How Brokeback affected me

[bnjmn3]

The artistry of BBM is that no matter which character or characters we identify with, we are are debating, considering, and imagining our own lives through the character's life experiences. BMM inspires us to look at our own choices and possibilities, past and future. We have been given a great gift.

[Zuraffo]

Thanks For sharing your stories. I am not an emotional person, yet I completely broke down at the end of your story. Take heart. One day you will see him again.

          Paul,
          The sweetest days of my life were spent with you.
          Go find some grassy place again
          And lay you down and close your eyes.
          I'll meet you there.
          Billy

[downloaded1]

          Paul,
          The sweetest days of my life were spent with you.
          Go find some grassy place again
          And lay you down and close your eyes.
          I'll meet you there.
          Billy

very moving

[bradINblue]

Paul,
          The sweetest days of my life were spent with you.
          Go find some grassy place again
          And lay you down and close your eyes.
          I'll meet you there.
          Billy

Oh, Paul....God bless you sweet man.

brad

[gblady]

Paul......(((hug)))
how beautiful....
something to cherish forever......
so bittersweet....
thanks for the gift of sharing.

[Oregondoggie]

Finally, I have been able to lay Billy to rest in my heart. 

He is your angel now.  But we are all so sad. 

Much love, Oregondoggie

[sagha/Mo]

Dear Paul,

How wonderful and astonishing is this last part of your journey. Ruth always as faithful to her Billy as you were to yours & and like Jack's mom, loved the person who loved Billy as much as herself & understood all these years, from the very beginning, how the person she loved and spent her life with, also loved you. How wise of her to suggest to you to read the note from beyond the grave later when you were alone.That's a big-hearted woman as I think I heard in a country music song.

It is becoming rote on this thread to tell of our eyes welling up, pushing out a feeling that becomes a shape in our throats and we know we had better hold on, here it comes, about to careen forth, as we are gasping helpless as a s. o. b. and makes our face quiver and shoulders crumple and braces us for what we know might soon be out of control unless we can grasp it somehow and hold it back. Sniffling sometimes helps and we have only to dry our eyes and if someone is around to hide our faces in our hands. And if we miss, we give up and break down. Thankfully Tom has gone to bed, so instead of having to go into another room I can stay here and write to you the mechanics of how much you have moved me again, Paul. I don't know why & it's funny, but I don't think I have cried so much in my life since I saw BBM. It seems I cry with little provocation. Drop a hat & I might cry. Since BBM there is now a part of me, something loose at the foundation which previously kept me from appearing weak, sentimental, that kept me wanting to appear strong.

Your story is as riveting and as beautiful and as complex and as unique as Brokeback Mountain, as Borstal Boy (which I'm still pushing,) as any coming of age story, of coming out story I have read. You have touched us all with your pursuit, like those hounds of heaven, of truth. You have a very powerful story to tell and I hope you tell it so that the millions of our countrymen who despise and are disgusted by gayness read of how one queer boy grew in the goodness of affection and the grace of kindness and tenderness to become who you are: a successful family man, a very talented, well-known actor, respected by your profession; that same person who always held, not just the memory, but the flesh & blood presence of a boy he always loved. It is Shakespearean in its depth of emotional power and pity that has grabbed all of us, Paul. It is also notable it is a 70-yr old man's tale of the irreducible power of love that has remained true and fast, if not frequent, thoughout human history.

I bring up Borstal Boy again, written by Brendan Behan, who was sentenced to 3 yrs., at age 16, to an English borstal (reformatory) for being an Irish terrorist for the IRA, caught with dynamite. He's tough, rude, pissed off & hates all things English. Yet it is in the borstal he finds friendship and love from his fellow English delinquents. He falls in love with his china, Charlie. China was borstal slang for best friend, a geography of the vastness of the heart filled with tenderness for one's friend. They made a movie of it too, which has some very sweet moments like when he puts his medal of St. Brendan, patron of travelers, on a gold chain around the neck of his friend. It didn't have the spleen of the book though. Its coming of age,  coming out story, is the spiritual journey of a young boy who discovers the power of art, of the written word. I found the film poignant, but it didn't stick around long & the critics didn't like it. It's probably on DVD.
 
What I found so moving was its vision of liberation from oppression told with ardor and elan of a brave kid who keeps his integrity because he keeps the truth of his heart. There is the liberation from the physical conditions of imprisonment and power of authority, sexual liberation from the strictures of normative heterosexism and liberation from the acceptable intellectual morality of Catholic Ireland. He finds in himself his own authenticity. "I had to come here to learn what love is," Brendan says of the borstal. At the end, they are released, Charlie goes off to the war and Brendan goes back to Dublin. "When I came back to Dublin, I was courtmartialled in my absence and sentenced to death in my absence, so I said they could shoot me in my absence." The end of his life was not pretty (whose is) & he died of severe alcoholism at age 41. It must have been unimaginably deforming to have been a quare fellow in in 1940s Ireland.

