The Breenless Universe


I like those sort of sunsets where even when you are way, way, way in the backfields of your own mind demand that you at least tick over for half a second into appreciation mode.  I crave those sorts of sunsets now that I’ve had one to remind me of their virtues.

All day, I’ve been rattled, unsure, worried, gas-lighting myself between breaths, and yet, it’s the close of the day and I can drive myself home underneath this sky that is dark but for bursts of pink.  Like a cartoon perfume’s been spritzed across the heavens.

But enough of that picturesque daydream.  I have to find some way to tell you about what happened to me tonight.  The reason that I am briefly delayed in publishing tonight’s post.

What happened to me tonight is I watched, almost entirely by my own free will, a movie called Double Down.  It is a movie in that it is on film, in that there are things that happened in it, it began and it did, many tortuous eons later, end.  Beyond that, holy hell, it is the single worst nightmare ever recorded and produced under the aegis of cinema.  It is artless, without warmth or care or any iota of understanding.  It is not scary, simply deeply unpleasant to watch.  Coming out in 2005, it serves, if one can mash together any sort of plot out of the gloopy, rancid, soulless potatoes that are the series of ineffectual visual cues that compile the plot, as something of a reaction to 9/11.  Chemical weapons and bio-warfare in the hands of a killer genius tuna fish obsessed desert-dweller who also has the power to heal the cancer right out of your kids’ head so long as he holds a magic piece of fool’s gold.  It is more complicated than that, but not really.

This dude’s girlfriend dies, in his loopy brain, the government did it because he’s such a genius (his three laptops he’s got in the back of his car are never seen on, regardless of how much he types on them as he controls all computer systems in the world.  One of them is the same model HP I had in high school) and in so doing, despite being awarded every medal available by the military, he is driven to kill, well, everyone.

And that’s the hero.  That’s the hero.  The best thing he does, and he does it out of sheer confusion and sheer needing to end this ass-crater of an experience, is he tries to call off some of his big attacks.  This after treating anthrax like ragweed pollen and poisoning various water supplies as “tests.”  Does he actually call them off?  Maybe.  Otherwise, he just drives off as messed up and egomaniacal as before, leaving behind THOUSANDS of tuna cans in his wake.

It is…a real, real, real, inexpressibly awful thing.

I do feel now that I have somehow transcended some of my most significant troubles simply by virtue of understanding them as not being related to or a part of Double Down.  They are not a part of this horrific auteur’s insidious vision. Therefore, they are joy and light.  Everything, everything, that is not Neil Breen is worthy of love.

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