Haven't watched a movie in over a week. On the newsworthy scale, this falls between "Brad Garrett has a new TV series" and "nuclear war."
Between the months of September and February, I average about three or four movies a week, a schedule which makes my waking hours indistinguishable from the fictional scenes and shots that replay in my head. Only when I sleep do I get that blessed black blank screen, the one on which "The End" has just faded. For the past year and a half, I've devoured movies in order to get the most out of my Netflix plan, but now I've downgraded from three-at-a-time to two-at-a-time. L'Avventura and King of Hearts have rested idly on my desk for seven days now. Haven't been to the theater since I saw The Painted Veil, like, a month ago. The weather's getting nice and reality -- despite the groping it requires to navigate it -- suddenly seems interesting.
So I'm disturbed by a thought that zipped in and out of my head today like an actor making an entrance onstage, realizing it's the wrong cue and stepping quickly back off:
Do I miss the movies?
Admission: I don't need movies to live. No one does, regardless of how they effuse about their unslakable passion. But I often need movies to help me think, or to re-orient my perspective on life, or to simply tranquilize doubts and worries. To capture a bit of the past. To connect with others without speaking. And so on. Do I just not need any of that now?
And am I okay with that?
Look who got to meet President Obama!
4 hours ago