I finally got around to seeing "Up" today. I cried. It occurred to me while I was sitting in my seat, shoes on the floor, feet tucked up under my legs, that I feel no shame crying while surrounded by strangers. Dark though the theater was, I was flanked by unfamiliars on both sides. Yet the gates opened and out flowed each radiant, pure tear. Maybe it's the thought that this moment is merely an encounter, brief and fleeting, that comforts me and allows me to let go. Maybe, instead, there is a peculiar trust that forms. We all have this second of time in common. "Up" was stunning--beautifully done and a poignant reminder of life's uncertainties--but the two hours I spent inside that theater were incredibly cleansing.
Later in the film, Russell says, "Sometimes, it's the boring stuff I remember most."
As time goes on, I find myself drawing equal, if not more, pleasure from the little, everyday memories. The seemingly unimportant things build up. Sitting in a peaceful silence in the company of a friend has become as meaningful to me as any party.
Maybe I'm just growing older.