We’ve been up since 6:30 this morning—travelled to Boston and back—and it’s now 85 degrees outside. Our dog has been waiting patiently for us to get home and take her on a walk. I’m going to skip today’s blog and reprint an older one. Maybe you missed it? Be back next week!
On the art of escaping
"We're not going anywhere, Gilbert”
May 2, 2020
Because we can’t go anywhere right now, we’re all engaged in a nightly ritual of searching for something to stream on our TVs or computers, anything to transport us far, far away
It’s Friday night on the first day of May and we’re on the couch with our feet up in front of us watching another slew of episodes of Killing Eve.
“I’m already bored of this,” I say, reaching for my glass of wine from the tray on the footrest. “What’s going on anyway?”
“If you put your phone down, maybe you’d know,” says my spouse Janyce.
I type a quick text to my mother. “Forget Killing Eve,” I say. “It just got stupid.”
Janyce starts to explain the plot line to me and I look at her blankly. I don’t usually like spy programs, but I liked this one a lot the other night when I suggested we watch it in bed while listening to the rain pelt the outside of the house. I had the covers up to my neck, one eye peering out from under the comforter, and squinting at the bright screen of the computer balanced between us. Janyce was sitting up against our headrest, with perfect posture, and eating a tiny square of chocolate she had wrapped in a cloth napkin. The string of episodes kept coming—all Russian accent and high fashion—with gory death scenes: a guy with a pen jabbed into his neck spurting blood, a woman on the floor of a fancy hotel bathroom choking on poisoned perfume, a maimed boy in a hospital done in by the heroine assassin with a quick twist of his neck. The series is campy and silly, and full of plot twists. And that’s the point, right? Escapism.
The other night, for similar reasons, I suggested we watch the old 2011 movie Contagion.
“You sure you want to watch that?” said Janyce, scrolling through Netflix looking for a novel movie. It was long past dinner time and still raining hard outside. We were ensconced in our nighttime house now, with the darkness having transformed it from makeshift daytime office, back to a cozy living room with our wood stove blazing and all the lamps lit. I suggested something I thought would be jarring and exciting, wanting to escape the reality of the midweek doldrums.
“Isn’t this going to give you nightmares?” she said.
“No it’s just a movie,” I said. “And plus, we’re already living it, so how bad can it be?”
Because we can’t go anywhere right now, we’re all engaged in a nightly ritual of searching for something to stream on our TVs or computers, anything to transport us far, far away.
I’m not feeling angry or anxious or even sad anymore, but I am restless. Spring is the season for being energized, lighter, and more hopeful. And yet, the surge still hasn’t let up any in Massachusetts. Our Governor has ordered us all to wear face masks every time we are outside and near other people. In the news today, I read in faint horror, although not nearly as alarmed as I would have thought, as armed militias actually stormed the state house in Michigan. Armed militias.
Does anything shock us anymore? Just this morning, I was making my way through the town on our familiar walking route, just me alone while Janyce was at home on a work conference call, and I was startled by what sounded like a loud explosive pop from behind. “What the?!” I said out loud to myself, as I spun around, amazed to see a giant rotted tree had fallen to the ground and now spanned the entire street from one sidewalk to the other. I was literally only seconds past it, the only person walking up the sidewalk in the middle of the day.
“You’re not going to believe what just happened,” I said to Janyce when I walked back into the room where she was working. The irony is not lost on me, a near miss from instant death by a falling tree during a pandemic, especially when I take pains to follow the social distance rules to the letter, and wear my mask religiously while out walking on a largely deserted street.
The other night, pacing around the house like a large cat in a cage, I gently coerced Janyce, with the promise of a bowl of buttered popcorn, into watching my favorite movie of all time. The genius of Lasse Hallström’s What’s Eating Gilbert Grape, isn’t something I can easily sum up in a pithy explanation. But let me just say it’s the kind of movie that lends itself to repeated watchings because it has layers and layers of film artistry crafted by a skilled director.
Janyce and I had a disagreement after watching it this time. She summed up the main characters simply, calling them “a dysfunctional family.” I see it as exactly the opposite. To me, it’s a film that, at its core, is all about people caring for each other with sacrifice and empathy. I don’t see that as dysfunctional at all. “I won’t let her be a joke,” says Gilbert towards the end of the movie. It’s a central line, and a central theme, spoken in a few words by the movie’s narrator, a depressed and almost hopeless young man who has spent the better part of his young years obligated into supporting his family, and forced to make pivotal adult decisions for everyone else before he’s had the chance to discover himself.
At one point in the movie, Gilbert, as narrator, counts out all the members of his family. “That’s my older brother,” he says, “but he escaped.” And here’s where I think the film hints at its most telling truism. Nobody ever escapes the trap of being human.
It’s my favorite movie of all time precisely because of its humanity. Because of its hopefulness. Because of its smart screenplay, clever dialogue, and expertly staged scenes. And because its central theme is one that we, as humans, understand completely—that pressing urge to leave, to escape, to be free of other people’s rules, and the burden of caring for others, if only for a while.
It’s Saturday morning and Janyce climbs back on the bed with me, balancing her coffee cup in one hand, and strategically crouching around the dog who is lying sprawled out sideways. I have the window open and the morning air wafts in, tinged with the sweet smell of early May.
“I borrowed your soap,” says Janyce. “And I have to say it is thoroughly dissatisfying taking a shower with unscented soap.”
“Look at how beautiful it is outside,” I say. “It’s like a painting out there.” Sunlight is bright on the tree trunks against a pale robin’s egg blue sky, the surface of my neighbors grass is fluorescent, while tiny shoots on the saplings deep in the woods are splayed in a blast of brilliant green and glowing with life.
“Doesn’t it seem like the winter has lasted forever? says Janyce. “And yet every day goes by so fast.”
“It does,” I say. I like the way my hand feels clasped in her hand, with both our arms side by side, and the two of us looking in the same direction out the window at the tiny details in the woods surrounding us. I’m struck this morning by the simple truth of the matter. We’re not going anywhere. Not for a while anyway.