I've had trouble concentrating on reading for the past couple of months, even before I started to self-quarantine. Every time I settle down in the tub with a stack of books at my side to try to get started, I end up on my phone scrolling through Facebook. I'm too distracted.
I'm still depriving myself of news, though it feels a bit more natural to avoid it now. I skim the newspaper for the headlines. I've been staying away from NPR and watching only a few minutes of Anderson Cooper each night. (I was frustrated that Anderson was missing earlier this week but forgave him his three day absence when I learned he had just had a baby boy).
Last night I wanted some entertainment. Better Call Saul kept me busy for weeks, and I just watched the weird cultural treasure that is Tiger King. My friend D has given me an extensive list of quality films to watch, but I didn't feel like I could give them my attention either. I crave a long, long book that I can immerse myself in, but that takes a commitment and enough focus to get involved with it. I have toyed with the idea of The Stand by Stephen King, but do I really want to spend my leisure time reading about a fictional pandemic? That seems like self-torture. But it's oddly tempting. Nah. I don't usually revisit books, but I thought maybe that would be a good approach. I tried to get started rereading BFG by Roald Dahl book. That didn't take either.
So I just gave up on the idea of distraction altogether and scoured Netflix for a movie about pandemics. Screw my delicate media blackout. Bring on Hollywood. I'm all in. I watched Outbreak. I spent two hours immersed in an exaggerated depiction of a virus escaping into the world. Even telling you what happened won't ruin it for you because the whole thing is so bad to begin with. In the dizzying conclusion, Dustin Hoffman and his crew needed only a few hours to locate the one monkey who could help them that was wandering around in suburban America using a five year old as bait, then helicoptered with daredevil stunts back to the militarized town that had been quarantined, used that host monkey to produce a serum, tested it, administered it successfully, and intervened in a military plot to bomb the infected town. Dustin also got the girl.
Even though Outbreak was a ridiculous movie, it made me feel slightly better. Partly that was because of the happy ending, which I gobbled up despite the improbability of the whole adventure. Sure, there were a lot of bodies, but there was joy at the end. The world seemed neat and manageable. Moral. There were capable, committed scientists flinging coffee at white boards in frustration. There were evil government agents who were punished in the end. It was tidy.
Maybe I do want to read The Stand? Maybe instead of hiding from my complicated feelings about the state of the world, I should immerse myself in them. That approach has worked for me in the past when I have been in traumatic situations. Why not now?
I'm still depriving myself of news, though it feels a bit more natural to avoid it now. I skim the newspaper for the headlines. I've been staying away from NPR and watching only a few minutes of Anderson Cooper each night. (I was frustrated that Anderson was missing earlier this week but forgave him his three day absence when I learned he had just had a baby boy).
Last night I wanted some entertainment. Better Call Saul kept me busy for weeks, and I just watched the weird cultural treasure that is Tiger King. My friend D has given me an extensive list of quality films to watch, but I didn't feel like I could give them my attention either. I crave a long, long book that I can immerse myself in, but that takes a commitment and enough focus to get involved with it. I have toyed with the idea of The Stand by Stephen King, but do I really want to spend my leisure time reading about a fictional pandemic? That seems like self-torture. But it's oddly tempting. Nah. I don't usually revisit books, but I thought maybe that would be a good approach. I tried to get started rereading BFG by Roald Dahl book. That didn't take either.
So I just gave up on the idea of distraction altogether and scoured Netflix for a movie about pandemics. Screw my delicate media blackout. Bring on Hollywood. I'm all in. I watched Outbreak. I spent two hours immersed in an exaggerated depiction of a virus escaping into the world. Even telling you what happened won't ruin it for you because the whole thing is so bad to begin with. In the dizzying conclusion, Dustin Hoffman and his crew needed only a few hours to locate the one monkey who could help them that was wandering around in suburban America using a five year old as bait, then helicoptered with daredevil stunts back to the militarized town that had been quarantined, used that host monkey to produce a serum, tested it, administered it successfully, and intervened in a military plot to bomb the infected town. Dustin also got the girl.
Even though Outbreak was a ridiculous movie, it made me feel slightly better. Partly that was because of the happy ending, which I gobbled up despite the improbability of the whole adventure. Sure, there were a lot of bodies, but there was joy at the end. The world seemed neat and manageable. Moral. There were capable, committed scientists flinging coffee at white boards in frustration. There were evil government agents who were punished in the end. It was tidy.
Maybe I do want to read The Stand? Maybe instead of hiding from my complicated feelings about the state of the world, I should immerse myself in them. That approach has worked for me in the past when I have been in traumatic situations. Why not now?
No comments:
Post a Comment