It is a matter of interest to note that for the past few weeks I’ve been seriously considering retirement. Despite my distinguished past I’ve grown tired of online communion. Thus I questioned quitting what I’ve started here. Creation is a painful process while death is all too easy… and I distain plain pursuits. Thus patience and persistence grew.
Grateful I am for holding off on the coup de grace, grateful I am to Dave and Sarah for continuing to host my temperamental blathering. This week my babble is bearable thanks to an underappreciated masterpiece titled, “Cloud Atlas.” Chaos has ensued within the critical circles, and movie goers are equally polarized. The film has drawn a line in the proverbial sand, and this is understandable as its storyline is as layered as the Grand Canyon. Six Dick and Jane’s exist within independent epochs. The plot skips across the centuries and stitches the sextet together via an array of artistic endeavors. Beginning with the journal of the first, chronologically, and ending with the bed time stories of the last. All of this seems rather odd I know, but if seen with an open mind it is incredibly enlightening.
Within the six stories one can find both tragedy and comedy so poignant, so invigorating that it will inspire more than goose-bumps. The axioms of freedom are fleshed out, and the essence of friendship is sanctified. Rebellion is honored, demons are conquered and wrongs are made right in time. Most importantly, love is shown as a rare occurrence, a natural phenomenon that like a shooting star is seen and felt by few. It is without question that the last point impressed me most.
Each character within the movie experiences love in some way, shape or form. From the bonds of friendship to those of holy matrimony they all are impressed by the act. Yet it is Robert Frobisher, the composer of the Cloud Atlas, whose experiences moved me most. Though his habits, career and disposition are nothing like my own, he nevertheless shared my affection for writing letters. Romantic jots and tittles may seem like behavior reserved for passing in high school hallways, but I beg to differ. The poetic soul once inspired is compelled to record its discoveries no matter the age. Truth be told many females have struck my fancy, and some gave cause to excite my pen. But none has provoked such a volume as she who led me to start this series.
Therefore how can I give this up I ask? How can I quit this tired affair? For the words still strike forth from my pen as easily as they did when I first fell for her. And who knows perhaps this is just the tragedy in the middle intended to spark stories yet to come. Or perhaps our happy ending is just a few pages away. No matter I shall write them in hopes that she turns them, and knows that every word is true.