When I was a very young, Allan Ginsburg came over where I was staying on the Lower East Sde and read to a us a poem he had just finished & still working on called Kaddish. When he finshed we all wept. It tells the story of a queer boy brought up by his paranoid schizophrenic mother, Naomi, in & out of the mental hospital. It is a harrowing story, it rips you apart, and yet it is triumphal. Kaddish is the ritual prayer for the dead in Judaism, the prayer he is saying for his mom in the long poem.  In the poem he speaks to his mom "Ï have to talk to you as I didn't when you had a mouth." He too finds an unopened letter from her to him that says: "The poem is in the window. Get married Allan, don't take drugs. The poem is in light in the window." It is apropos nothing, except it arrived after the person died, but it just came to mind because I have always found it strangely moving and it has stayed with me.

The letter from Billy also will always stay with me:
          The sweetest days of my life were spent with you.
          Go find some grassy place again
          And lay you down and close your eyes.
          I'll meet you there
is unforgettable and magnificent in its poetry, in its declaration of love. He knew you always loved him and he loved you so much he can wait another 50 years, if he has to. And in the meanwhile, you can summon him by just closing yr eyes. I feel much gratitude Paul that you have told us your story & as I sd., as we all say, we are greatly moved by the triumph of your search. 
                                                                            & much love, Michael

[peteinportland]

Help--Volunteers Needed for 30 Minutes

Monday morning to help send out the new press release. All you have to do is email the press release to 25 media outlets we will provide you emails for. Quick and easy. If you can help, please PM killersmom.

Thanks.

[Redbrit]

"Jack and Ennis, I swear....... things will never be the same." - cameron816

For me, this sums up the whole experience and message of the film. I don't know how you feel about being bracketed with Karl Marx (I'd be hugely flattered, but that's just me), but here goes anyway.

Karl Marx, Tenth Thesis on Feuerbach - "Philosophers have hitherto only interpreted the world in various ways; the point is to change it."

[River girl]

Mejack,

I have been a lurker on this forum for many weeks before starting to post, and after reading your story I would sometimes think of you during the day and wonder how your meeting with Ruth went.

Thank you for sharing the beautiful ending of your story. You are truly blessed to have experienced such a love.

[NickInIdaho]

My search for Billy has ended.  This afternoon I received confirmation that he passed away several years ago.  I just can't hardly stand it.  There's so much I wanted to say to him.  I feel so utterly alone now.  I've never had to grieve before.

Billy's wife Ruth lives in Atlanta, and there was a phone number.  I called Ruth a little while ago.  She was very cordial, remembered me from years ago, and invited me to come visit.  At first I declined, but she insisted, so I go to Atlanta next week.

How do you explain to your wife that you're going out of town to meet another woman who was the wife of the man you've loved for fifty years?

And then there's Ruth.  Is she going to see it in my face?  OMG, this is probably a big mistake, but if I don't make the trip, I'll never know what I must know.

Finally, I have been able to lay Billy to rest in my heart. 

Last Friday I  flew to Atlanta to visit with Ruth.  We had met before, 48 years earlier.  Our conversation began with family.  He and Ruth had a son, a daughter, and two grandchildren.  We spoke of my family.  Then Billy's death 13 years ago, of pancreatic cancer. He was 58 when he passed away. 

I could feel those damn tears, welling in my eyes.  I had to say something, explain somehow.  "Ruth, I've got to tell you about Billy and me."   "No, Paul" she said, "I already know about you and Billy." She began: 

"The first time we met, you flew from New York to Atlanta, then drove on to Griffin, and you didn't even know Billy's address.  I thought that was odd.  Why would you go to such expense to look for Billy, and just stay one afternoon?

"A year later you called.  Billy had been returned to prison.  I planned to visit him and asked if you would like to go with me.  To my surprise, you did.  Another expensive trip for only a couple of hours with Billy.  We had visited before, but this time there was a tear in Billy's eye.  I knew it wasn't for me.  We sat across the table and talked, but he couldn't keep his eyes off of you.

"Years later, back home, I asked him about you.  He leaned back in his recliner and said you were just a good friend.  But then he got misty-eyed again.  Said it was his allergies.

"When Billy was in hospice, we knew there were only days remaining.  We spoke of many things.  Then I just threw caution to the wind and said 'Billy, do you want me to get in touch with Paul?'  At first he was startled, but he realized that I knew.  He answered, 'No, I wouldn't even know where to find him.'

"A couple of days later I went into the room.  There was an envelope in his hand as he slept.  When he awakened I asked him what it was.  He said, 'If Paul ever comes, would you give him this?'  I told him I would.  Billy died three days later."

