17 (18) August
I did a bit of cheating. I got home last night in a whirlwind of emotions and tiredness. It was the last night of the show. We went out for drinks. Some lovely people came to the show: a couple from our meditation group; one of Andrew’s supervisors from work; a lovely musician, Phamie, who has lived in NYC, and who I only catch up with briefly. I told friends last night: When she speaks to me, I see her heart in her eyes.
Phamie and I had a few moments to chat and catch up, even though a longer one will hopefully come next week. We were astonished to find ourselves in the same place. Not in terms of the bar. But in terms of our lives. Sometimes when I smile, I told her, I feel guilty. Like: I should be sad. There’s a voice in my head saying “You are sad right now. Stop being happy.” And it shocks me. And I know that I’m frowning at people all the time, even on the street, even when I’m actually happy. You know those moments when things align and someone else is right there with you, experiencing what you’re experiencing? Going through the same phase and point of life as you? It’s surprising, and relieving.
Can you help me backdate this post?
I still want to tell you all about the dance concert, and I will. But yesterday I watched the film “Stranger than Fiction”
with Will Ferrell, Maggie Gyllenhaal, Dustin Hoffman and Emma Thompson, about a man who wakes up one morning and finds his life being narrated by an author in his head. Little does he know that the author is real, and that she is directing the course of his life. Someone once told me that I reminded him of Maggie Gyllenhaal. Someone last night complimented me on the light in my eyes. I have to put it on right now,
I wanted to say. But then again — does it matter where the light comes from as long as it’s really
there, however briefly or full of effort?
The movie is beautiful. You would love it.
“Such an uncommonly intelligent film does not often get made…which requires us to enter the lives of these specific quiet, sweet, worthy people.” – Roger Ebert
Kay Eiffel: [narrating] This is a story about a man named Harold Crick and his wristwatch. Harold Crick was a man of infinite numbers, endless calculations, and remarkably few words. And his wristwatch said even less. Every weekday, for twelve years, Harold would brush each of his thirty-two teeth seventy-six times. Thirty-eight times back and forth, thirty-eight times up and down. Every weekday, for twelve years, Harold would tie his tie in a single Windsor knot instead of the double, thereby saving up to forty-three seconds. His wristwatch thought the single Windsor made his neck look fat, but said nothing.
Kay Eiffel: Every weekday, for 12 years, Harold would run at a rate of nearly 57 steps per block for 6 blocks, barely catching the 8:17 Kronecker bus. His wristwatch would delight in the feeling of the crisp wind rushing over its face. And every weekday, for 12 years, Harold would review 7.134 tax files as a senior agent for the Internal Revenue Service. Only taking a 45.7-minute lunch break, and a 4.3-minute coffee break, timed precisely by his wristwatch.
Kay Eiffel: Beyond that, Harold lived a life of solitude. He would walk home alone. He would eat alone. And precisely 11:13 every night, Harold would go to bed alone, putting his wristwatch to rest on the nightstand beside him. The was, of course, before Wednesday. On Wednesday, Harold’s wristwatch changed everything.
Goodnight, and good morning,