A Situation Involving Myself

Two months after its release, I went to see a matinee of Interstellar by myself. I sat in the back row, dead center, and sober. For the first half, all internal systems remained normal. Then, out of nowhere, the metal shielding guarding my emotional state stripped away like a falling object through the atmosphere. The scene everyone warned me about. The one where Matthew McConaughey realizes the magnitude of Anne Hathaway’s—pardon my French—royal f**kup. Twenty-three years pissed away on a fool’s errand. As if under the spell of a burning house, I watched a man absorb recording after recording from his children on a very distant Earth. Life’s milestones reduced to digital timestamps in the cold expanse of space: his son excelling in school, finding love, and having a son of his own. The revelation of his own father’s passing. And just when we’re all wondering if the daughter, whom he abandoned at the beginning of the movie, will leave a message, the recording ends. Just when we’re gutted, up comes her fully-grown face—the two now galaxies apart, connected by undulating radio waves stretching over time. Her frustration. His anguish. My face contorted and lachrymose. All she wants is to crawl back into the arms of the man who left her. Watching Matthew’s face crumple under the weight of lost years, guilt, and isolation, it was too much. The levee broke. In the stillness of the theater, a man let out a wail like a mangy animal. Down in front, a group craned their necks. Slapping a hand to my mouth, I sunk further into my seat. But it didn’t matter. I had lost kids I never even had.

I spend my time playing guitar and designing pedalboards. I’m also an NBA junkie and a supporter of the Charlotte Hornets. See the above image for how I feel about that.