My reality deficit: Cinema & Self-Involvement

My reality deficit:

"My mom says that I'll alway be a perpetual teenager, and I hope she is right about it. [...] So highschool is like an embryo of how your adult life probably will develop. It's the time you secretly begin to take notes in your mind about things you didn't suspect they existed" -maybe those jv years marked me so hard that after watching "Brick" I developed a crush on Joseph Gordon-Levitt, remember? and now, well, we have umpteen videos being uploaded by me dedicated to Mike Cera, so let's see, it seems to me this can be called a new crush in Weirdland. Kendra is in love again after watching two "high-school" movies as "Superbad" and "Juno", which partially were about pre-college days, both starred by Michael Cera. I resisted at first (mainly because he's way younger than me -although don't be fooled, my mental maturity is far away from my age- so that balances things a bit, k?) This canadian blonde guy Mr. Awkward Character reminds me of my high-school crush with whom I shared my little luxurious world at the time, he conquered my insouciant teen soul when he played -he actioned the play button- in a secret session a song that tuned my heart (although my heart got hurt in the process). Just in the moment we (very shyly) started to dance together I had this crazy thought of when the peak of the song would come maybe I couldn't stand it, that's why I was hurt, I was afraid of that moment coming, that could become real [...] how many times does the dull mute soundtrack outside of weirdland make me remember that song that melts my thought, that dissolves my fears? from the previous post New affiliate Michael Cera Source.

continued:

I weighted for one moment the options I had with him, the shy interesting guy, and I got lost in a dubious jungle of cognitive decline. He approached to me and I parted from his loving ways... I was living in the librarian league, I read a lot the same four books that never were returned and I used glasses, my social life was very limited, whereas he was the outcast who attracted a variety of people, most of them very different of me. And I knew a relationship between us would make us an irreparable damage, so although it was painful cutting our bond out just after our particular prom dance I chose to leave it that way. Painful like an open wound, like a broken nerve, which in troublesome times would bleed again, and it would hurt because it had never healed. The good part is neither me or him are too dramatic persons, and as far as I know he chose another girl, very different from me. Probably she would flip when she figured out who his first girlfriend had been in highschool but whatever. So my mind would fly to under-construction Phantastes fields and in these episodes I imagined him turned into a rock star singing in front of highschoolers and receiving good critics from independent fanzines. His life had to be good, just to justify my own lack of it.

And a Saturday evening we would find each other in a Chinatown corner, like in that tale, and his eyes would turn yellow and he would hide them wearing sunglasses, and only me would know his secret, like in that story “Rage” by Bachman/King, when in the Palahniukesque ending Charlie lives in a mental asylum, pretending he likes flan dessert when he actually hates it; one normal guy wouldn’t understand why he eats a dessert he finds disgusting, but Charlie says he likes to have a secret, something nobody knows about it, because that secret makes him more powerful.

It’s intriguing how much this idea about a constrained mind by a secret can create a pathological blessing, how much our movie secrets are part of our starved minds and how these smooth motions alter our perception forever.
And this guy, like Michael Cera could do, would sit in front of me inside an unknown bistro in a similar city to L.A. and would say “We have no idea where this will go" and he would try to explain me some hollywood novelties, but I would be very far away, and he would go on talking about self-generated awareness, deadpan encoding and his favourite tea brands, and I would be smiling at him, patient and quiet.

He would stand up and a window panel, sort of a hollow screen, would slide down, just like a theatre curtain would do over his shoulders, showing a transparent world where neither him or me would ever belong. And he'd drink from my glass, without noticing my traces of lipstick on it. "I liked your performance, and the line you had in the end" -I would whisper. And he would say: “you know that line, It was you”, but I wouldn’t want to believe him. “That world seems empty when you look at it outside”, and we, our words, the bistro, the stained glass, his awarded line, that highschool
dance, his relucient lips, that kiss, all would become dust.
And I wouldn't blush anymore.

In response to Culture Snob' Blogathon