Today I saw Harold Potter in theaters. It was pretty good. Not an awesome movie, but really good and well worth watching. Two lines, both spoken by Dumbledore, really stuck out to me. This really isn’t a spoiler, since I’m sure most readers have read or seen Harold Potter, and besides, the quotes don’t reveal all that much.
Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?
I really love this quote for the obvious reasons that any author would love this quote.
Don't pity the dead, Harry. Pity the living, and, above all, those who live with out love.
How couldn’t I love this quote? It was my favorite part of the movie, as it’s by far the best line. Dialogue is always my favorite aspect of books and movies. While I love cool and original ideas and badassery, dialogue, those amazing and profound lines, are always most important. They bring characters alive, add dimension and realism, and at some points, really make you think. Fitting, that the line belongs to Dumbledore.
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Sitting in the theaters waiting for the movie to begin, I started thinking about Less than Zero. I had a reason, of course. A reason with questions. Deep in thought, I somehow missed an entire movie trailer before returning from my zoneout. Apparently Harry Potter is now going to remind me of Less than Zero, and likewise, Less than Zero will remind me of Harry Potter, and both will remind me of something else, and it’s interesting how all these unlike things are now connected at least in my mind. How events and words and things can all connect themselves to one another so effortlessly, almost mistakenly, and once connected they cannot be separated.
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Standing, and Waiting
She stands in the docking terminal alone, and waiting. Outside the window stars brighten the universe and light the way for travelers. For the past two months she has spent most of her time like this—alone, and waiting, and often gazing at stars through windows similar to this one. Alone, because she is solitary other than when she is not. Waiting, because he left two months ago to assist in the excavation of an off-world site, where a team of miners accidentally uncovered a shrine from the time of the ancients. Stargazing, because stars have stories to tell and she has only just learned this from him.
She stands, waiting for his ship, Someone Save Temptation. She has always questioned him about the ship’s name, does not know what it means but is sure it has significance she will someday learn. At least with him, all things have significance. He is peculiar that way; he builds bridges over land as well as water. Normal, he insists, isn’t good, and that the day you become normal is the day you are forgotten.
She stands, tapping her foot, glancing at the watch around her thin wrist. The docking terminal is empty apart from her. Other ships are not scheduled to arrive. Only the stars keep her company, and the hatch and door operators high up in their rooms overlooking the terminal.
A drawn-out siren tells her that a ship is approaching and soon to be docking. This can only be him, Someone Save Temptation. She retreats to the back of the terminal against the wall so that the bay doors can open and the ship can be hauled in. This process completes itself quicker than she assumed it would, and minutes later the ship sits inside the terminal.
She stands, waiting, and no one emerges from the ship; the hatch doors do not open, and she cannot see through the tinted black panes of glass.
Eventually a workman arrives, and he opens the hatch doors and peers inside the ship; she stands behind him, peering in. The workman talks into the transmitter on his uniform, turns, and shrugs at her, helplessly.
She no longer stands, waiting, but enters the ship and finds it empty apart from a letter on the controls. The letter is addressed to her, so she sits down and reads it, tears in her eyes before she begins. The letter is handwritten, which usually she wouldn’t think is important.
I’m better with written words than spoken, so I’m writing to you instead of speaking. It’s cowardly, I know, but we’re all cowards in some way. Some of us write instead of speak. Some of us run before we can’t, before it gets too hard, and too painful. Some of us have to run in fear that our legs will break if we don’t. Our legs will be broken, I mean.
You would tell me I should risk being broken, but I can’t, and for that I’m sorry.
I’m not returning right now, but someday I may. I know you’ve been standing around, waiting, but you have to wait longer, if you will. I understand if you won’t. I deserve nothing from you, when you’ve already given me so much.
Turns out I’m not ready for any of this. You and me, I mean. So I’m not coming back just yet. I have to think, and I can’t think with you in my life. I mean, I can, but you cloud my thoughts, and bad and amazing things tend to happen.
I can’t tell the difference between bad and amazing, and that terrifies me.
Waiting isn’t easy, and it isn’t fair, but if you wait for me, I’ll return…I think. When I’m ready. I just don’t know when. Days, but probably not. Months, maybe. It could be years, and while years seem like a long time, they’re not. We’ve already lived so many of them.
I’ll write you a letter from time to time, but please don’t respond.
I can’t have that right now. I can’t have anything.
She sets the letter down and stares at it. She’s very good at waiting. But she’s very good at other things, too.
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