So The Man On My Couch rented a movie called "Baise-moi" and warned me that it was supposed to be very raunchy and had been banned in France where it had been filmed in the first place.
Raunch, I was expecting. Violence works too, I'm well aware of just how desensitized I've become, and I was in the perfect mood to curl up on my couch and imbibe a filmmaker's ideas.
I wasn't expecting the cold line of her jaw. I wasn't expecting the rape scene to be so familiar, to phaze me at all. It wouldn't have either, not the blood or the punching or the torn pantyhose or the screaming of the other woman. When the camera panned around to show penises penetrating blood-slick vaginas I was busy trying to figure out how the storyline had gotten there from the drug-dealings and wheelings of five minutes previous.
I was midly surprised that they'd shown penetration.
When the camera turned to show us the grimace of gritted teeth and utter resolution on the young girl's face, all thoughts, thinking, analyzing, flew past the window and tangled themselves in the dusk-lined treetops.
I know that face. I've worn that face.
When she turned violent afterwards, one moment not showing a sign anywhere that she'd been affected at all, her speech about not keeping precious things where people can break in and steal them, her speech about how none of it matters, there was nothing precious there... I knew every move and thought and breath coming from her.
I wondered birefly about how the director could know, how the actress felt living this on camera, but I couldn't hold on to that thought. We paused the movie so I could put my laundry in the dryer and by the time I'd returned I was composed and watched the shooting and the stomping and the lines of cocaine and progressively violent and deviant sex with one eye on technique (I noticed a position I hadn't tried) and one eye slowly drooping from the monotonous bashing, blood, morning, breakfast, bathroom, then more sex and bashings.
When she died, though, and I'm sorry for the spoiler, when she died and her sidekick bent over her holding back tears and staring at her face and kissing it one last time
I remembered.
I remembered Kim, her face, the way it was relaxed for the first time ever. The first time she'd ever gone without the hard, determined grimace. I can feel my teeth aching against each other as I wear it remembering.
Meth, Bobby how do you do it? How have you managed to rationalize going on after that? Is it over? Are we leading different lives? What am I doing sitting here writing e-mails to my boyfriend about how much I love him and how his presence up against my back holds nightmares at bay?
What am I doing dreaming of the future, worrying about my car and my job and my RRSPs and thinking of going to get a facial on Tanya's recommendation, "planning for the future" she called it. I'm getting a haircut tomorrow, my hair is losing it's shape since it's getting so long.
How the fuck am I daring to fill my head with any of this? How can I sit here, warm, and safe four floors from the streets with nothing but trees and horizon and clean wine glasses drying on the burnished aluminun dish rack?
There are port glasses up there too.
I spend time in expensive liquor stores picking out the perfect wine.
It's all bullshit.
My couches are made of leather. Old, used, beat up and experienced leather, but the symbolism is there. My computer screen is nineteen inches across. My bed is made of wrought iron and stretches above me in a canopy as though I were some sort of princess.
I'm not. I've been hard, I have a hard knot in my stomach. I think murderous thoughts sometimes and I know I mean them, and when tragedy strikes it doesn't even come near to piercing the honey cloud I've got around me, watching someone cry makes me want to soothe them, but whatever it is they're crying about...
...I won't let it hurt me.
I miss Kim. I miss the smile that would shatter her face when no one was looking. I miss the clarity of thought back then, even if it was wrong, even if I couldn't think that way anymore.
I know I let things near me now, I know it's all bullshit. Children and laughter and people crying about the way their boss treats them, it's all significant and no matter how strong the urge to look at it all and say "well at least you're alive" I know there's more to it.
Right now, though, before Kaffeine gets here and we get dressed up and go pick up my princess and head out to see Ollie Dj at the club... Right now I just want to know why.
I don't care if I forget it later, I don't care if I don't get to write it down, I just want five fucking minutes of understanding the why.
Why la banlieu, why do we have to wear cold faces. Why do we have to set our jaws. Why is there an eleven year old boy somewhere learning how to suck dick for money. Why do people just keep going. Why do I care about my career. Why do I give a fuck about which wine I drink. Why any of it.
And why am I here at all.