This heat that scorches, resurrects demons, gives hateful nocturnal relevance to an intolerable assailant called insomnia, makes me understand that surrealist barbarity that the great Albert Camus recounted at the beginning of his novel Abroad: “I killed a man I didn’t know on a beach in Oran because it was hot.” Poor the crazy people, the old people, the chronically depressed, the poor, when the sun starts to howl and the cold and the snows of yesteryear desert until winter. And how does the elderly entertain this agonizing time, those who neither know, nor can nor want to be drugged all day long with social networks and the totalitarian universe of the Internet, that obligatory world that the monsters have imposed on us to go through life, to not look or be a Martian, to not suffer the absolute elements and abandonment?
Since I have all the time in the world, I still have air conditioning in my house and I have not lost the ability to continue enjoying what books, movies and series have always provided me throughout my existence, I dedicate myself exclusively to those activities. Stepping outside only when absolutely necessary, refusing to follow the disgusting news of the world and the depressing state of things, strategically rejecting the always stupefying and stupefying television, speaking from time to time on the phone (another habit or need in the process of disappearing) with the few people I interact with. And I have no need for anything new in my ancestral pleasures. I exaggerate. Being absolutely ignorant in scientific matters, remembering only the addition and subtraction of mathematics, with physics and chemistry being an incomprehensible mystery in my life, I have read with terrified interest and a touch of fascination the novels (or whatever they are) of Benjamin Labatut. A terrible greenness and ManiacI do not fully understand the discoveries of so many brilliant scientists, visionaries, tortured beings and fearsome in their wisdom, but the description of their chaotic lives and their shocking discoveries provoke interest and fear in me.
And I return again and again to films and series, which even though I know them by heart, continue to give me life. It happens that most of the films shown in dark rooms are mostly grey, indoctrinated, forgettable. The same thing happens with the insatiable demand for series that the platforms demand. In most of them my patience is exhausted after the first chapter, if I manage to get to the end. But series lived a golden age, the greatest talents in the industry turned to them. There have been, are and will be exceptional, imaginative, complex, lucid things helping the shipwrecked to survive. The Wire, The Sopranos, Game of Thrones, Boardwalk Empirethe first season of True Detective. And a little further down for my cultivated tastes Mad Men and Breaking Bad. I will resist, as the song said. Everyone seeks mental survival as best they can.
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