The single most pleasurable movie of all time is Soderbergh's Ocean's Eleven, and it achieves that status in order to try to convey what makes filmmaking uniquely magical: a sense of shared enchantment between the audience and the director, and the ecstasy of the latter pulling a heist on the former -- not (just) trickery, but the successful creation of an ornate and difficult craft. (See also The Prestige.)

Last year, I watched The War Room, the documentary following Bill Clinton's first campaign — a film I am remiss for having never written about, because it was captivating, satisfying, and illuminating. And whether for good reasons or bad, it punctured most of my belief that the political moment we currently find ourselves in is novel in any grand sense. (See also Days of Rage, which covered the seventies; if you're ever worried about civil unrest, it's the one to reach for.)

June, like any month in which I neither write very much nor read very much, feels already cryptographic in retrospect.

There are two mental models about work and fatigue which, like my brief dalliance with Roshe Runs, I have loved and outgrown:

I had hoped and expected that the chaos which had marked the start of the year — floors, termites, sickness, fires, ACL surgery — was largely behind us, and that I would be freed to find some sort of rhythm or backbeat with which to tether a new normalcy. And of course, this has not been the case, though for more pleasant reasons than previously: three semi-impromptu trips (all good); lots of corgi rehab (all successful); lots of sleep regression (some in the rear-view). But I was still able to...