I'm reading
What Dreams May Come by Richard Matheson. You must understand I saw the movie starring Robin Williams and Annabella Sciorra fifteen years ago on the cusp of my own recovery from a suicide in my family. I couldn't explain sitting in the theater what each moment of this movie meant to me. EVERYTHING. It was truth and hope and promise and validation. It was F*@King Fantastic
Fast forward fifteen years and I pick up the book because it's on sale on my kindle. The reviews say it's better than the movie. For me that's quite a promise. But I'm finding it a very cerebral read. So far. I must say I'm a bit surprised. Okay, disappointed. The ideas are good, but the emotional context feels flat. I actually find myself thinking:
The Celestine Prophecy. Ugh.
But the movie exploded with color. Emotion was in your face. Jumping from the screen. Sitting in the seat beside you. Trying to sit on top of you. Book and film are two very different media. I think Richard Matheson came up with an incredible story. And I think Vincent Ward and the cast and crew of the movie brought it to life.
Maybe I'll feel differently when I finish the book.
Maybe I won't.
But I will never forget how watching the movie
What Dreams May Come was part of my re-entry into a world that I felt very ambivalent about re-entering for a very long time.
I read. I write. I watch movies and t.v. shows. I listen to music.
To feed my inner life.
Because in the end, all we have is what we imagine and my soul needs to eat.
