Has it really been that long since my last post? So many viable topics that came and went, too, like Pokémon Go representing the last vestige of my interest in videogames, an administration change threatening the absurdity barrier, Iron Fist utterly disappointing, realizing that relying on running as an escape is a race I’m destined not to win, and almost logged in the other day to bitch about tampering with Claudia Cardinale’s perfection, but it’s a dream, as usual, that brings me back. Two attempts to preserve my recollection on the recording app were dreams themselves. It was a first-person flying shooter where the goal of each level was to find the exit tunnel, hindered by the psychedelic lights and color filters, not to mention the two-planed controllers like a Wii’s. The last one led to the player opening his eyes to the crooked sight of an ultramodern white door, and it took several tries to orient my perspective to approach and let it slide open. A hospital corridor stretched outside, and a nurse composed of decent CG, though the obvious product of an in-game engine, smiled as she walked by. Turns out the game had been a simulation of recovery from mental illness [see “Loving the Alien”], and the rousing score transitioned a black screen to credits like the end of a Nolan film. Five of us gathered around a coffee table sat stunned by the revelation; one said he was inspired to run for office.
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