Wednesday, August 17, 2005

the blower's daughter

I do love the film Closer. I'm sitting at home after Quizzo watching it now, practically salivating over the delicious lines and Clive Owen's harsh brutality.

I love movies in which beautiful people are unspeakably cruel to one another while using stagey, too-articulate dialogue. It's such a perfect representation of what I want to be capable of but can't quite make myself utter. Decorum blunts the tip of brutal honesty. It's why I spent 17 euro on a script of The Shape of Things in Amsterdam yet can't quite bring myself to finish the four cutting, nasty, stingingly perfect blog entries I've started since Sunday morning.

This weekend was a perfect example of the cruelty it would be great to be capable of. Many scenarios in my head, and the one that came true was the completely inevitable option. Of course that's how it would be. It was so theatrical, so worthy of a dramatic monologue for junior-year English class. In fact, it reminded me of the time I broke up with my high school sweetheart for the second of three times-- or, I should say, he broke up with me-- and I scathingly said to him "Oh, save me the freshman drama monologue." Seriously, I said that out loud.

I do miss the drama, but not in the real-life, crapass dating game way. I miss the performing and rehearsal process and analysis and the applicable lessons learned from fictional situations. Time to get back in that saddle again. Time to utter the lines without the consequences, to be pushed to my limits without being responsible to anything beyond my fellow cast members and the written word at the end of the day.

Sometimes a girl needs the catharsis of saying things like "I don't love you anymore. Goodbye." Even if it's not to a person who deserves to hear it. Even if she doesn't mean it.

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