heat. heat. and more heat. ugh. Spent the weekend trying not to move too much and drinking pitcher after pitcher of iced tea and eating nectarines. If I stayed within a five foot vicinity of the fans, I was okay, but anywhere else was damn uncomfortable. I wasn’t sure if it was better to go out in the weather or try to stay inside. Finished my bargain bin novel Our Sometime Sister, which turned out to be great. All convoluted narrative and Shakespearean undertones.
Friday night, we went to see Dark Water. Well, actually, we went to see it twice. At the first theatre, the budget one ($5.50), with its broken seats, creepy fluorescent lights over the concession stand and zombie like workers, the film stuck and actually melted about fifteen minutes in. Unfortunately it was JUST far enough in to have caught my interest. We procured our free pass for another day at the lovely Burnham Plaza theatres and moved onto the shiny new River East multiplex, all slick and bright and teeming with people, where we plunked down another $9 each. But at least we got through the whole thing this time—not so much scary really, but highly suspenseful and creepy. Also, great set design—70’s architecture gone horribly wrong—wood veneer cupboards, bad wallpaper, and awful windows. And an evil Hello Kitty backpack to boot.
I have a thing about architecture. The building below makes me vaguely uncomfortable every time I see it. Like it's going to come crashing down and slice me to ribbons. Even Mies van der Rohe sets my teeth on edge. Too much glass and steel. Sharpness. Then there’s my vague discomfort around tract housing and carpeting, rooms with small windows, and anything involving linoleum by the sheet. I’m very content with my parquet floors and giant windows. My high ceilings and octagonal tile (even if it’s pink in the bathroom). My clanky (though no longer leaky) radiators and my crème colored walls and white woodwork (even if the paint’s laid on so thick in places its cracking.) 1930's brick and mortar. Solid and dependable.