I’ve had a lot of opportunity to think about Wrob Barney and myself since then (don’t worry, you’ll understand why soon enough): the why/how of it all going bad between us, and so quickly. Because on the face of it, it seems like something simply chemical, straight oil and water, but in retrospect I’ve come to accept the truly sad fact that he and I were actually very similar people—too much so for comfort, let alone collaboration. I didn’t want to see it, but I’m sure I suspected it, which is why I cast him away so violently. If we’d been different, we probably could have worked together, and . . . well, not none of this would have happened, because I think a lot of it would’ve no matter what. But at least the circle of damage would have been smaller.
It’s just amazing how two people can misunderstand each other so wilfully, without “willing” it at all. Or maybe it isn’t.
Back when I was a reviewer, I often had to remind myself that film is 99 percent interpretation, subject to inherent narrative unreliability. It’s really hard to say “objectively, this is what [x] is ‘about.’” Critics ask each other all the time: “What movie did you watch?” the same way we constantly tell each other, “You kind of have to see it.” But can the movie you see ever be the movie I saw, given how perception is skewed the very moment in which we observe something?
Your perceptions are not reliable, and you will never escape unchanged.
Silver nitrate film, in particular, is the Schrödinger’s Cat of cinema—you can open the box once, maybe, take a look inside, but after that you kind of have to take it on faith it ever existed in the first place. But then, all film is illusion; it’s just an illusion that looks like the truth.
The problem with all numinous things is that you can’t just take somebody’s word about them, especially the ones you’re warned away from. You have to look at them, eventually, to know they’re really there. You look at them even though you know it’s not a good idea to. You can’t not.
In the end, you will always look at the thing you’re told not to just because it exists, if only to prove it exists.
What’s always funny, with me and Mom, is how the conversation can continue even when we’re not in the same room—how whenever I feel especially under pressure, I almost always start to hear my own internal
version of her arguing with what I think might be her internal version of me, as though I’m rehearsing our next argument in my head, playing through things I’d never have the guts to say to her in person. Except . . . maybe it’s less “guts” than simple forbearance, a wistful wish to seem more reasonable than I often think I’m capable of being, plus the insight to know exactly how crazy most of the shit I long to spew at her would sound, if blurted out loud: how bitter, how scary. How essentially unnatural.
When did you get so unkind? she asked me, once, after I was stupid enough to tell her how I really felt about something—and Jesus, what was it, now? Oh yeah, whether or not I got anything out of Christmas besides the dubious pleasure of watching her and my in-laws attempt to get Clark to interact with them, considering I haven’t outright enjoyed the holiday itself since I became an adult; all those expectations, that forced gaiety, the waste. She pointed out that it’s not really about me anymore, which I certainly agree with, but that doesn’t make it any easier. And the plain fact is, the whole thing gets Clark so high he wouldn’t notice whether or not I was even there, so long as she and his “friend Daddy” were.
Not true, she shot back, when I unwisely chose to voice that particular opinion, and you know it’s not; he loves you, for God’s sake. You’re his mother.
’Cause the one always leads to the other, huh? Except not really, I pointed out.
This wasn’t about any of that, though, for once. This was about me, supposedly.
“So,” she said. “You’re seeing this Safie girl tomorrow, right?”
“The Safie girl whose name is Safie? Yes.”
“And this is because . . .”
“Because we present on Friday, so we need to get our stuff in order. The footage we took in Quarry Argent.”
“Remember what Dr. Harrison said about flickering light, TV monitors—”
“It’s just sound work tomorrow, Mom, don’t worry; looping, voice-over, room tone. Safie already took care of editing the clips that go with it, like she already digitized all Mrs. Whitcomb’s films. I don’t even have to look at the screen.”
“So . . . no visual component at all.”
“That’s the clear implication.”
That note in her voice, like: Are you lying to me, Lois? And the answering one in mine: Would I be likely to tell you if I was?
“I still think you need to slow down,” she said, as though I couldn’t have figured that out for myself.
“Christ, Mom, I’ve been slow, believe me! I’m off the drugs, eating well, sleeping . . . eight whole hours last night.”
“A whole eight, huh? Lois.”
“Look, this is bigger than me, than either of us. This is important. This is real.”
“You’re real, too.”
(Am I? Can you prove it?)
“Well, be that as it may, I’m not gonna get any less real for giving this project the due diligence it deserves,” I replied. “And now I have to go to bed, all right? Got an early start tomorrow, so thanks for your concern, I appreciate it. I’ll be okay.”
I could tell she wasn’t persuaded, but on the other hand, reassuring her wasn’t my job; this was my job, for now. Thank Christ.