Watching The Holy Mountain


I’m not sure if this one is cheating within the spirit of the project, but hey ho.

So, watch this…………….

And read this………………………………..

This may shape up to be one of the worst 120 minutes of my life.

I’m sitting in an art house cinema watching The Holy Mountain with my 15 year old daughter and its just not dark enough for this experience.

Within the first two minutes, there is full butt nakedness.

I feel her tension, sitting bolt upright, she silently dares me to say anything, to make a fuss.

I watch the screen and out of the corner of my eye, I watch her, vigilant for any signs of anxiety, desperate to scoop her up, to make our exit and our apologies.

I am dangerously close to committing the cardinal sin of teenage parenting.

I am considering drawing attention to ourselves.

I try to gather myself, take a deep breath.

She is a child of the 21st century, inter-net savvy.

Tweets, blogs, updates her status with the rest of her breed.

I try to convince myself that she’s seen it all before.

Nothing has prepared me for the experience of watching 70s art house actors getting it on in a variety of interesting and unusual ways while my daughter sits next to me.

The wall of embarasment between is almost palatable, it has, however briefly, replaced the usual barriers of indifference and confusion that so effectively keep us apart.

And sitting next to her is a solitary man, bearded.

A stranger – i wonder if her presence is disturbing his viewing of the film and for a second, unbidden, comes the terrible thought – could she be in some way, enhancing his filmic experience.

I physically have to shake my head to dislodge this monstrous idea.

I wonder if I can lure her out with promises of cup cakes, pizza, unfettered Top Shop shopping extravaganzas.

The film ends, we leave.

“what did you think ?” – I ask

There is a pause while she untangles herself from her constant personal soundtrack and removes the tiny headphones

“S’alright, can we go for noodles?”

I decide that tonight is not the night to stalk her Facebook status.

About cathi rae

50ish teacher & aspiring writer and parent of a stroppy teenager and carer for a confused bedlington terrier and a small selection of horses who fail to shar emy dressage ambitions. Interested in contemporary fiction but find myself returning to PG Wodehouse when the chips are down View all posts by cathi rae

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