A Human Film

I think I go days and days without true pauses sometimes. Funny how I’ve orchestrated that. All I want is for time not to seem like it’s rushing right out of my fingers and everything will be manageable. I always think that will come if I keep doing the right motions (i.e. different ones than I do). But all that’s required to escape my flurry of escape that I’m not flurry-ing right is to pause more. To be small and to see the world and myself in context. I spent my quiet time holding hands with my dear one in the grass. Remembering how refreshing the patches of green are to my feet. Thinking about how much time I look at the sky in the morning, but never in the evening. In the evening nature calls to me to sit with it and then I refuse. How beautiful the trees are. How peaceful I feel, all the noise and nausea in my head somewhere else for a little while. How much I love to sit still and watch and how I never do…I was bursting with the desire to speak to my dear one even so. But in my refusal to do so I was so aware of how I felt. Still affectionate, still connected, still laughing, but listening only to myself for once. Listening to an inner peace so often drowned out by motion. I still gave it up on instinct the moment my time was up, but my words felt so frivolous then. They still do sometimes now, how often I speak words that mean almost nothing to try and access the love that I could feel in silence.
This film was to see culture and life and death. Religion and nature, structure and the wild. Water and desert. Trying to focus on myself while taking in new things was difficult. Always a buzzing between my ears made more difficult with action. I’m always trying to take in new media completely, ignoring the other buzzing. The flutter of thoughts relevant and irrelevant. I wonder if writing is the only time where my thoughts are one tracked. They seem always either absent, or a million places. But then, even when they seem absent I’m observing their absence. Perhaps I never bothered to watch my writing mechanism before this moment. To feel myself type, watch myself think of this sentence.
The counting hurt my fingers. I wonder why when I pay attention to my body it always starts to hurt. I wonder why when I pay attention to me I always seem sad.
What was this like? It was a reminder that religion is a real thing real people do everywhere. It was a reminder that there are humans who live half naked, painted, tattooed, bejeweled in ways unimaginable to me, and they are just as human as I. That the people a world away from me are so different and just the same.
The music was brilliant, the same scores playing and changing over things as western and white as the Catholic Church and things so foreign I have no name for them. Change happened—it was far from monotonous—but it all felt the same, too. Equal homage to the familiar and the strange, the buildings and the landscape. Beautiful too.
Our world is so beautiful, so terrible. So cold and warm. So violent and gentle.
Reverence. This movie was the reverence I feel when I am small in the company of trees, but more. The peace of being known complexly, yet less peace then when sitting among things separate from my context of routine. Still sitting in the same patterns, the same classroom, with the same friends and the same hand holding and affection, but also worlds and worlds away in a place more whole.


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