So, it's a new year. As much as there is only room for anything to happen, the possibilities seem limited. A whole year to change, but this beginning feels a lot like the last. I'm not even old yet, and I've already begun to get nostalgic.
Take for instance the last post. The photo of the couple in the tub is a still from the film Big Fish. I never intended to see that film, even though I was on a Ewan McGregor high. I thought he was an excellent actor and didn't get the proper respect. I still feel that way, but I'm not so keen to just run out and see one of his films.
Anyway. I never planned to see the film. But my friend Andre recommended it highly. I figured it was worth viewing. Generally, we agree on films among other things. And so, I set out to see it which was rather depressing. Obviously, I wanted to see this movie with Andre.
He had moved away at that point. For college, he picked a school in Boston. I was still in Connecticut, so I guess a visit either way could have been possible, but what was the point? I suppose there were other options if I really wanted them. But it wouldn't be the same.
And so I found myself at the theater alone to watch the film. It was a great film, even if it did leave me upset in the end. The tale of a man who lived every minute that he bragged about, but dressed it up in the retelling just for fun. I guess it reminded me of my grandfather. He could always pull a prank on someone, or tell them one of those white lies not meant to hurt but tease. Like the time he convinced his nephew, about 13 at the time, that a little man sat in the radio and read the news. Silly games like that. Point is, he could always make people laugh and so always had a friend.
The old man in the film was sick and dying. At the point of the tub scene, he gets into the tub pajamas and all so that he can cool off. His wife climbs in with him, and they just embrace. I really fought the tears back hard. I'm talking Rocky style. I gave it everything I had, and that first bout ended a draw like Balboa-Creed I.
The embrace was everything I wanted, but knew I didn't and wouldn't have with my girlfriend at the time. The man in the film was confident, and supportive, and happy. I was 0 for 3. I just accepted that if I didn't love myself, no one else could. Quite frankly, there wasn't much to love.
Still, I put it out of mind about as fast and sloppy as this transition here. I let it be to watch the movie. Yet, I couldn't stop thinking about that scene. It was a fictional account. Sure, such a scene may have happened to someone, or may still happen to people. But the fact that it was in a movie didn't mean that it had or would. It seemed like most things in movies, larger than life. Not possible. As likely as Uma Thurman's character killing all the Crazy 88's in one take in Kill Bill volume I.
Victory was that now I vow to work for that kind of love. Try to make it happen with every breath. But it's easier said than done, and I've no one to work on it with. But it still feels like fiction.
I was able to finish watching the movie, and it had the expected sad ending. For all the malarky of the flashback scenes of the dying man in his younger days, the scenes his son drove showed that death was the only way out.
There at the funeral, all the people the old man spoke of congregated to celebrate him. Every single one. None of them exactly as the man had described, but similar. The siamese twins weren't siamese, but they were identical. Carl wasn't a giant, but he did stand over 7 feet tall Danny DeVito's character may not have been a werewolf, but he sure looked like one. And so on.
The son saw this, all these people smiling as they recalled the history of a man extinguished. He joined them, and laughed. He appreciated his father in a different way. He realized that his father wasn't a liar.
Balboa-Creed 2 began. But I didn't have the luxury of Adriane waking up and telling me to beat Apollo. The fact was, I had an assignment in college that originaly got me thinking about what my funeral would be like. I wondered, if I outlived my parents and sister, would there be anyone to bury me. I couldn't picture the type of funeral in the movie. No friends from foreign places and times. No one to remember any cheer I placed into their lives. Nothing.
And then, the knock out. As the credits rolled, Pearl Jam's "Man of the Hour" started playing. I've never been the man of anything. Not so much as a minute or a breath. I don't think I could handle that type of pressure.
I snuck out the back of the theater so no one would see me. I remember crying on the way to the car. And there was no one to tell me how stupid I was. No one to tell me it would be all right. No one.
Trying to go to bed tonight, I feel the same way. Only worse. I, too, feel a man extinguished. Nothing more. Some start to a new year.
As always, your advice is appreciated.
