red curtains cover my thoughts

I remember once I was in a college geology class and the professor was talking about the movie Ice Age, expressing much discontent over the factual inaccuracies.  His main gripe pertained to the motley group of animals who make up our plucky protagonists and the fact that several of those particular animals would never actually have crossed paths due to the geographical makeup of the planet at the time.  I dutifully raised my hand to point out I did not believe the Ice Age movies were designed to be historical presentations and that their intentions lie elsewhere.  I immediately began to space out as he responded to my point, looking over at a baseball-sized purple geode sitting on the counter.  I could turn my head slightly in either direction and it would shine in a different way.  I would eventually steal that geode, placing it in my backpack one day as class was ending without bothering to check if anyone was looking.  Sometime later I happened upon a novel which was self-published by this professor but I did not purchase it.    

Something strange and unsettling is happening to me and I do not know why or how to stop its acceleration.  I went to dinner last night with a group of friends and acquaintances in celebration of a promotion earned by someone within this group.  The chosen restaurant was a more formal place and I selected my outfit well ahead of time.  An hour or so before leaving I began drinking several glasses of cheap red wine in an effort to calm the restless voices inside my head.  I was dreading this dinner – as I had done with several recent social events – and my nerves were sending me into near panic.  I filled my flat with the sounds of various Hans Zimmer scores (always popular with critics) and told myself repeatedly it would not be so bad.  I was very happy this individual had earned this promotion because it was well deserved but despite the telephonic invitation to the celebratory dinner I could not fathom why my company was desired or how it could add to the festivities in any constructive way.  Still, I thought it best to offer my support and I arrived quite punctual for the occasion. 

As suspected, no one looked happy to see me and I could not say I was happy to see anyone there either.  I looked around the table and though I had known these people for years and had even felt close to several of them on various occasions I was horrified to realize they were now all strangers to me.  A polite gentleman at the table – one I knew only in passing – did his best to involve me in the group conversations but I imagine the only people even less interested than me in my monotone anecdotes were the remaining participants.  I appreciated his efforts and felt gratitude for his attempt; these were likely the only positive emotions I experienced during the dinner.  The longer I stayed the more blackened things became.  Their eyes were cruel and bizarre distortions of visages once familiar.  It was difficult to look into them and perhaps the only healthy aspect of it was the fierce realization that it would be for the last time.  It was impossible to imagine any of them missing my presence in their lives or even noticing its absence at all.  There was a warm and welcome comfort with this embracement of irrelevancy but it did not make the dinner any easier.  Language had failed me entirely for the evening as all conversations felt entirely superficial and said through forced smiles of whitened teeth.  Any attempt to feign interest in the proceedings or carry on as though I were legitimately a part of any present relationship only resulted in a sharp pain between my eyes and myself quite literally choking on my own words. 

I do not recall exactly when the evening ended, only a blur of obligatory handshakes, and cold, often repellant hugs.  Driving home I could not recall the last time I had felt so thankful.  I feel it must be said I do not believe the blame for my unpleasant experience lies with anyone but me.  Though it is difficult to now say I know any of the others very well they truly did seem like good, honest and pleasant people.  The problem is entirely my own and no one else’s. 

I find it a bit strange that more and more I am able to make a connection only with artistic works and expressions such as music or movies or books and no longer with people.  How is it that I can make a connection and feel moved by something of a human origin but everyday people themselves feel ever more distant and hollow?  It makes me wonder what it would be like to meet someone whose work I admire and celebrate.  Would I be able to connect with him or her in any way or would they be as impenetrable and ultimately disappointing as anybody else? 

Earlier in the evening I found myself at another one of life’s great crossroads.  Days ago I rented Sam Raimi’s recent Oz the Great and Powerful from Hastings, the entertainment superstore.  I remember the moment vividly because the friendly woman at the checkout lane informed me she remembered my name after I informed her I’d misplaced my Hastings card (cleverly known as an entertainment passport).  She commenced in entering what she thought was my information into the computer, only stopping when I informed her that the name was completely incorrect.  There was a second of silence followed by a dual merry chuckle due to the mutual realization that she was mistaking me for someone else and that I was in fact as unmemorable as I assumed.  As she pulled up the correct information I grabbed a small bag of fruit snacks which were in a box by the register and put them on the check-out counter.  She said “thank you” upon ringing this item up but I am not sure why.  It is unlikely she would receive any sort of commission given the nature of this store.  Perhaps she was the one who suggested to top management to carry this product in the store and was feeling pleased over the reception (it appeared several others had purchased these as well).  Maybe I simply set the snack down on the counter at the exact moment her hand was reaching over and it was simply an instinctual response to nearly being handed something.  I suspect I will never know why she said these words but that will not stop me from wondering for the rest of my natural life. 

Getting back on track, earlier in the evening I could not make up my mind as to whether I should watch the aforementioned Oz or watch Wim Wenders’ The American Friend for the twenty-seventh time this week.  In what will likely go down as one of the boldest moves of the past twenty years I decided to spend several hours doing nothing but watching cinema and viewed them both back to back.  Perhaps one day in the future I will go into my thoughts on both films and on that day, the world will truly know my name.  I cried during both movies but only one made me weep.