The other night, my 11 year old called my and Cole’s jobs meaningless since capitalism is killing us all and the planet is on fire and bless their little nihilist heart. I can’t wait to watch their generation burn this fucker down.
A shot in my back has completely brought me back to life. Months of debilitating pain really makes you realize how much you take the ability to move for granted. I’ve been reaching out to current and old friends, swimming, and starting to walk longer distances again. While I was looking forward to rocking the fuck out of that sparkly cane I bought, it remains unused in my car.
I haven’t been able to say I’m happy, without an air of grasping desperately at gratitudes and reminding myself it could be worse and I need to count my blessings, in a long time. Now I can finally say it easily and unprompted. Aaaand it’s still a dangerous prospect for moderately intelligent, introspective people like myself.
Here comes the worries about which shoe will drop next and how this will all come crumbling down again. Jesus Christ, Briana. Just be happy. Enjoy. Be present. Napes. This brain is Michael J—always buckling up for a trip back to the future.
Anyhoo, these looks are evidence I reconnected with friends. The first on Lauren’s rooftop, smoking weed and eating homemade chorizo mac and cheese while soaking up golden hour. The second at Nido in Jack London celebrating Jen’s 41st. Life is really, really fucking good despite being the poorest and fattest version of myself at the moment. But perfection is boring. And balance is my religion. So I’m eating it up while I can and trying to leave the future where it belongs.
It’s not abnormal for old movies to call to me randomly. I get weird hankerings sometimes for things I’ve seen maybe once or twice decades ago. So the fact that I had a powerful yen to watch 2002’s Adaptation didn’t strike me as anything odd. But the call was loud this time. And the signs were abundant and nagging. Watch it. Watch it now, it said as I was scrolling for something funny. Adaptation isn’t the funniest but it would hit the spot nonetheless. For reasons I would hate.
Cage’s inner monologue mocks me to my core. Phrases like “why couldn’t I have stayed on that diet?” and “you’re old. Fat, sweaty and old. Stop sweating” and “I’ve been alive 40 years and haven’t learned a damn thing” read me to filth. Yes, midlife is hitting me hard. But it didn’t have to bitch slap me like this.
This is a meta movie about a guy trying to adapt a book, having trouble, and writing himself into the story, which is about a guy trying to adapt a book, having trouble, and writing himself into the story. The dizzying combination of self-loathing and narcissism zaps me right in the fillings as I swallow its bitter potion. But it also wakes me the fuck up for a moment. Because all I want to do is scream at the guy.
YOU’RE NOT DEAD YET. YOU’RE WASTING YOUR LIFE THINKING ABOUT WASTING YOUR LIFE.
He eventually basically realizes that. Breaks his writer’s block and is filled with hope. But it took his twin brother dying? Really? Like that was the part of the movie I needed the most—how the hell you get out of this pit of decaying morale. And I like my sister so I sincerely hope it doesn’t take her flying out of a windshield to make me happy.
So I stay answerless. Here’s a look.
I saw The Substance yesterday. An obvious commentary on how far we go for youth and beauty. And here’s me, unwilling to skip a burger let alone risk becoming a Cronenberg monster.
No look for this one.
Leave a Reply
You must be logged in to post a comment.