my heart hurts a lot :/
my roommate is having sex and im in bed reading faulkner. happy friday.
Flash Review: The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby: Them
Ned Benson’s debut feature The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby has been all the rage since it first appeared at the 2013 Toronto International Film Festival. The film, which was cut into two separate parts (Him & Her), provides the perspective of both the man and woman in a faltering marriage. The version I saw, which was deemed more marketable by God knows who, combines footage from both parts, creating one, rather generic picture. The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby: Them isn’t awful though. It may be a bit bland, but it’s still sweet, warm and rather enjoyable. It also helps to remember how in its original format, the way it was when it first screened, it was said to epitomize innovation. That’s the mindset we decided to stick with when watching.
Anyway, Jessica Chastain stars as Eleanor Rigby (parents met at a Beatles concert), a young woman who, after a horrible event, leaves her husband and retreats to her family’s suburban home. Meanwhile, her man, played by James McAvoy, tries to determine what he did wrong. The film cuts back and forth between their present separation and the origins of their highly passionate relationship. That’s pretty much it. That being said, The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby: Them is a stunningly shot feature (recalling the closeups of Chastain) and wonderfully acted as well (Chastain again, but also McAvoy). And while there are moments of brilliance, we realize how much greater it would be if we had the opportunity to see it in separate segments—something that Benson and Chastain even said in a Q&A following the screening. Oh well. Soon enough.
maybe when i stop idealizing people i’ll find an ideal person
i’m drunk, terrified and afraid of getting hurt!!!
i’m trying to be okay, but i’m also horrfied
we were watching a video of cats fainting.
you said ‘i can’t do this anymore’ so i shut
the lights off, rolled to my side and felt you
breathe against my neck. earlier in the day
i had acid reflux and low self-esteem, but
i decided to take a tums and look at myself.
we speak about worth in terms of what we
can touch. i once bought an ipod mini, an
effort to compensate for a fear of summer
camps, weeks spent at a lodge in the blue
ridge mountains. i tried listening to shakira.
i fell asleep each night curled up in a ball.
it’s not that i don’t believe you’ll make an
effort to find my abs, but sometimes, well,
most of the time, i feel safer knowing that
you’ll never come over, make love to me,
answer when my brother calls to talk about
fantasy football. if you’re gone, i can stay.
still, i wrestle with the thought of you as a
tangible and permanent fixture. i can delude
myself, write a list of the things you do best:
the way you leave too much stubble. the way
you run after me when i say ‘stay the fuck back’—
and i get all knotted, hot and hopeful. yes, that.
i can also do the opposite, memorize your flaws,
the hint of insanity in your eyes, bouts of sadness,
your brief obsessions with people, places, things—
but, at the end of the day, i know such a decision
cannot be made. i know that most things require
time and hurt. and i’m trying to be okay with that.
i’m just so fucking scared of everything!!!!
How I Became Afraid To Say Your Name
The first time I had sex I had just turned 18.
It was after a concert and the girl, eyes wide,
asked me if I had ever done it before. I wasn’t
sure what she meant by that because i had
done plenty of things before. I had driven past
curfew and watched men beat my mother.
We often make parallels between our first climax
and a time from way before. I would sneak into
my parents bed and whimper until they’d wake
up. They would ask me what was wrong and I,
still innocent, but already somewhat manipulative,
would tell them how I was scared of dying in my pjs.
I often have the same dilemma now, even with
familiar lovers. I tell them (and there have been quite
a few) about my playthings, the stamp collection my
grandpa had given me from way before he had sold
his Matisse to pay off accumulated debts. I’d say, ‘I’m
just about ready to love you, but you need to hear this…”
I have expectations for myself, ones I concoct at odd
hours, sometimes late into the night. I often wait for
these nights and hidden moons to plan my happiness.
Meanwhile, you, the same you who has come along
two years later, ask me what I have to be terrified about.
Everything is something that may or may not happen.
I have no answer to a lot of things. My virginity was more
or less a spectacular mindset I had given away to a
person who valued ‘me’ and not ‘us.’ It later became
something that I would associate with abuse, memories
of a dull blade. That is why now, when I should take leaps,
forge swords and sheaths, I have found solace in my hands.
everything is disconcerting