Covid-19 Diary, part 61: A near-religious experience, and I review Mank.

1561.

Back in January, some forty years ago, the U.S. had just assassinated a high-ranking Iranian general, Soleimani, and my extended family was weathering its own crisis. Everything felt loose, disconnected, crumbling; the forces of entropy tore at the bonds of existence. It was a tiny premonition of the crushing horror of 2020. 

1562.

I was reading Atticus Lish’s Preparation for the Next Life. It tells the story of an unlikely romance between a traumatized American soldier and a Chinese immigrant living in Queens without immigration papers. It’s a superb piece of writing: tough, compelling, visceral. I remember it in vivid detail; it remains one of the best books I read this year. 

1563.

Pearl (chatting with friends via zoom): Gingerbread people make houses out of their own skin!

1564.

Pearl: Dad, I have a movie idea. A guy sells his soul to the devil. He has to kill someone, then he can go to the past or the future. Only, the devil transports him to the far future where everyone is dead. And he’s stuck.
Me:  . . .

1565.

I’m interviewed on the great radio show, Watching America, trying my best to be witty. Here is the link. 

1566.

A few days ago, I was writing, and a glowing orb of yellow light formed a gaping phosphene hole in the middle of my vision. A splitting headache, nausea, and exhaustion followed. 

1567.

It was a near-religious experience of excruciating discomfort, bizarre dreams, and isolation. The only letters I could see, as I shut my eyes against the glare, were r, t, and w. It feels important. For a brief moment, I thought a divine intelligence was trying to communicate with me. I tried meditating on the letters. 

1568.

But it was just a migraine with aura. 

1569.

I watch Mank. It’s a strange, beguiling film. Half-great, half-terrible, Mank has a delicate, subtle story to tell, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it.

read the rest here.