Ways to get out of here CLAIRE SINOW
Colic infant, born under Cancer skies, I have no choice but to cry every year on my birthday. I don’t mean to, but it’s on the solstice, and I’m forced to endure the longest day. All that sunlight destroys a baby. It’s unnatural. It deforms me, and my lungs and diaphragm develop faster than my mouth can, so I’ve got a speech impediment—it locks the yearning in the pit of my stomach where it can only rot. Despite years of speech therapy, things still seem to come out wrong. My mom wants to make me happy, but I’m never particular enough. I’m turning nine and I beg her to take me to the science museum. I do not want this, but I want to want. She tells me that this is something she can fulfill. The night before, I can’t sleep; the sun pollutes the atmosphere with the last remnants of obstinate blues which refuse to rest. When we sit in the IMAX theater, my mom reaches across the armrest and puts her hand on my forearm. It swallows me. None of my friends are in town, so it’s just us. She tells me she loves me. I wriggle away. My neck cranes toward the paper sky and the planetarium breathes. A soft wind passes my ankles. I’m consumed by the anamorophic fisheye, my retinas burned by distortion in the corners of my field of view. Galaxies glow overhead and my sight glazes over. I lean back into my chair, close my eyes, and pray for midnight. It’s exactly what I asked for. These theaters are special somehow. IMAX is a different format, disrupted by turning the film sideways—the strips morphing from 35mm to 70mm, giving a nine-fold increase in area. I’m assured it’s better by all technical specs. The new shape gives
86 • spring 2021
