Trompé Setsuled (setsuled) wrote,
Trompé Setsuled
setsuled

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Cruelty

As I observed to Trisa, to-day was a day that made me wish I was Batman. Or someone capable of doing what our criminal justice system seems so persistently incapable of doing--rendering justice.

I also pondered the similarities between Elvis Costello's When I Was Cruel No. 2 and Tori Amos's Cruel.

And together, Trisa and I feasted upon the very good Mark Romanek film One Hour Photo. I have admired several of Romanek's music videos in the past, notably NIN's Closer, Perfect Drug, and We're In This Together, as well as Fiona Apple's Criminal. So I was very pleased that his first feature film (as far as I know) should be so very good. The visuals are lusciously vivid, be they the antiseptic aisles of SavMart or the vacuous confines of a hotel parking garage.

Robin Williams turns in a stunning performance as Sey, the Photo Guy. He puts his unstable/nervous edge to good use to make this character seem human enough that, when combined with Romanek's expressive visuals, make the story one we, the audience, can plug into.

I feel kind of numb at the moment. Stomach hurts a little . . . I think only because I was pinching it when I was reading a moment ago . . .

I've decided that I love Trisa and I hate the world, incidentally. Which are two sentiments conveniently paired since Trisa and the world seem dead set against each other.

Erm. Maybe I don't hate the whole world . . . maybe just a lot of the people in it. And the things people do to people . . . One Hour Photo had themes of abuse in it . . . Or maybe it was more about acts of betrayal committed to serve selfish needs.

It all makes one feel so tired. I look at the faces of people who are grossly wronged and I realise . . . there's no point to it, except perhaps that life can really suck. I think one thing I didn't get to in my entry from the other day was that there's too much pain in life to celebrate or glorify pain. It would be like celebrating stamps.

The words of Travis Bickle echo through my head, "I wanna . . . I wanna really do something . . ." which, naturally, worries me.

Sometimes incidents of joy seem to me like mere tiny islands in oceans of suffering. The fact that my life has had relatively little suffering is merely a reflection of the fact that I am part of a very small percentage of the world's population.

I stand on my island of privilege as the world decays around me in the glorious tale of a Grand Sadist. Some might say that one day, in heaven, we'll all look back at this and laugh.

The more dramatic and involved the setup, the bigger the joke, ne?

If there really are benevolent gods, who are bound by preconceived rules, I guess I pity them, especially those that happily accept the current nature of existence. It's all such a pathetic song and dance.

But I shall take what beauty and love that I can, and there is, in this world, a rich bounty of beauty to be found. I shall not close down my heart and I'll love my friends and art as much as I may, while at the same time, I shall never lay down and forget that there is far more suffering in this world than need be.

Given that all eternity stretches before us, I wonder of humankind shall ever straighten out?
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