i watched the film Tom and Viv (it’s on Netflix if you want to catch it) this evening. my son and i followed each line, holding one another–he on the couch, me on the floor, my arm stretching up to grasp his tiny hand. we watched a man do the unthinkable to the woman he “loved.” my son tugged at my wrist, “mom, this is what he did. he loved you like people love money. he loved you until he could throw you away.”
i hadn’t told my son much about what happened, just that our family wasn’t a family anymore; that the man we both loved was gone and that he wasn’t coming back. i remind him over and over that it wasn’t him. it was me. like viv, a difficult woman isn’t easy to love. we see too much and feel too much.
the banality of life.
odd. t.s. eliot was the poet then. i, the poet now. though poems haven’t come easily in a long time. i’m not sure they will again. it’s hard to write anything but narrative when there’s no one to talk with. all the running commentary just bounces off thoughts and multiplies. no fact checking. no appetite, but all hunger.
(i miss you
viv remained true to her vows and loved eliot for the rest of her life. 11 years in an insane asylum. i don’t question my own dedication, though i wonder how complacent i’ll be. after all, they don’t lock women like us up anymore; they simply walk away and leave us to our walls.