your vision blears, you carry your weather with you

 This is a story I heard from a friend of a friend. 

Usually something to take with a pinch of salt. But I've been watching 'I've been thinking of ending things' - and listening to this story, at that particular time, was just like being hit in my solar plexus. 

A friend of a friend lives in a big apartment block. Recently, they had been dealing with a dirty smell permeating the entire apartment block, especially the pathway just outside the apartment entrance. Then one night, the friend heard a big splash. it smelled like urine and feces. The friend screamed at whoever it was. Silence from all around. 

A few days later, something similar happened. But the difference now was that the friend realised which apartment direction it was coming from. They stormed over. Banged on the door. Finally, an old woman in her 80s opened the door. Shock and confusion. The old lady apologised. She didn't have electricity and water. So she had to resort to throwing her urine and feces out the window.

It appears the old lady didn't have family to help take of her. so there she is, in her sunset years, struggling to live with dignity. Perhaps achingly lonely. And sad. 

The story has a somewhat 'happy' ending. The friend called social services who promised to arrange to bring back utilities for the lady.

But I've been thinking and thinking.

In the movie 'I'm thinking of ending things' everything is crazy and surreal and disturbing. A sort of menace is underlying every scene. I couldn't take it any longer so I googled the movie. The story is about loneliness, deep loneliness, and a fragile mental state. You'll have to watch it to understand what it truly means, I suppose. 

I wish I were a better writer so I could encapsulate what the movie is about and how much it scares me.

A a modern horror story.

There's poem in the movie called 'Bone-dog' (apparently it is written by Eva HD).

Read this and ask yourself if you don't feel rattled.

The way it is delivered by the actress is astounding. There's a moment where she looks at the camera while delivering the lines, and it is chilling.

Bone-dog Coming home is terrible whether the dog licks your face or not whether you have a wife or just a wife-shaped loneliness waiting for you coming home is terribly lonely so that you'll think of the oppressive barometric pressure back where you've just come from with fondness, because everything is worse once you're home. You think of the vermin clinging to the grass stalks, long hours on the road, roadside assistance and ice-creams, and the peculiar shapes of certain clouds and silences with longing because you did not want to return coming home is just awful. And the home-style silences and clouds contribute to nothing but the general malaise. Clouds, such as they are, are in fact suspect and made from different material than those you left behind you yourself are cut from different cloudy cloth returned, remaindered, ill-met by moonlight, unhappy to be back, slack in all the wrong spots. Seamy suit of clothes, dishrag-ratty, worn. You return home, moon-landed, foreign the earth's gravitational pull--an effort now redoubled, dragging your shoelaces loose and your shoulders etching deeper the stanza of worry on your forehead. You return home deepened, a parched well linked to tomorrow by a frail strand of... anyway, you sigh into the onslaught of identical days, one might as well, at a time... well, anyway, you are back. The sun goes up and down like a tired whore the weather immobile like a broken limb while you just keep getting older Nothing moves, but the shifting tides of salt in your body, your vision blears, you carry your weather with you the big, blue whale; a skeletal darkness. You come back with an x-ray vision, your eyes have become a hunger, you come home with your mutant gifts to a house of bone everything you see now, all of it: bone.