I was working, as per usual, at the library, and a woman started telling me about her laptop and how though it was only four years old, it had become obsolete. She was disgusted about this, angry even, and somehow I ended up telling her about my encyclopedia.
Too sympathetically perhaps because then I discovered:
She's a writer, a kind of strange lady...from Scotland, of all places. And she now wants to write a movie about me.
Is it a good idea for me to co-operate? I honestly do not know. On one hand, it may help my Obselidic endeavour. I'm sure it would. As they say, no publicity is bad publicity. But I feel wary. I have a feeling she's of the "don't let the truth get in the way of a good story" field of film-making. Though you know...maybe in this case that would be a good thing.
After all, what is the blockbuster to date? A man rants, never raves; he catalogues, writes, collects, and dreams. It's not exactly popcorn dark knight hoo-ha heaven. Just day to day life...a sequence of events with no beginning, no middle, no hero and no end.
Welcome to my life, Diane, my real life. One may think it romantic, a last stand against the disappearance of everything we think matters. But it's not. It's just what I have to do. Like opening a tin of tuna for my cat. Not good or bad, not interesting or dull, just what it is.
And if you want to make a movie out of this??