A preponderance of Ann’s friends are suffering through longstanding bouts of depression. I suppose it’s merely coincidence—Ann did not somehow attract depressed people, since these are childhood friends for the most part. I’m probably not as sympathetic as I might be to their plights. It’s not that I’m not sympathetic to those who suffer from depression—I have a sense of what it means to be depressed, and it’s hard or impossible to simply pull oneself out of it. I understand and even appreciate that. My reaction, though, is that I just don’t want to be surrounded by it. My life and mental state are pretty stable, and my friends are also, for the most part. If I contact a friend about something, or to do something, I don’t want to be faced with their depression. I want them to be on the same solid ground as I believe I’m on. I think I just don’t like sickness, and don’t want to be around the sick.

Across the narrow hall from my cube at work is an office occupied by a very nice, young woman. She’s friendly, bright, and very competent. Every so often, however, she’ll close her door and I’ll hear her in a very strained and emotional phone call with her husband, arguments about money or time commitments, issues with their son, etc. I don’t know what exactly the issues are, as I can’t hear the talk, only isolated words. Mostly what I hear is the emotion in her voice—not screaming, but strained cries of emotion. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to be suddenly immersed in the emotional lives of those I know only casually. I don’t even want such emotional trauma with those with whom I’m emotionally involved—I don’t like high emotions. But I certainly don’t want to be plunged into the trauma of those with whom I have no emotional stake. When I hear the plaintive emotion in her voice, it reminds me of my mother, when she’d argue with my stepfather. I just don’t want to be around it. I think that tendency has something to do with why I don’t want to be drawn into the mental and emotional troubles of friends—I just don’t want to be exposed to it unless I must. And with casual friends, I needn’t be, or at least that’s what I believe. It’s all about my emotional stasis.

Last night I saw some queer French film called “Wild Side.” It was a look into the lives of a trio of lovers, one a prostituting pre-op transsexual (once Pierre and now Stephanie), a studly gay Russian man, and a twinky gay young man named Jamel. (I may be mistaken on the names.) It was a serious film, heavy on mood, mixing their current lives with flashbacks to childhood events and key moments in their more recent past. Every scene held a little too long. Every scene brooded indulgently. Folksy solo viola music played through scenes of children playing in expansive green fields, and through pans of countryside marred by decaying buildings and the scars of abandoned industry. Much effort was made of mood-setting, and showing us the characters. Little was expended on narrative, or on why exactly we care, even if something did happen. An infusion of meaning and significance, with no where to go. By the standards of many of the gay films now being made, it was better than average. But it wasn’t good. It didn’t challenge, engage, entertain or illuminate. It was like being required to sit on a soft bench in an art gallery looking at the same painting for two hours. What I found most annoying was listening afterward to so many in the audience who thought it was such a fine film. People are suckers for the suggestion of gravity in the arts. I gave the film a B. Gerry gave it a B+. I think we both had the same general take on the film, though. The man who introduced it presented it nicely, cautioning the audience that it was a film of poetry, not one of motion. And indeed it was. I often like films of poetry, but this didn’t seem to have much to say beyond the interesting contrasts of images and scenes. The director said he wanted to show the actors more and the characters less. I wish he hadn’t.