To my interest and distress, the smoke drifting down across Boston from the Canadian wildfires has produced a perceptible change in the color of the sunlight on top of a twenty-four-hour air quality alert. It looks conch-tinted, brassy. I gather it is supposed to rain by evening, depriving us of a compensatory Krakatoa sunset.
Yesterday's doctor's appointment for which I got up on two hours' sleep and ate breakfast was not only not helpful to me, it was so actively bad that I came home and cried on
spatch and cats and spent most of the afternoon in bed, after which I spent most of the evening on the couch with my three-months-early birthday present of J. Greco's The File on Robert Siodmak in Hollywood, 1941–1951 (1999) and a bunch of on-ride videos of roller coasters from parks I have never been to. The book is terrific. I am enjoying the detailed technical discussions of emotion and atmosphere and Greco's complaint: "What's worse than finding no materials on a significant film is finding too much on a mediocre one."
Yesterday's doctor's appointment for which I got up on two hours' sleep and ate breakfast was not only not helpful to me, it was so actively bad that I came home and cried on
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