It could be argued that I watch too many films.
Arguably - and more accurately - it is not the watching of too many films that I am guilty of, but the purchasing of films in abundance: more per month than I could ever watch, apparently - or so I have been told. But this is probably accurate, as I frequently have to explain myself, when asked have you seen such-and-such a film and find that I have no option but to reply yes, sort of. By 'sort of' I mean that I have seen bits of the said film. Sometimes, enough to get the gist of plot and theme and story, but more often a taste that is puzzling and unsatisfactory and teasing in a cruel you-can-see-me-if-you-can-catch-me sort of way. And I never have time to catch it. It is the lot of a mother - she who washes and cooks and clears and cleans and finds the odd socks (sometimes) and walks the dogs and feeds them and wrestles the ironing-mountain and answers the phone and waters the garden and bakes the bread and never sits still (except when busy writing) - to only ever see films in five minute chunks and to be left wondering about what happened next until the next film and the next what happened next. Until all the what happened nexts are forgotten and the answer to the question have I seen a particular film is sort of. Perhaps, 'no, not really' would be better?
I have, however, seen enough films and understand the human condition sufficiently to judge the accuracy of big, filmic moments.
One such moment happened to me recently.
It was one of those time-stopped/my-whole-life-flashed-before-my-eyes/scream-filled moments before ... what? Well anything, if we are back in cinema-land which involves an abrupt end - where the lights go out; where life considers the leap across the divide into death and the film plot pivots. In other words, anywhere there is a narrative full stop or a change of direction.
I'm not sure that the screen gets this potentially life-defining or indeed life-ending moment right:
- time does not stop.
- there is an unsettling quiet; unsettling like the sound of a nail being scraped across a black-board, or a high pitched, off-key scream - an eerie quiet that makes your hairs stand on end.
- life doesn't flash before your eyes - there isn't time for the contents of anyone's life to do that.
Instead, there's a moment which is almost a pause but is not a pause because things are still moving and importantly, you are aware that you are still thinking. It's that awareness and its sharp focus that identifies this moment. Suddenly, nothing matters except the moment you are in. Nothing at all. The overwhelming - and I mean totally overwhelming - feeling is one of inevitability. Of there being absolutely nothing you can do to prevent what is about to happen from happening. Like standing beneath the stars on a clear night and feeling infinitesimally small, this moment trivialises all your prior worries and concerns. It obliviates them. Momentarily. Or forever.
Life is suddenly out of your control (which begs the question, what degree of control had you over it anyway? Probably less than you thought). Your focus is on waiting. Waiting. Is it wrong to describe that focus as exhilarating? The inevitable next moment - the one that is, inexorably, about to happen - could change everything. For better or worse? And all you can do is wait. You've taken avoiding action. You've done your shouting. You've tensed every muscle in your body. Now, you watch. You wait.
Who flicks the switch - lights on or off? I don't believe anyone did, or indeed does; ever. I do believe in being in the wrong place at the wrong time. That was unfortunate. I believe in chance. But not in any divine direction. I appreciate that when the lights remain on, as they did for all of us, there is luck and, perhaps fate and fortune too, involved. And mountains of after-the-moment reflection. And legions of What if? soldiers marching noisily through our heads. Stomp - What if? - STOMP - What IF? - S-T-O-M-P! WHAT IF?! Films - bits of films! - made me see what I feared might happen. But, without stunt coordinators, vehicle ramps, carefully coordinated explosions and special effects, it didn't. We walked away. Our What ifs? are mere nightmare dust, which breezy reality and time will blow away.
In that moment, we almost stopped; briefly. Of course, I wish that moment hadn't happened. I could have done without the week of discombobulation that followed. The disturbed sleep. The endless phone calls. The decisions of who to tell, who not to tell and the construct of very good reasons to not tell the people who weren't told. But ...
But like moments in a film which have narrative purpose, can I construct a positive outcome from this unfortunate moment, one which was entirely not my fault? What about all those unfinished lists? All those plans unexecuted? All that writing un-edited and stories un-submitted? All those plants un-planted and the greenhouse glass un-washed and borders un-weeded? All those people loved and not spoken to for hours, weeks, months? You know who you are; I need to reconnect with you. I think we sometimes get too caught up in the need to be perfect and then the distress in never achieving that perfection. I don't think I do, I know I do. Perhaps, we just need to be good enough. Good. Enough. If enough can be truly enough and make us happy then we don't need more. I need to keep telling myself that enough and only enough matters..
I'm going to stop now and - I know it's a cliche, so I'm sorry if it offends - thank my lucky stars.
