I remember the dark theater, and how cold it was in there. That was always the best thing about going to a movie. The temperature. In the middle of the summer, I went to the movies and always brought a jacket. I always wore long pants when I went to see a movie.
And I remember them. I remember all the movies that I went to see, midsummer.
Even if others don't remember the movies, I remember the movies.
Admit it, you remember the movie as well as I do. It's stuck behind another memory, in the gates of your neural pathways. Your synapses, chain lightning bottled up in your skull, like the electric fence I walked by on the way home from the movie that I went to see at the dollar theater near my house, are hiding your memory of the movie and making you lie and say it never existed.
But it existed. The movie existed as surely as you exist. In fact, you exist because the movie exists, and because all movies exist.
Even the ones someone made up.
Don't blog, I say. Go see the movie instead.
Walk by the electric fence. It's raining. The fence buzzes a little. Slap at the fence with your hand. It isn't powerful. It's a light shock. A single, electrified wire is all it is. It keeps a horse in the yard of a house. In the suburbs. There's a horse in the suburbs, and single electrified wire holds him at bay.
If that's true—and that's true—then, certainly—the movie exists.
