Strange Brew

I saw a strange film last night. Florence Griswold museum served Indian food and international beers, and then showed an art film.

I am a word girl, and Baraka is a film without words. So right away I was unsettled.

Baraka started with images of beauty in unidentified locales. Vast mountains, cascades of water, desert plains - larger-than-life images took turns rapid fire on the screen. Later there was a long sequence portraying large mobs of people at work, at church, at the mall. The action sped up at a dizzying pace until the people looked like scurrying, mindless ants. Mildly disturbing, but nothing compared with the assaulting images that followed. The rough assembly line of newborn chicks at a poultry factory was the worst, closely followed by a too-close-up cremation ceremony at the River Ganges.

If the criterion for art is that it makes you think, then I have to admit this film is art. I don't think I would like the artist if I met him - his scenes of cruelty and strangeness far outweighed those of compassion and joy. But his film made me think about what I am drawn to, about what makes life worthy for me, despite the cruel aspects that I can not always avoid seeing.

I found that I lit up whenever I spotted an animal, and even more when I saw the light in other people's eyes. I found solid solace in the colors of the earth. The flight of a bird, though no longer new to my eyes, still feels like a miracle.

I would like the film better if there was one moment where people were showing love for each other. I think about my own ordinary days, and what sticks with me is a quick laugh with Tom, a call from my family, or comforting Gavin in the middle of the night. The thought of people who have none of this is one of the thoughts that makes me saddest, sad enough to consider a way to reach out beyond my family circle. This is a sobering and weighty thought that I sometimes want to push away.

During the creation of this blog I bathed Gavin, had breakfast with him, learned "fish" in sign language (courtesy of a PBS show),and wished again for more uninterrupted time. Then I thought again. When I try to love my child and write my heart at the same time, I am coming at love from two different angles. The place where the angles intersect is a holy place for me.