There is a saying in my first language, often repeated around the house: “Light near light becomes light, light near darkness becomes dark.” The saying is about proof of influence, expressed in visual terms. So like some minor historians, my parents looked back on the company I kept as if describing epochs and eras of some bygone civilization. A person could be a golden age. In your time together, you’d flourish, staying curious about the world, out experiencing new adventures. Because dichotomies exist, one never without the other, you’ll eventually encounter the ink-dark age, a total absence of light. Imagine crouching in the darkness of a cavern. No exchange occurs of anything, no sound, not even the most elemental qualities of life. Fear of the known as well as the unknown blanketing all around.
The foreign saying is ambiguous about cause and effect: light travels to the dark because darkness attracts, but also consider the possibility: the dark outside is a reflection of an emerging darkness residing in you. Not too long ago, there was an extended period of time when I couldn’t do anything I used to love: I didn’t read and I am a reader. I didn’t watch movies, didn’t spend time with friends, didn’t sleep. I stayed at home on the weekends and sat around. Before this, I stayed at home just as much too, but usually engrossed in some activity. I’d tinker around, then looking up after what seemed only minutes later, I’d see the day almost over. During the dark period though, I knew every time the clock changed hours.
Two weeks ago, I watched Up in a dollar theatre, tucked inside a suburban shopping center. When I think about Up, made by Pixar, I think of it as a light, the first one to appear in a long time. I’ve also found in it other visual analogies about influence. Influence for me is inextricably linked to other qualities, so the movie is also about ambition and kindness too. Up begins and circles back on love’s influence and regard for adventurers. I remember two scenes from the movie the most: Carl’s dinner with Charles Muntz and Carl turning to the last page of his wife’s photo album.
I am glad Carl met Charles Muntz when he was older and no longer vulnerable to his hero’s influence. Muntz was golden at one time, but became clouded by a single-minded hunt for a rare breed of bird. He seeks to prove his sanity to a world that has wholly forgotten him. Meanwhile, Carl talks to the house he had shared with his wife, as if Ellie was up there watching over him. The house bobs along as if in nods of agreement, as Carl changes direction to help his new friend. The adventure now would be Carl’s own, and he’s beginning to share his life with someone else.
My childhood and adolescence, like those of many others, was marked by a yearning for adventure, or Life Experience. Once for a high school speech class, we were asked to write and give a speech about a personal experience. I remember ransacking my memory for the “right” story to share as if there existed only one kind of experience that made a life. One of my classmates described a pistol being held to his head. Another classmate talked about her first time seeing Caddy Shack, and how it shaped her sense of humor, one similar to her dad’s. Another classmate talked about a close friend who passed away. My friend described living with a growth disorder. When it was my turn to give my speech, I described a biology teacher. He taught us how to teach others about imprinting, bottleneck populations and electrophoresing. My cheeks flushed red and remained red because my story wasn’t personal. I thought nothing had happened in my life, and the things that happened weren’t worth sharing.
I know now what I didn’t know then, that the people who matter the most to me share in this common belief: that every person has stories worth listening to; every human life has worth. The scene with Ellie’s album meant that her album is not a sad reminder of the adventure she hoped to have, what she envisioned for herself when she was only still a child. The album is a record of an adventure with a man of deep fidelity.
It is inevitable that people compare Up to other Pixar movies. This movie more than all the other Pixar movies reflects my experience of growing older. Though The Incredibles is also occupied with experiences of aging, I don’t relate. The Incredibles is stocked with extraordinary people stuck in ordinary suburbia, an environment meant to tamp down all talent and ideas for improvement. For Carl and for me, growing older has been more the other way around: ordinary people are often asked to be extraordinary. We don’t have our childhood heroes anymore. For Ellie and for me, growing older means sharing with loved ones what seems like an ordinary life, and encouraging others to find more adventures. For Carl and Ellie and me, it’s normal for our dreams to change as we change.
Up, in the end, became a reminder of bright people in my life. I have what others call a cat’s memory, a memory that seems to reset every seven seconds. I am grateful for the good influences, some around longer than others. Even the longest lasting shall be with me only for a finite amount of time. The beacon of friendships leads me out of the cavern, to stand up against the elements. For a long dark time before, I hid to keep the elements out, not knowing I also kept the light out. Up says there will always be adventure outside.
