Milarepa: Magician, Murderer, Saint

I went to view Milarepa at the Hollywood last week. I went alone. There is something selfish and sustaining about seeing a film by myself. I haven’t gone alone to a movie theater since I went to see Flashdance, the film about the woman welder who dreams of being a dancer. I was a freshman in high school then, young, idealistic, and easily susceptible to the bad eighties soundtrack. I cried through the film, and, when I went home I ripped the collar off my Conant sweatshirt, bought some leg warmers, and, voila, a powerful woman was born.

Milarepa was also a good film to see alone. If I had been with someone else, I would have been aware of their reactions, worried of their understanding. Alone, I had nothing to distract me. The timing couldn’t have been better because I’m rewriting my journey chapters and I’m having trouble feeling the landscape. I know that my memory is shadowy and I’ve been trying to return to the Himalayas to feel the space again. I kept remembering a return visit to Nepal. Trying not to squash the goat tied-down behind me, I had gripped the luggage rail on the top of the bus and melted in the beauty that was greener, steeper, softer, and larger than my memory. Meanwhile, down below, Marianne had to fight for space with a basket of hens before she finally found a spot by the window where she could puke in peace, but that’s another story. As much as I tried, I could not bring back the feeling of that space. That’s why I’m so glad I went to that film Milarepa. It was shot in the Spiti Valley of the Himalayas. Stunning finger-like conicals tapered to blue sky, shades of muted browns and greens softened to white peaks. I felt my chest opening up to the landscape, to the stunning vistas and sharp contrasts. I journeyed in Tibet.