Amidst the strains of Cole Porter

I have watched two Woody Allen films in the last 12 hours.

Normally, for someone with my creative aspirations in acting, film, and writing, not to mention comedy, that would seem like a positive immersion into the study of craft.

However, for a lonely, depressive man on the verge of marital ruin, you should know better that it is a desperate cry for help.

Annie Hall and Hannah and Her Sisters. Alvy and Mickey. Two of my favorite Woody Allen characters. Of course, I would have to add to that my other two favorites, Isaac of Manhatten and Cliff from Crimes and Misdemeanors. Give me a little more time and those will be viewed too.

Watching Annie Hall, with my current perspective, just highlighted the polymorphous ( Woody uses that word in both movies, so I thought it appropriate) confusion of The End. By that, I mean, The End of love. That whole movie is about the end of love. That and the frequent doubt that comes with it. Love doesn't die. More like it gets buried. Usually under hate due to betrayal or rejection. When there aren't those in The End, love always remains very near the surface and always rises at the most unfortunate times.

I just took a call from my wife. She was calling to apologize for the fourth time. The other night we had a huge fight. Some of that was that surface love bubbling up. Many awful things were said. After, the worst feeling in the world came over me. As much as I want to move on, I still love her and want the best for her and hope that she is happy. It is difficult to try and strive for what is best for you, if what is best for you hurts someone that you hope can be happy.

Which brings me to Hannah and Her Sisters. The whole movie is about people's needs and how we bounce off of one another trying to get what we need, and trying to give what they need, but ultimately, neither of us being altogether successful.

Again, the needs of my life are now solely my objective and no one else's. That is how it should be. The needs of my wife are now hers alone. Not mine. Sure, we care for the one's we love and always want to help them achieve what they need and desire, but in truth, we can't really do it. As my wife talks to me of the hell of finding an apartment, and the high cost of pieces of shit, and the amount that life is going to cost her, and the amount of compromise she is now going to be forced to take, my heart breaks. Every man, as society has always taught us, wants to provide and "take care of" their woman. Modern man looks for an independant, strong woman that can be more of an equal, but it doesn't stop their underlying desire to be the provider. Even in the throes of divorce, I want to set up shop for her.

Love.

All I know is, I better be careful after watching Crimes and Misdemeanors. What I may do then!