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Meshes | Oct 31 2005

woman at window

Purgatory, it turns out, is a lot like jury duty, except without having to serve on a jury. We watched a film about it on the first day. They never actually said the word purgatory, but between the various choices, this is what I figure it must be. You stay here a while, they don’t tell you how long, and then your name is called and you get to move up, or what I assume is up. Certainly that’s what the film made it seem like. It’s a little nerve-racking though, because I remember watching a Twilight Zone episode when I was kid about this man (a complete asshole) who thinks he’s in heaven but really is in hell. He doesn’t understand this until the end when his guardian angel, or the guy he thinks is his guardian angel, tells him he can’t arrange to have him lose at a certain card game. The man is sick of winning, he wins every hand, so he wants a little variation, but his guardian angel says, No, sir, we can’t do that here. This impressed me tremenously when I was kid. Hell is a place where you always win.

But this place isn’t like that. All it is, is an enormous room with rows and rows of seats. Every now and then, someone’s name gets called over the loud speaker. If it’s you, you’re supposed to go through a door at the front of the room. This was shown to us in the film. People would hear their names called, and then they’d get up and walk through the door. One assumes the door leads to a better place, as they say, but it’s not like there’s a sign that promises this.

The film was pretty damn vague, if you must know. It seemed like it could have been made by Maya Deren. It didn’t have any voice-over or anything. I thought it was beautiful, I really did, haunting and dream-like, but it didn’t exactly clear anything up.

The worst thing (and I hate to complain about this because for all I know this counts against you and keeps you here longer) was something that happened on the first day. I was looking around, trying to decide where to sit (there’s ten times more seats than people), when I thought I spotted my ex-girlfriend in the next section of seats, a few rows closer to the front. I couldn’t tell for sure because it’s been such a long time, but it really did look like her. Long story short, it was her. After the film I walked past her row and pretended to see her for the first time. I figured this was better than waiting for her to see me, assuming she hadn’t done so already, which it occurred to me she had and that she was hoping I’d just disappear or something. When we were alive, for a year after our breakup, we continued to be friends—close friends—but then she decided she didn’t want to see me anymore, didn’t want me in her life in any way, and that was that.

I wasn’t sure what to think as I approached her. I mean, a lot of time had passed, and of course our situations had changed, so maybe she’d be willing to talk again and be friends. Certainly that’s what I was hoping, but I figured I’d play it safe and just say hi and ask how she’s doing, and then sort of follow her lead. It went well, I suppose, in that she was friendly and asked about me, but at the same time I know her really well, as well as I know anyone, and so I know when she’s being nice because it’s the right thing to do and because it’s better than not being nice. On the other hand I thought maybe I should make allowances for the fact that she hadn’t expected me to be there, that I appeared out of nowhere, and that we haven’t talked in what seems like a million years. Of course as I thought this, I knew it was bullshit, I knew I was lying to myself as a way to get through a painful experience, but what can I say?—I needed a way through.

That was the first day. We haven’t talked since. A few times I’ve run into her heading to or from the vending machine, and she’s always smiled at me in friendly, or pseudo-friendly, recognition. I don’t mean to criticize her for this. Far from it. She’s handling the situation as well as anyone could. I mean, would it be better if she spat at me? I don’t so, and I don’t think she does either.

Anyway, maybe I’m being a bit narcissistic to think this, but I can’t help imagining that she’s over there asking herself, again and again, what the fuck is that motherfucker doing here? It’s as though I can’t escape from hurting her, or from imagining I am. And then I end up wondering (obviously I have a lot of time on my hands) if this is the whole point of the deal: that you get stuck in the same room with someone who hurt you, or with someone you hurt, until you’re either purified or, I don’t know what, ready to move on. This doesn’t sound right, it sounds stupid, but I don’t know what else to think. In the film they showed, there was an image almost exactly like the shot in Meshes in the Afternoon in which a woman stands at a window with her hands on a window pane. She’s inside a house looking out, but the trees reflected in the window make it seem like she’s outside looking in. It’s such an evocative image, although at the same time you don’t know what it means or even if it’s supposed to mean anything. The whole film is like this—as are a lot of things, I suppose.

Honestly I don’t what I’m trying to say.