It's just been one of those weeks. I think it's the change in the weather or something, and I sometimes think I have the tortured soul of an artist. Straight up. Of course, this would be all the more compelling an argument if I had any artistic talent what.so.ever. But anyway, I must have been an artist in a former life, because sometimes it just feels too darn good -- necessary to breathe, even -- to embrace the pain.
I had a couple of bad dreams last week which probably set off this mood, and then this weekend when flipping through channels I landed on Out of Africa, which I had not watched since it first came out. It positively shattered me and sent me into convulsive sobs for the rest of that night and much of the next day. That caused a sinus infection, which caused pain and headache, and then I'd well up again every time I thought about the ending of the movie, and it was a cycle without an end.
Then Patrick Swayze died and I watched all those clips of his dancing and those tear-jerking movies that made me weep all over again. And again. And since I couldn't stop myself from clicking to play them: Again. And Again.
I really miss the years when Abigail was at Walnut Hill -- all that painful art, total immersion in just about every genre -- if it wasn't her art, it was someone else's that we were taking part in. What is it about great art that is so painful? Or is it just me? Don't get me wrong -- it's a pain that is in the "it hurts so good" way. But one does have to come up for air every once in a while, and there really is a limit to what one person can endure, methinks.
And then last night browsing Facebook, I saw that my friend Annie (hi Annie!) posted this.
Holy shit. What a week. So you'd think I'd be ready to brighten up a bit, hm? No. Not yet. Do you have some art that's beautifully, melancholically painful? Bring it on. I think I'm going to go rent Out of Africa and watch it yet one more time. Or two.