The mosquitos have woken up where I live. Having grown up in a place where the noises at night came from the cars and from the street, this living and internal intrusion is something that I have yet to come up with a solution to. I don’t sleep well anyway, and the whine of these insects and what that whine necessarily comes before doesn’t help.
I’ve been spending the nights when I can’t sleep or write watching Orson Welles. Both in his films and in excerpts of his interviews on Youtube. Chimes at Midnight being surreal and ancient, funny and morbid, I’m looking forward to watching many more times. The dream/hellscape of Welles’ rendition of Kafka’s The Trial in the midst of McCarthyism seems palpable. The physical journey of Mr K around the endless confounding and absurd maze of the ministry appears to foresee the experience of going deep on the internet. The disconnected opulence and amnesia compounds the feeling that the further it continues the less sure of anything you are. Welles’ capacity to disappear completely into wild fantasy while always extending an aching hand to the earth below was unique. Here is a picture of him convincing a nation that an alien invasion had started at the age of 23.
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