Titanic

I saw Titanic last night and it was absolutely one of the most wonderful, terrible, awesome, and heart-wrenching films I have ever seen. All the way home I tried to keep from crying, but my eyes welled up in spite of all my blinking.

Alright, so it was a story, fiction, based upon an actual event. That doesn’t lessen any feelings I might harbor toward my own life after watching two souls who so fully lived their own lives, even though one died long before his time. Would I dare to risk as much? Would I be able to bear the suffering over choices made or lost? Rose gave up everything - money, security, even her mother’s regard - for a love she felt to the core of her being. Would I be able to sacrifice as much - or even half that?

All my life I think I have played it safe. Safe in school - I behaved, did my homework, never skipped class. This does not make me a nerd. Safe at home - generally obeyed my parents, never got into too much trouble, didn’t beat up my siblings. This does not tie me to my mother’s apron strings. Safe at work - arrived on time, stayed late, and in between did more than what was expected of me. This does not make me a brown-noser. But neither does any of it make me interesting. I always did what was expected of me.

What’s the opposite of reckless? Prudent? I wasn’t much of a prude in the traditional sense. Discreet, sensible, practical? Ugh! What terrible words! (I was once described as ‘dainty’ and I nearly threw up laughing so hard!) Un-reckless. Perhaps I became someone who stood back saying, "I’ll just watch." Not that I am not interesting or talented, but I’ve never taken the chances that could’ve made me stand out. I’ve never given one thing 100% of my attention and exertion to the exclusion of all else; I’m a jack-of-all-trades, good at many but master of none. I was never one of those people who reached for the brass ring, and won it and held it high to the crowd displayed upon a raised middle finger. Although I think I could be. Now.

Now in love - I wasn’t always so safe. I always fell in love easily. My first kiss at age 12 was in the back of some kid’s garage, after crawling in through the broken window. On a dirty mattress, Patrick and I pressed our lips together - and that was it. No movement, no tongues, like kissing a mirror. After about ten seconds I said, OK that’s enough and crawled back out the window.

I always, after the first initial painful experiences, succumbed early on to my lovers’ desire. Sometimes I would develop a crush on someone while I was dating someone else. I loved being in love. I love being loved. Sometimes it was safe - sometimes it wasn’t. There were jerks, there were assholes. There were nice guys too, but they usually didn’t last too long. Always attracted to guys with dark streaks, I guess. And I’d shove out the nice guys with my aggression. Or boredom, because I’d find someone else more exciting.

But eventually I did what was expected of me, I did the safe thing. I got married (to a nice guy) and we scrimped and saved and sacrificed like responsible newlyweds - don’t ( I was gonna say ‘do,’ but honestly how many of them really do? It’s certainly not a lot of fun.). That’s not very romantic. We haven’t been on vacation together, alone, for an entire week, since our honeymoon. Almost five years ago. I think we, or maybe just I, have forgotten what romance and lust and base desires are all about because everything’s just become too routine. Sex is buried under the bills and I’m too busy and disinterested to dig it out. Animal magnetism sniffed the pheromones of more attractive prey and slinked out the front door left ajar.

While inside me these wild fires rage. I’ve been told what it’s like to be naked on the beach, and I want to do it for myself. Inside is this crazy passion that makes me hunger for man-flesh innocently walking down the street. Somewhere inside there’s an intensity of focus that will melt steel if I simply concentrate long enough. And with it I could be the best at whatever I aimed it towards - writing, music, art, anything. I want to waltz in shopping malls and circle biker bars while blasting Beethoven, just because - I want to.

I don’t know how much longer I can live anymore just being safe.

Sometimes it just doesn’t feel much like living, like life. For a long time this thought has been running through my head, like I’m psychotic or something. "I’m dying inside." Not just, I’m dying, but dying inside. Like there’s some part of me that’s withering up inside, turning black and shriveling up and fairly soon it will crumple to dust and blow away in one massive sigh. Then the shell that I’ve been feeling like will finally be what I am. Hollow. Hollow head, hollow heart, and to most others I will still appear alive, I’ll eat and shit and talk and sleep and work, but to me I won’t feel alive.

Jack in Titanic may have lived a short life, but I guarantee you he felt every moment of it. And Rose came to that realization as well. That life can be one big charade as we hide our true selves safely behind masks, especially those created for us by society, family, and lovers. But the play becomes much more interesting, for both the player and the audience, once those masks are thrown aside, and we improvise.