Whatever the intention, there’s something uncomfortable about a person who makes me repeat something I’ve just said. I cannot catch my earlier light-hearted expression, and the entire point has now been missed. They’ve lost the impression, the sentiment in my tone, the reason I said it when I did, the alchemy. A friend of mine does this a lot. I particularly dislike when I’m giving her my time, my close attention, hyper focused eye contact and I’m perched, physically showing an interest in her hesitations, her wonderful revelations. As if I were at the cinema, I begin straining my eyes to the light leaving her lips, wincing at the darkness drenched in backbiting blue. I’ve said something profound now, something classic. I’m talking one time only stuff, and this friend, who possesses the opportunity to listen to me, out of curiosity, possible equal respect even, turns to me and requests something like, ‘say that again!?’ or ‘stop, wait, start again’, attempting to pry herself from her phone or tablet.
It’s my personal choice to tell stories, ones replete with sketches and mementos captured by a life filled with several hilarious east African personalities, blended with a fondness for character. People make me repeat myself sometimes, simply so they can laugh at a joke again. As if the first chuckle failed to flex their core muscles the way they’d have liked, as if I were a human television set, a film on repeat. On some occasions though, my friends and family fail to grasp that my silence or my poise through the chatter, indicates a refusal to repeat myself. What I’ve said won’t be the same. It was something destined for that very moment which required they’re full attention. It was a story.
I have no issue however repeating the lines that Ryan Gosling recites in The Notebook. Especially the ones in my favorite scene, where he’s literally imploring the love of his life to please choose him.
‘‘So it’s not gonna be easy. It’s going to be really hard; we’re gonna have to work at this everyday, but I want to do that because I want you. I want all of you, forever, everyday. You and me… everyday.’’
I listen with fresh ears at these words when I re-watch this film, because they’re lines I love, from a movie I adore. It’s the sentiment in his tone in that moment which I’ve memorized. It’s a moment with such affection, such sincerity, that my skin often produces goose bumps watching Gosling’s passionate pursuit of his love interest, Ally. Maybe it’s about understanding the concepts of too much and not enough, about unleashing romance in all its wonder, about appropriate timing when safeguarding an explosion of buried truth. Or about asking ourselves as Noah asks Ally, ‘‘Dammit! What do you want!?, what do you want!?’’ In more ways than one, film is a reminder of craving, need and passionate emotion.
I sleep in a Queen Daybed and if you were to lift its mattress, you would find built in drawer’s underneath filled with clothes, accessories, photo albums, books and lots of them. Spread over my books like icing, you’ll also find a bunch of DVD’s, films I’ve kept like children, covers that have aged as I have. Not with grace, but by force.
My kooky, black and white bookshelf beside my bed is embedded with Shakespearean quotes like ‘‘say as you think and speak it from your soul’’, the shelves bursting with books of course. I’ve dedicated the two bottom shelves, to films I’m more likely to re-watch on the weekends; days when I have the time to putter between the kitchen and Netflix, barefoot so I can feel the front rooms cozy carpet fuzz between my toes, the scent of freshly washed linen ready and waiting to be folded top of the dryer.
I reach for a film that I can pour myself into when in need of an emotional pick me up, a mental cuddle. I look for ones that capture the seasons, that capture the essence of my memories, a story line that dislocates me, one that creates a temporary forgetfulness of who I am. These are the movies I watch with a cup of tea or coffee bubbling in my hand — a hug in a cup. The ones that require me to create my own alcove on our firm couch, one fit to house my many personalities and countless moods as well as some food and shelter; meaning a small homemade nook, a fluffy blanket and red packets of Butterkist popcorn.
Outside, the earth is tired. The city moves with a cause for concern and it’s like finding something rotten in your fridge. The joie de vivre of the times seems to be dying in a place meant to preserve it. In film, exuberance seems alive through form. Or, the groan of life is able to seek refuge at least in untangling itself through character, through tales.
My home is my special place, similar to the rose-colored space I’ve reserved in my heart for Robin Williams and Jim Carrey; the same one where I also preserve Tom Hanks as an uncle type. The place where I’d often google him whilst lying down, just to check that Uncle Tom’s still alive. A residence where winter means Lana Del Rey, candles and hot water bottles, and summer means cold drinks, R & B music and crisps. Anything in between can house the reliable satisfaction that stems from caffeine. Films have always been valuable to me in a tremendously charming way. I can’t say that I don’t know why. It simply has been and still is one of the things I run to, to escape — a tree-house.
A great movie can set alight tremors in me reserved for just that — a remarkable film. Why a film is remarkable to you is debatable. It’s too personal. To me, films are about seeing rather than watching. A film is a snow globe and you are covered in white. Your left cold by the end and your lips have become purple but it’s okay, because you’re now thinking of how trees breathe, the shape of water and if the moon is offended by the sun dodging it.