I am the wounded healer.
I don’t want you to feel guilty. You couldn’t have prevented this. Bleeding things are my weakness and your soul is made of my own. You were a gift from the moon herself, one I could not accept. But you promised. I have loved you before I knew who you were, before I even met me…
I cut myself open to show you
That I hurt, too
My soul dripped out
Onto your hands
And we danced…
The beginning was different. You were not like the others, then you slowly recovered and I reluctantly discovered… it wasn’t real. It never was, it could not be. It’s ok. I understand. Many have sought my radiating light. Your morning star. Temporary. Like a storm that rolls in after a week of beautiful sunshine, I knew this would come. Expected. I hoped I was wrong, hoped I could believe my dreams, hoped there was a place for us. You promised.
In the end I will be hollow
Drained from loving
All I see in that place
Is your face
I have learned to keep my distance. I will learn to shut my mouth, not let it out. Do not be seen. They don’t like that. Vulnerable. Be strong instead. Amuse them, but never reveal yourself. Do not speak of love or sadness or longing. Albatross. A lesson. A gift. …but he promised.
There is no heart in me
It sits, unbeating, next to you
Whatever you do
Throw it away
I want you to know you are different. You are everything. You are the resplendent beach house I could never really afford. I will miss you in the way one misses a beautiful thing that was not theirs to keep. I’ll hide the photographs on my bookshelf. I’ll whisper your name in my sleep. I’ll hear your voice in crowded rooms and echoes of your laughter in other universes not yet imagined. I promise.
(I love you.)
He was the fly in my ointment,
The wrench in my works,
The sour cream on my potato,
New guy in an old town.
I remember his old pickup,
Cowboy hat, tattoos.
Decisions. How could he choose?
Rock or blues?
Pain with a side of bliss.
There are no photographs of us,
Memories to rot and rust.
Just regret – shadows of that day
I heard predator to his prey
Movies. Let’s talk about movies.
Cinema, film, the theater. I have a great affinity for the medium. When movies are good they can make us laugh, cry, and wonder. They can make us feel joy, curiosity, sadness and pain.
Lately, though, all they make me feel is pain. Not the pain of being emotionally involved. Not the pain of reminiscing lost love or the pain of not knowing how the story will end. No, mostly the pain I feel lately in relation to the movies is more like how it feels to break up with someone you’ve been wanting to leave for a while now but you can’t find the words, so you let them linger. And every time you see them you’re just like “ugh”.
Movies, you make me say “ugh”.
Where are all the good choices? My husband and I were last in the theater for Gone Girl. Admittedly, going to the movies isn’t something we do often, as wrangling a sitter and getting dolled up is infinitely more difficult and less cost effective than just choosing something we’re mutually “meh” about on Netflix. [Don’t get me started on Netflix – that’s a whole ‘nother blog post.] Since then, we have not been back ot the theater, and that’s not for lack of trying. Every time he gets a day off or someone offers to watch our kids for a while, we get excited. Pull up the Fandango app and let’s see what’s playing! And then, disappointment. Every.Single.Time.
Here are things I won’t pay to see:
* Scary Movies, any kind. I don’t care if it’s ghosts or zombies or supernatural things or hexes or witchcraft or someone wearing night vision goggles running through the woods, I will not see it. No way, no how.
* Potty Humor movies. These, and it makes me sad to say, seem to be the majority of what’s considered “comedy” in America today. Bodily function movies, movies that use words like p****, c***, d***, etc., I will not see. I am embarrassed for everyone involved in these NONfunny films, from the writers to the actors to the audience members who choose to support them. If you can’t make me laugh without passing gas, getting naked, or being otherwise inappropriate, you aren’t funny.
[Just eliminating these two types of movies pretty much eliminates my choices altogether.]
* Animated films. I have no problem if we are taking my 5 year old to see the Lego Movie. That movie was entertaining and, again, the 5 year old was with us. For a date night, I don’t really want to see a cartoon.
* Stripper movies, soft porn, 50 Shades of “Even Though I’m Grown I Still Think My Grandfather Would Be Disappointed in Me” films. I don’t watch porn. I’m not going to pay to watch porn. I’m not judging you if you watch porn, but for me it’s a no.
So, using this list, let’s look at the options available to me right this minute at our local movie theater:
50 Shades of Grey – no
Spongebob – no
Kingsman: The Secret Service
Paddington – no (but this will be a YES for my son. I adore Paddington.)
The Wedding Ringer – no.
So my option is Kingsman. To its credit, Colin Firth is wonderful and I could probably be at least mildly amused listening to him read a phone book. Does it look like the kind of movie I want to spend $200 on (plus $355 on popcorn and drink)? Not exactly. Again this week, we will not have a movie date night. And I’m telling you, it’s been like this for months!
Gone Girl was pretty good. I mean… well, it was ok. It wasn’t what I wanted it to be, but I also didn’t leave feeling like I should demand my money back. Still, after hearing and reading such rave reviews for the actor and the story and then experiencing its total mediocrity, I was left wondering, is bad the new good?
Are we, as a culture, so used to seeing abysmal films, that when something with even a hint of creativity, a smidgen of hilarity, comes along, we jump up and down and sing its praises? No matter that the dialogue doesn’t make sense or the costumes are horrible. Don’t pay attention to the similarities between the film currently showing and that OTHER romantic comedy (many times starring the same actors) that you paid to see LAST month. In Gone Girl’s defense, the ending was a bit surprising.
Where is my generation’s answer to Raiders of the Lost Ark? Why has no one written a screenplay that can stand up to Shawshank Redemption? Why are extraordinary films so hard to come by?
There is a cinema gift card in the drawer of my desk. It may never get used. Maybe that’s a good bad thing.