mourning walk

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I saw again last night the Juliette Binoche film “Paris” (2009) that I’d seen when it was first released in the U.S., September 2009. I’d forgotten how depressive it could be for someone on the verge of suicide. But it’s not a suicidal movie; just the opposite! Latent to it is luscious validation of life. But someone on the edge of suicide could easily fail to see.

I enthusiastically recommended the film to Janna, Sept. 26, 2009. I see the email in my archive. But I haven’t read it again. Janna responded two weeks later, October 8. I see her email in the archive, but haven’t read it again. November 18, her sister sent an email to all of Janna’s designated sendees, about Janna’s planned and completed suicide. I see her email again. (I recall the “snail mail” letter from Janna that arrived several days later.)

Afterward, I thought—walking near woods above my place, after 1 a.m.—that I’d be vain to believe I had so much affect on someone else’s life, years into what she’d been living through—vain to pretend that my innocent enthusiasm for a film could be important in causing her to give up living.

Implicitly, I believed in Janna’s clearly evident enthusiasm for life. She let no one know she was nearing her ultimate edge. My precious self possession surely had no importance.

I make myself part of things—we make ourselves a part—of which we’re really not a part, as we are apart, but giving ourselves tragic significance that’s just embarrassment, not any better making life an art.

I felt mourning again—for her, for myself—but let it go.

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