A time of maybes. In the lobby before the film La Tête Haute began, I ran into a woman who may be leaving town and moving out of the large studio with large deck she occupies. Something of life and fiction at crossroads when she tells me this: her studio is in a renovated tannery building that has served as a setting for two stories already.
Of the film itself, the part that resonated most for me yesterday was the educator’s loss of control. After months and months of trying to get through to a badly fucked-over kid, he loses it and rams the boy into a wall. No, not professional, yes, wrong but there you have it: working with badly fucked-over kids makes for emotional overload and/or total loss of empathy.
I find the notion of staying in this town a major challenge right now. But it may well have to be.
Reading the two stories more or less in parallel. The second takes place some six years after the first. The main protagonist in the first gets more or less shoved to one side in the second.
Maybes. Giving shape and meaning. Shape. Meaning. A woman I tried to help with her writing tore into me last night. Once, I’d praised her work, she said; at our next meeting, I criticized the very things I had praised before. Not so, I tried to reply, but gave up. The shape and meaning are fixed in her mind. Whatever I said that day fell into a neat slot. Nothing I do or say will change her opinion.
A small town. I may be here for another stretch. I’d best work my mind around whatever options may offer new perspectives.