Last night I made no plans whatsoever. This is relatively rare on a Saturday night, but as I’m completely uninvolved romantically at the moment, and the children were with their mother, I decided to take a bit of a break from the world at large and just lose myself in the oasis that I call home.
Over the last few days, I’ve found myself going through one of my introspective phases, and by early evening, as dusk settled and thoughts turned to cooking, I was pleased to be alone. I checked what movies were playing on Sky and was absolutely delighted to see that Roman Polanski’s “The Tenant” was due to start at ten o’clock. Now, The Tenant is definitely a flawed work, with scenes held slightly too long, a plot that sometimes seems too predictable, and acting that – even with co-stars like Shelley Winters, Isabelle Adjani and Melvyn Douglas – leaves something to be desired.
But I love the kind of moody, slightly threatening atmosphere the movie creates, and Polanski’s playing of the lead role, a timid Polish immigrant trying to start a new life in Paris, is fascinating. For some reason, the film reminds me of one of my favourite novels, The Insult (written by Rupert Thomson). It could almost be a parallel universe, set anywhere, at any time. It doesn’t seem to matter.
Anyway, the reason for this rambling critique is that everything was, in a sense, perfect last night and I ended up in that place, mentally, that enables a kind of “absolute” clarity of thought. I don’t really know a better way to phrase it, but it was one of those times when there was a certain transparency to my life. The good and the bad, the positive and the negative. Yin and yang.
I’m sure that the key to being happy is acceptance. Acceptance of the past, and acceptance that we can’t manipulate the future. I suppose it sounds like I’m stating the obvious, but sometimes its nice just to think aloud.