I went to a special screening of The Matrix a few weeks ago and it gave me my entire life. When I tell you I LOVE that movie. Listen. I saw it approximately 16 times in theatres the year it came out, and I don’t just give away multi-views.
An incomplete list of why I will eternally ride for that movie: 1) sartorial inspiration 2) effortless diversity 3) up-and-at-‘em mantras 4) verbal cadences 5) how my initial thoughts when confronted by déjà vu will forever include the word “glitch” 6) my twenty-somethingth birthday party, which organically became Matrix-themed because my squad is the business and because my city is an oft-magical place wherein someone who loves you will encounter an actor from the movie whilst in possession of your birthday card and have them sign it 7) how it spawned my theory that Keanu Reeves is a brilliant actor whose ability to access deeply moving nuance is overshadowed by his challenges navigating the intricacies of vocal modulation. 8) Prince LOVED the Matrix movies, which is reason 45,299 he and I family.
The Matrix has endured, with aplomb, progressions of time and technology, and the burden of those well-meaning yet clunky sequels. Even the anachronistic bits have aged into pleasant sparks of nostalgia: the appearance of that Nokia phone? You know, the one that was peak pre-millennial badassery? Y’all, I tittered with glee.
We’re talking top five dead or alive.
And yet, prior to that special screening, I hadn’t seen my old fave in quite a few years. This was due to life, e.g., grad school, jobs, and oversaturation caused by an ex-partner’s sloppy viewing habits (pro tip: never let anyone sour you on your favorite art). My fondness had become apocryphal. They say that when we remember, we recall our last recollection of an event, rather than the event itself. Although I could call up various details surrounding the various pockets of my past in which the movie was tucked, it was all intellectual exercise. I knew the whys, hows, and whos of all those viewings, but they felt distant. Buried in layers of recollection. For a minute there, I questioned why I’d ever made such a fuss about getting tickets.
Then it was the day of the show, y’all. There I was, seat-snugged and buttressed by friends and bud and a giant bowl of hipster movie theatre popcorn (seasoned with ghee) when the opening shot triggered a moment of breathtaking sense memory that flooded my body with all the ways this piece of popular culture pressed my witch doctor buttons at a time when I was just remembering they were there. I was giddy with affirmation – of course, I adored this movie. Of course, I saw it a million times. I’ve always been a weirdo who’s known we all have more power than we’ve been led to believe. I’ve always been obsessed with meditation, self-liberation, and physics-defying eyewear – it just took me a while to make it look this good. <Twinkle>
Now, to my point: (beyond suggestive regalement, though a (re)watch wouldn’t be the worst idea) the illustration of a common phenomenon I’d bet money we’ve all experienced, and maybe forgot, mostly due to life. Signposts are everywhere for us. Signals presented to point us in the direction of our highest good, our truth, and our paths of greatest ease if we simply orient ourselves, and follow. Everything we’ll experience is preparing us for everything we’ll experience. All the “stuff” – moments, places, people, objects – we classify as “good” and “bad” is meant to get us exactly where we are at the time we’re there. That’s a truth, and if we can remain connected to it, then residing in the frequency of neutrality, where everything is a gift, becomes increasingly effortless. And from there, we can do almost anything. Honestly, truly. An action movie big screen told me so.
