PROLOGUE.

The standup bit could begin with: “I believe in human recommendations – and it’s a good thing I have friends – because otherwise when I’m wondering what I’d play next – instead of endlessly scrolling – I’d probably stare at the wall.”

Yet even human recommendations face frictional moments. The endless typos of titles and artist names. Mismemory. How often can I really easily access these gifts from others? Technology has eased some of the challenges of the endless Apple note filled with strings of titles. But it’s still sometimes hard to connect the thought – what should I watch – with the action – what should I watch now, tonight, this weekend, and then with the situation – what should I watch alone, with my partner, with my family, on vacation, on a work trip, and then you throw in mood – and it becomes a longer thought process and I’m back to Level 862 of Wordscapes endlessly forgetting “eel.”

All of the other above frictions exist, persist, haunt until a containment moment occurs. Nowadays I identify them as a transatlantic flight without wifi when there’s no wall to stare at, just the cold hard plastic of a window ledge. The default winner for attention is Delta’s in-flight entertainment. My search journey involves scrolling through the entire library of releases with a teenage film geek fervor – films, series, audio, games on a long haul flight and then deciding – am I going to watch this whole series – or am I going to take the nuclear option, the emergency sleeping pill. Often the emergency sleeping pill wins. But when it doesn’t, this is when I fall in love with the films and shows that I talk about for days, weeks and months after, these are the moments I become the superfan. I’ve noticed these titles remain my favorites for years, discovered cruising through the world skies, my body cramped and uncomfortable and seeking entertainment.

PART 1.

For some time, at least 6 months, various friends around the world have been telling me I need to see the new Wim Wenders film, “Perfect Days.” Set in Tokyo, it chronicles the serene and ritualistic life of a toilet cleaner. I’m unsure why I resisted. This is a film plot summary that I would green light. It’s a type of film I’d call a portrait film, not a biography of someone renowned in the world, but rather a film painting of a singular human experience. These films leave you with an understanding of the universal human condition. They can make you believe that no matter our life experience, we are all the same. They elevate art.

And while I watched it, just having returned from Tokyo, now onto another flight somewhere else to my friend’s wedding, I thought about our recent trip, the time I spent wandering with strangers in this special city I’ve been fascinated by since a child, and how in the week I was there, I never saw Hirayama, but I felt this character with me at almost every step.

Part 2:

Recently I discovered that I had almost memorized the first 20 minutes of “The Big Lebowski.” I walked into the living room and Sean was watching it again and every line of dialogue felt like a beloved song lyric and I began to speak the lines. It was a powerful, wonderful moment of life, something that had not occurred since I was 15 or 16, when I was in high school theater. After a while, this experience got tiresome, so I left the room and laid in bed, staring at the wall and thought about “Sullivan’s Travels” again.

Preston Sturges’ 1941 film, “Sullivan’s Travels” chronicles the journey of a comedy film director who decides to leave his sheltered Hollywood life, because he wants to create more socially conscious films. Until he discovers that life beyond Hollywood can be harsh, filled with inequality and injustice, and that that his entertainment actually provides a deep relief and pleasure to other humans.

While the Coen Brothers directly reference “Sullivan’s Travels” in their later film, “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” the working title name of the film the director yearns to make, lately I’ve begun to think that “The Big Lebowski” is more the film that moves me like “Sullivan’s Travels.” Its wacky world of characters set on the fringes of LA are like distant objects in the rearview mirror, ordinary people trying to exist within the foibles of a city spoiled by greed, vanity and leisure.

Part 3:

Last night, sitting at a bar in Barcelona, I confessed to one of my writer friends that before I started working again I wanted to finish up several essays whose themes had come to me in almost divine intervention moments driving the freeway. I tried to explain one of them, about DUIs, jury duty, Jason Rhoades and Kraftwerk, but it emerged jumbled. I realized I had not yet articulated my thoughts, just gathered the disparate puzzle pieces that I knew fit, even if they had different images on them. I fell asleep after and then woke up jet lagged and instead of staring at the wall, got up and turned on my computer for the first time in days.

Upon thinking about “Perfect Days” I’ve been percolating the still at the top of this piece, “Komorebi.” Defined as “the shimmering of light and shadows that is created by leaves swaying in the wind. It only exists once, at that moment.” Komorebi also can be transcended to that feeling of discovery, that breathy gasp of awakened sensation one can find in the silence of the dawn when nature feels in charge and it’s time to get moving and coexist.

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