Today I ran errands with Spooky (the bank, the market, the post office) and we did the last of our Christmas shopping. I found a pair of cast-iron mice and a 1940s Burroughs typewriter. Tomorrow, I have to go back to writing.
Tonight, we watched the first wretched hour of something called The Witcher. It was a special sort of awful, and the less said the better. But then we watched Tom Harper's sublimely beautiful and often terrifying The Aeronauts (2019), which I loved despite its problematic decision to replace Henry Coxwell, the balloonist who actually saved the life of meteorologist James Glashier in 1862, with an entirely fictional character. Regardless, yes, it was very good, if somewhat more interest in present-day ideals than in historical accuracy.
And today on Facebook I said: Art has to be free to offend, almost by the definition of what makes it art. And it must also be free, in as much as this is possible, from fear of censure for offending, as censure breeds a reluctance to speak what we believe is true (or what we just feel like saying). Art must never be reigned in by any political agenda. Art is entirely free to speak and draw blood and tears and weave anxiety or it isn't art. Art is a trigger.
Now, I need to sleep.