We saw a movie yesterday that has given me pause. Starting Out in the Evening had a 4:30pm showtime. Easy enough for my hubby and I to walk up to the Esquire Theatre after we brought the honey haired girl home from school and she settled in to study for her last exam. Wasn't expecting more than a few hours out of the house not spent in the hospital, but surprisingly, the movie has lingered with us and carried over to the morning.
The movie's storyline centers around a literary giant, one of the intellectual writers of the 7o's, and the loss of his hold over his writing, his past work, and his health. Although he admits to not having a plan for his novels, "I just follow my characters around and hope they do something interesting," he finds after ten years of waiting they have not. And, for an author whose literary theme may have been personal freedom, he finds that he may just have squandered his time and reached a dead end.
I thought about this character and I thought about Ted Kennedy, two lions of men succumbing to the dissolution of their bodies. Lives so large felled by such small crumbs of disease--a clot no larger than a fresh spring pea, and the pearly whiteness of a glioma on an MRI. Milk spilled and seeping into the recesses and crevices of a brain. Our lives seem so vast, a country of time to be traversed, yet invariably interrupted by the mundane. There exists no time to squander.