Last night, I watched the movie "Closer," starring Jude Law and Natalie Portman (and also Julia Roberts and Clive Owen, but who cares...).
In it, they discuss the nature of depressed people, how some people like to be depressed, and being happy disrupts their imbalance. Sometimes I feel as if I'm like this, that I NEED to be depressed, or if not depressed, at least in conflict.
Which may be part of the reason that I LOVE drama films, films that tug on me, pull my heart apart, show the untruthfulness, and emptiness of the world, often hidden behind flashy pictures.
In the movie, Natalie Portman's character, Alice, discusses the bitter beauty of portraits. "They're just a bunch of sad people photographed beautifully," she says. And observers think of the pictures as beautiful, despite the sadness of the subjects, who may view the world as ugly. And in so seeing these pictures as beautiful, these observers are simply lying to themselves.
Sometimes I feel as if I try too hard to make life meaningful. I photograph people (myself included) in ways that make them seem so pensive, so full of conflict, and hidden desires, and repressed potential.
I live my life as if I'm in a movie. I pretend that verything I see through my eyes is filtered through a camera's lens. The rushing landscape as I ride on the train, the way I walk, my wardrobe (which means so little - people often compliment me on my taste of clothing, but how selfish, shallow, and insubstatial is that?) And my mind edits these reels of memory film, cutting and pasting, creating a stream of flashes of memories, little bits and pieces, throwing out sometimes huge, sometimes miniscule chunks earlier etched into my memory film.
I think too much, I speak too little. I try to portray myself as a pensive artist, hoping for someone to find me interesting, to spike someone's curiosity, make them long to find out more about me.
little did I realize how little other people care.
however, this is no fault of my own. simply, it is because they are directing their own films inside their minds. like me, they are cooped up in their dark editing rooms, cutting and pasting together scraps of their memory, selecting which pieces to keep, which pieces to dispose. which pieces of memories, collectively, show the beauty, the drama, the complexity of their lives? they have no time to speak to me about my movie, because they are too busy with theirs.
and in the end, what will we have to show for ourselves? when we die, how do these films present themselves to other people - those people in whose films we ourselves have made cameos - how will these films appear to us? will I be satisfied with this movie i've spent my whole life creating? what will the critics, what will the audiences think of it? will my movie even be released at all, or will it simply collect dust on the top shelf of some cluttered cabinet?
who really truly gives a f*** about one's life except one's self?
sorry if I depressed you. I hope your film is a comedy.
Moving On
Jiggy
