I am so proud of the thoughtful artist you've become and the lovely relationship you have built with Cillian. He's lucky to have you for a dad and I am lucky to be your mom. 🙂 Happy Birthday, Mouse.
The news from Bob's vet is bad. It reminds me of that scene in St. Elmo's fire where Mare Winningham takes Rob Lowe to her parent's house for dinner and her mother whispers the words she finds too terrible to say aloud.
And so we're losing him – the tiniest thing I ever saw – my bestest puppy ever and an emissary for his breed. And I know, he's just a dog, but he's my dog and so this fucked up world has found another way to break my heart.
I’ve been trying for weeks to string a few sentences together, but I can’t. The focus isn’t there. The words are a jumble in my head, and then on the page and erased moments later. Yet again, I'm trying to write about the anxiety, not the social bitch I grew up with but the one that results in visions of calamity on a daily basis.
Like the Australian public service announcement that became the game Dumb Ways to Die, I envision thoughtless mishaps with devastating results. Stepping on wet tile in the bathroom, I see myself falling backward, smashing my head on the tub. Reaching for the switch on the garbage disposal, I cringe, imagining fingers and hands mutilated by its blades. On the road, an infinite number of scenarios present themselves. And it’s not like the I-might-drive-into-this-wall days. No, this is more like I'm the man in the street, about to be blindsided by the bus.
I get what the root of the problem is. The links between anxiety and bereavement have been well-documented, but knowing where it comes from and fixing it are vastly different things.
In the phobic realm, the excessive fear of accidents is called Dystychiphobia. For me though, it doesn't feel excessive. It mostly just feels like knowing, we are never as safe as we think we are.
Ages ago, I asked Susanne The Scot's husband if he thought that she believed in the Loch Ness Monster.
"Deep down she's a romantic, so yes, I expect she does," he answered.
This conversation came back to me after seeing Patterson's Wager that first time.
Not because it's about the Nessie (it's not), but because deep down, I too am a romantic and this little movie got past the cynical wall I built to keep out schlocky romantic comedies and lovelorn sagas. It surprised and charmed me. That, my friends, is rare.
I haven't been officially employed as a film writer in nearly a decade, but I still watch a lot of movies and every once in a while, I get the urge to write about one. O. Corbin Saleken's 2015 film Patterson's Wager is is one of those movies.
This Canadian indie has been making the festival circuit and racking up awards along the way. Jeremy and I discovered it through Fred Ewanuick, who is cast as Charles, an ordinary guy in an extrordinary situation. Without explanation or warning, Charles begins to have visions of events just moments in the future.
As a subject and storytelling device precognition is nothing new, but Saleken has used it deftly, in service to the real challenge his character faces.