeling; it was the first time I really sensed that there was an actual community out there, real enclaves of queer women that socialize with each other. And I had never thought I would never truly have much in common with those people, if they did in fact exist (and, okay, maybe I often still do think this), except that we all share some of the same deep fears & hopes that rise up through all the stilted dialogue and convoluted, trying too hard, young-film-student imagery that this film is bathed in.
And then I thought, "are almost all lesbians ugly? this sucks." *snerk*
So, anyway, there a lot of things wrong with this very cheaply made art-house flick, but one moment that always gets to me is the the second monologue. (The first being about a missed meeting with "Her", which is also fantastic.)
I decided to actually write the whole thing down this time and save it here, since I like it so much. yay for tags! and stuff.
"What if one day that feeling of having a dirty secret overwhelms me? what if I crack under the strain of never being out enough? how can I be out to the woman I'm standing next to at the bus stop, the child who smiles at me in the store, the man who asks me to spare a quarter?
what if I black out and wake up alone, midday, in a house and I've been napping. and I find that I've been married to a man, an honest man who's devoted to me, and I'm late to pick up the kids? what if all I do is sigh, because it's not as late as I thought, and I race off to pick up the kids with two umbrellas, because it's raining but it wasn't this morning, and I don't want them to catch a cold.
I imagine the joy of kissing my husband in the supermarket and the wistful smile of the old woman who sighs quietly, "young love." Mother insists that we come to her house for Thanksgiving, because, "It feels so good to have a man in the house again for the holidays."
I can sink into the comfort of being mother, wife, sister-in-law, grandmother. Not always off to the side, uncoupled in a family portrait. Not strapped to the awkward title of aunt. I could live a life of gender specific pronouns, and answer truthfully about boyfriends, and mean only good friend when I say it, and leave off that desperate qualifier - really good friend.
Sex would be a friendly ritual, always finite, never frightening. I could focus on respect while he fucked me, how I know he respects me and how it really feels kind of good if you eradicate the underlying image of the empty hole longing to be filled and try not to dwell on the satisfaction he thinks he's getting from filling it.
Double income. I could keep my own name, maybe hyphenate it for a liberated feel. We could have anniversary dinners in lovely spots and he'd dash off to the waiter while I'm in the ladies room so they can bring out an anniversary treat before the bill and the wait staff will feel a warm glow.
What if I find myself with a more weathered face in a park, laughing, saying, "I was so young," holding hands with a parka and Old Spice, who squeezes my hand and says, "I feel better, honey, knowing you tried everything and still choose me."
It doesn't seem so far fetched, like being caught in crossfire and dying, or slipping on oil that someone else unwittingly spilled. I could chase a rabbit for sport and find myself falling down a long, dark hole, which ends in a life from which I cannot escape.
It's the word, "phase". It's finally coming out, but still being called, "gay". It's being fucked and sucked by a woman until you feel you can cry, all the while feeling in the back of your mind that no one knows what you really do. We're not waiting for a man. I'm not waiting for a man. I just hate this eerie feeling that a man's waiting for me.
--Go Fish
And then I thought, "are almost all lesbians ugly? this sucks." *snerk*
So, anyway, there a lot of things wrong with this very cheaply made art-house flick, but one moment that always gets to me is the the second monologue. (The first being about a missed meeting with "Her", which is also fantastic.)
I decided to actually write the whole thing down this time and save it here, since I like it so much. yay for tags! and stuff.
"What if one day that feeling of having a dirty secret overwhelms me? what if I crack under the strain of never being out enough? how can I be out to the woman I'm standing next to at the bus stop, the child who smiles at me in the store, the man who asks me to spare a quarter?
what if I black out and wake up alone, midday, in a house and I've been napping. and I find that I've been married to a man, an honest man who's devoted to me, and I'm late to pick up the kids? what if all I do is sigh, because it's not as late as I thought, and I race off to pick up the kids with two umbrellas, because it's raining but it wasn't this morning, and I don't want them to catch a cold.
I imagine the joy of kissing my husband in the supermarket and the wistful smile of the old woman who sighs quietly, "young love." Mother insists that we come to her house for Thanksgiving, because, "It feels so good to have a man in the house again for the holidays."
I can sink into the comfort of being mother, wife, sister-in-law, grandmother. Not always off to the side, uncoupled in a family portrait. Not strapped to the awkward title of aunt. I could live a life of gender specific pronouns, and answer truthfully about boyfriends, and mean only good friend when I say it, and leave off that desperate qualifier - really good friend.
Sex would be a friendly ritual, always finite, never frightening. I could focus on respect while he fucked me, how I know he respects me and how it really feels kind of good if you eradicate the underlying image of the empty hole longing to be filled and try not to dwell on the satisfaction he thinks he's getting from filling it.
Double income. I could keep my own name, maybe hyphenate it for a liberated feel. We could have anniversary dinners in lovely spots and he'd dash off to the waiter while I'm in the ladies room so they can bring out an anniversary treat before the bill and the wait staff will feel a warm glow.
What if I find myself with a more weathered face in a park, laughing, saying, "I was so young," holding hands with a parka and Old Spice, who squeezes my hand and says, "I feel better, honey, knowing you tried everything and still choose me."
It doesn't seem so far fetched, like being caught in crossfire and dying, or slipping on oil that someone else unwittingly spilled. I could chase a rabbit for sport and find myself falling down a long, dark hole, which ends in a life from which I cannot escape.
It's the word, "phase". It's finally coming out, but still being called, "gay". It's being fucked and sucked by a woman until you feel you can cry, all the while feeling in the back of your mind that no one knows what you really do. We're not waiting for a man. I'm not waiting for a man. I just hate this eerie feeling that a man's waiting for me.
--Go Fish