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There are some mornings, when my alarm goes off between 5–6am, when I simply do not know how I’m going to continue; I refuse to give up my social life — so I’m often going to bed around midnight, buzzed on a combination of coffee and fernet (my favorite drink) wondering how I’m going to rouse myself back to consciousness before the sun rises. I have two lives, really, a day job as a high school teacher, and a second job as a play director and writer — two jobs which have no respect for each other; which do not co-exist easily, even while they must. I’ve chosen, I chose, biological pain over mental boredom — the life I want to lead does not fit within the parameters set by my job and in a deeper sense, my bank account. Work to live, or live to work? The question haunts, provokes, but also annoys, dulls, persists — it’s a binary that you always wish you could break free of.
The thing I always wish I had more time for is cinema. I love going to the movies, but it always feels like a ridiculously indulgent choice (which is an absurd feeling).
Two or so hours staring at one screen rather than many screens, uninterrupted — it’s actually incredibly rare now. Movies are closer to books than we realize — at least the serious ones; the heal our divided attention far more than they hurt it.
Some of my best (in the sense of deepest) memories are memories of watching movies for the…