Arguably - and more accurately - it is not the watching of too many films that I am guilty of, but the purchasing of films in abundance: more per month than I could ever watch, apparently - or so I have been told. But this is probably accurate, as I frequently have to explain myself, when asked have you seen such-and-such a film and find that I have no option but to reply yes, sort of. By 'sort of' I mean that I have seen bits of the said film. Sometimes, enough to get the gist of plot and theme and story, but more often a taste that is puzzling and unsatisfactory and teasing in a cruel you-can-see-me-if-you-can-catch-me sort of way. And I never have time to catch it. It is the lot of a mother - she who washes and cooks and clears and cleans and finds the odd socks (sometimes) and walks the dogs and feeds them and wrestles the ironing-mountain and answers the phone and waters the garden and bakes the bread and never sits still (except when busy writing) - to only ever see films in five minute chunks and to be left wondering about what happened next until the next film and the next what happened next. Until all the what happened nexts are forgotten and the answer to the question have I seen a particular film is sort of. Perhaps, 'no, not really' would be better?
I have, however, seen enough films and understand the human condition sufficiently to judge the accuracy of big, filmic moments.
One such moment happened to me recently.
It was one of those time-stopped/my-whole-life-flashed-before-my-eyes/scream-filled moments before ... what? Well anything, if we are back in cinema-land which involves an abrupt end - where the lights go out; where life considers the leap across the divide into death and the film plot pivots. In other words, anywhere there is a narrative full stop or a change of direction.
I'm not sure that the screen gets this potentially life-defining or indeed life-ending moment right:
- time does not stop.
- there is an unsettling quiet; unsettling like the sound of a nail being scraped across a black-board, or a high pitched, off-key scream - an eerie quiet that makes your hairs stand on end.
- life doesn't flash before your eyes - there isn't time for the contents of anyone's life to do that.
Instead, there's a moment which is almost a pause but is not a pause because things are still moving and importantly, you are aware that you are still thinking. It's that awareness and its sharp focus that identifies this moment. Suddenly, nothing matters except the moment you are in. Nothing at all. The overwhelming - and I mean totally overwhelming - feeling is one of inevitability. Of there being absolutely nothing you can do to prevent what is about to happen from happening. Like standing beneath the stars on a clear night and feeling infinitesimally small, this moment trivialises all your prior worries and concerns. It obliviates them. Momentarily. Or forever.
Life is suddenly out of your control (which begs the question, what degree of control had you over it anyway? Probably less than you thought). Your focus is on waiting. Waiting. Is it wrong to describe that focus as exhilarating? The inevitable next moment - the one that is, inexorably, about to happen - could change everything. For better or worse? And all you can do is wait. You've taken avoiding action. You've done your shouting. You've tensed every muscle in your body. Now, you watch. You wait.
Who flicks the switch - lights on or off? I don't believe anyone did, or indeed does; ever. I do believe in being in the wrong place at the wrong time. That was unfortunate. I believe in chance. But not in any divine direction. I appreciate that when the lights remain on, as they did for all of us, there is luck and, perhaps fate and fortune too, involved. And mountains of after-the-moment reflection. And legions of What if? soldiers marching noisily through our heads. Stomp - What if? - STOMP - What IF? - S-T-O-M-P! WHAT IF?! Films - bits of films! - made me see what I feared might happen. But, without stunt coordinators, vehicle ramps, carefully coordinated explosions and special effects, it didn't. We walked away. Our What ifs? are mere nightmare dust, which breezy reality and time will blow away.
In that moment, we almost stopped; briefly. Of course, I wish that moment hadn't happened. I could have done without the week of discombobulation that followed. The disturbed sleep. The endless phone calls. The decisions of who to tell, who not to tell and the construct of very good reasons to not tell the people who weren't told. But ...
But like moments in a film which have narrative purpose, can I construct a positive outcome from this unfortunate moment, one which was entirely not my fault? What about all those unfinished lists? All those plans unexecuted? All that writing un-edited and stories un-submitted? All those plants un-planted and the greenhouse glass un-washed and borders un-weeded? All those people loved and not spoken to for hours, weeks, months? You know who you are; I need to reconnect with you. I think we sometimes get too caught up in the need to be perfect and then the distress in never achieving that perfection. I don't think I do, I know I do. Perhaps, we just need to be good enough. Good. Enough. If enough can be truly enough and make us happy then we don't need more. I need to keep telling myself that enough and only enough matters..
I'm going to stop now and - I know it's a cliche, so I'm sorry if it offends - thank my lucky stars.
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