A portrait from a few weekends ago at Ono.
The last week flew by in that characteristic blur of the best writing experiences. Pages upon pages and complete absorption my subject matter. I am trying to re-enter the dailiness of life, and finding it difficult to focus my attention on nothing but the objects and people around me.
Still seeking the subtext. Re-reading Ingmar Bergman's Private Confessions, appreciating how new things strike me upon second readings. The plot is summarized as follows:
Anna, a vivacious, beautiful, and headstrong woman who rushed into her marriage with Henrik - a marriage that, for her, quickly became pleasureless. She feels how truly stifling it is only when she falls passionately in love with Henrik's young friend Tomas. For the first time, she finds pleasure in love; now her husband's touch, even his devotion, has gone from unstimulating to intolerable.
The guilt, however, is at least as thick and heady as the pleasure. Desperate for some joy in either her marriage or her illicit love, Anna embarks on a series of confessions - to her childhood pastor, to her husband, to her mother, to her best friend - seeking the advice or the absolution that will direct her to happiness.
In light of past lights, Anna strikes me for her measured and constant state of panic. At one point, she says something which still turns aorund in my mind as if there remains a meaning to mine or discover. In her words:
"We act out many roles. Some because it's fun, some because others want us to act out these roles. Mostly because we want to protect ourselves.... then I imperceptibly lose what is not a role. When I keep on living, I get away from what is.... myself."
There is some way in which Anna's confession can still be teased and untangled...
