Pangea Day

Still, on the morning of Mother's Day, I said, “Charlie, say Happy Mother's Day” and he looked at me and said, “Happy. Day.”
The afternoon of Happy. Day I drove into the city for a rerun of Pangea Day. It was in a conference room up high. Harbour bridge lights in picture windows. Floating champagne. Another mother said to me, “I’m glad we didn’t bring our boys.” We looked around the room and it changed. Now it was a beautiful expanse for running; now it was white cloths to tug heavy glasses to the floor.
But this Pangea Day. It was a global event bringing the world together through film. Everybody watching the exact same films at the exact same time around the world.
Not so much us though. I mean, for us, it was a rerun from yesterday.
But I still felt excited.
Yesterday’s audiences flashed onto the screen now and then, and some of them looked cold. The parties woohooing around the world, but sometimes they looked separate to me, oddly huddled. Some of them seemed impatient or not quite there, and some felt almost like ghosts.
But maybe I was just too conscious that they were yesterday. I was tomorrow.

Now, no disrespect, but I wonder if it might have been better just to show the films? Without the presenters, I mean. Once, a presenter said: “This film is only two minutes long but it packs quite a punch!” Then a two minute film and all around the world, audiences waiting for the punch. So, of course. I mean, the whole world had its defences up.