Ruth reached in her purse and laid the envelope on the coffee table.  It had been in the safe deposit box until yesterday.  As I picked it up, I could feel Billy's fingertips in mine.  My hand trembled.  And the tears came again.  "Maybe you should take it with you and read it later," she said.

As we were saying our goodbyes, Ruth said "Paul, tell me something.  How often did you and Billy see each other?"  I replied, "The last time I saw Billy was that day when you and I visited him."  Now it was her time for tears.  She said, "But I always thought . . . " her voice trailed away.  We parted as friends.

Back in the hotel room, it was so hard to bring myself to open the letter.  It was my only link, my final contact, with him.  After this, there would be nothing, ever again.  Finally, it's open.  It wasn't a letter at all.  Just a little slip of paper, with a few lines that I will treasure forever . . .

          Paul,
          The sweetest days of my life were spent with you.
          Go find some grassy place again
          And lay you down and close your eyes.
          I'll meet you there.
          Billy

Mejack,

I am briefly jumping on here and come across this moving post. Thank you for sharing your continuing story with us. I am so glad I didn't miss it. Your story is amazing and I will remember it always. Thank you!

Nick

[Jules]

I saw the movie again at the theatre, yesterday. Like the other 8 times I saw it, I came out moved and silent, but still no tears. I cannot cry: my problem. I had my I-pod in my pocket, with the Oscar Promo CD I downloaded yesterday but still hadn't listened to, yet. I jumped on the bus, sat down, closed my eyes, chose "The wings"...and I unexpectedly broke down. One tear after the other, in front of all those people in the bus...Music opened that door I kept closed for years after my father's death, and made what no picture, no trailer, no word from the movie apparently could make: it touched my inner spirit and soul. I got off the bus and walked towards home, crying and shaking my head, wiping the tears since I could hardly see the street...Once at home I grabbed a beer, sat on the sofa, lit a cigarette, closed all windows...sat there in the dark and couldn't stop sobbing...I felt so alone, so desperate. Since the first time I saw Brokeback Mountain my life has changed: I think of it everyday, everyday a new sensation, a new question to deal with, but it was nothing compared to yesterday.

Today I'm so tired, I feel empty and can't find a way to recover. The only thing I know for sure is that I will never experience that love and this is destroying me, though it's nobody's fault but mine. I was really convinced that this movie could mean a change for me, I thought I could better my way to relate to other people, I really thought I could open myself again...but now I'm helpless, again. I know I can't change enough to let people get to know me. And I also know that I'm acting opposite to the message of the movie, which is to be brave, to face problems, not to miss opportunities and go towards life...but I just can't cope anymore.

Sorry guys, English is not my language, but you're the only people who maybe can understand.

[Erik]

I saw the movie again at the theatre, yesterday. Like the other 8 times I saw it, I came out moved and silent, but still no tears. I cannot cry: my problem. I had my I-pod in my pocket, with the Oscar Promo CD I downloaded yesterday but still hadn't listened to, yet. I jumped on the bus, sat down, closed my eyes, chose "The wings"...and I unexpectedly broke down. One tear after the other, in front of all those people in the bus...Music opened that door I kept closed for years after my father's death, and made what no picture, no trailer, no word from the movie apparently could make: it touched my inner spirit and soul. I got off the bus and walked towards home, crying and shaking my head, wiping the tears since I could hardly see the street...Once at home I grabbed a beer, sat on the sofa, lit a cigarette, closed all windows...sat there in the dark and couldn't stop sobbing...I felt so alone, so desperate. Since the first time I saw Brokeback Mountain my life has changed: I think of it everyday, everyday a new sensation, a new question to deal with, but it was nothing compared to yesterday.

Today I'm so tired, I feel empty and can't find a way to recover. The only thing I know for sure is that I will never experience that love and this is destroying me, though it's nobody's fault but mine. I was really convinced that this movie could mean a change for me, I thought I could better my way to relate to other people, I really thought I could open myself again...but now I'm helpless, again. I know I can't change enough to let people get to know me. And I also know that I'm acting opposite to the message of the movie, which is to be brave, to face problems, not to miss opportunities and go towards life...but I just can't cope anymore.

Sorry guys, English is not my language, but you're the only people who maybe can understand.

Cannot understand why you always apologize for your English, as if it were bad?!? Maybe you're in need of a compliment?

[MarkC]

FRANCOPHONES et FRANCOPHILES:

Venez vous joindre à nous dans ce fil de discussion bien caché quelque part dans ce forum :
http://davecullen.com/forum/index.php?topic=1104.0

[Jules]

Sorry guys, English is not my language, but you're the only people who maybe can understand.

Cannot understand why you always apologize for your English, as if it were bad?!? Maybe you're in need of a compliment?

Of course I'm not. It's just not easy to express these feelings in a language which is not mine.