Yesterday was a shitstorm I will not even attempt to explain. It is best buried and forgotten. But no writing was accomplished. Instead, because we had free passes, we went to see Denis Villeneuve's Arrival, and I thought it was actually pretty good. It even manages to transcend the saccharine mother-daughter glop that threatens to drag it down. You can think of it as Independence Day for thinking people, or maybe as a postmodern reboot of The Day the Earth Stood Still.
I no longer enjoy going to the theater. In part, it's the ugliness of digital projection.
Last night, because almost any bygone year is vastly preferable to now, and because John Cusack dulls the pain, we watched George Armitage's Grosse Point Blank (1997), which is sort of a comfort film for me. We followed it with Cameron Crowe's Say Anything... (1989), if only because 1989 is an even safer year to think about than 1997. The farther in the past a year is from 2016, the better.
My anxiety in crowds has, since last week, been magnified many times over. Now, I can only look at people and wonder who among them voted for Trump. Even here in Rhode Island, we have our traitors to the human race.
Keep thinking those happy thoughts!