The Station Agent

I'm always uneasy when I borrow shame and discomfort from others. I do that when I watch 'The Station Agent', I think.

I love this movie. But, I'm uncomfortable with the way it resonates for me.

The central character is a little person. You know him as 'the Imp' from 'A Game of Thrones' on HBO-Peter Dinklage. He plays a lonely, introvert who shuts out the world before the world can hurt him. He encounters a lovely, but broken women, Patricia Clarkson, and a childlike man, Bobby Cannavale, who brings the group together.

It is a lovely little film. It has great performances and is touching.

I worry I am touched for the wrong reason. It may seem odd to ascribe a judgement to being moved by a picture. But, I borrow hardship and torment from others, when my life has been okay. In my mind I am sometimes ostracized. I am the other, and set apart from the world I want to touch.

This is mundane and silly melancholy and bullshit.

I do look different, but I'm unlikely to be sent into a bell tower. I get the odd look, and the occasional question. But, I haven't lived a life like Peter Dinklage, or his screen counterpart. I feel bad, sometimes, when I borrow their pain and their story of perseverance.

My story arc is much shallower.

And, of course, neither should involve shame.

That said, wonderful movie. Watch. Enjoy. Let it carry your baggage for awhile. I do, even if it makes me pause.

Bad Poetry Thursdays

The texture of my love,

makes it difficult to grasp.

Like the space between

ridges on a penny,

you fumble to retrieve

with nails cut too short.

 

I push

until it is forced

against something solid

and

space opens

for my insistence.

 

It gives way

to rough hewn articulations,

and I grab at it with motions,

too clumsy and insensitive

for such a task,

when cut to the quick.

Rest. Find Peace. Be Calm.

Dear Ryan,

I wish I knew magic words. I wish I had secret letters to make your family's loss make sense. I know a lot of words. I know words big and small, grand and silly. But, I don't know any words to let a nine year old girl make sense of losing her Dad. I don't know how to tell a five year old boy it will be okay.

I don't know if it will.

You were a good man, Ryan. You had faults. You had issues. You had all those things we wish we did not have, but do. I hate the phenomenon that turns someone's character into caricature. Your reactions, your stresses, your foibles made you one of us. When we laughed at you, we were always laughing at ourselves too.

We will miss you Ryan.

Your death was senseless. All death's are senseless in the moment. It was sad, and stupid and reminds us all life sucks hard at times. A simple set of stairs, and slightly delayed reactions, and you were gone. It is a scenario we have all negotiated many times.

You deserved better.

Good night my colleague, my friend, my fellow Dad and husband. Your kids will grow up with questions and rage, and more questions. I hope someone always tells them you loved them. You were a man struggling to find his way in the world, at times. But, you never looked more comfortable, more peaceful, or more at rest than with your children. They were the greatest gift you had.

I hope, one day, they'll realize you were their's.