OMGabe

by Gabe Berman – the author of Live Like a Fruit Fly

Archive for the category “movies”

La La Love


“And how amazing was La La Land,” I asked my friend on the phone last night while we were going back and forth about movies.

To my surprise, she said with surprise, “You liked La La Land!?”

“No,” I said with confidence. “I loved it. It’s probably one of my favorites ever.”

“I just didn’t feel Emma Stone in that part,” she explained.

“I hear ya, but I wouldn’t have cared if she was played by a goddamn rhinoceros. It was the way he loved her. That’s all that mattered to me. I couldn’t breathe from him.”

And with that, right there, as I heard myself say those words, I figured out why I loved La La Land so much.

We think we miss being loved. But the truth is, we miss giving love more.

At least that’s the way it is me.

love/thanks,
gb

www.WinTheWarWithYourMind.com

20170414-190743.jpg

Love Love Land

Have you seen La La Land yet?

If you haven’t, let me tell you, pay no mind to anything you’ve heard.

It isn’t good.

It isn’t bad.

It’s this:

Exquisite.

An exquisite flow of beauty in celluloid form.

It’s so lovely, and so soulful, I would bet it single handedly balances out the ugliness casting a dark shadow on our lives lately.

Without it, this planet of ours would probably careen off course and spin helplessly into the cold cosmos.

And it’s impossible, at least for someone like me, not to be self reflective while witnessing it unfold like flowers in bloom on screen.

Here’s the thing: I know one day my life in this form will end. And if it’s looked back upon by others, my accomplishments may not amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world.

But do not be deceived.

For I have loved.

Loved limitlessly, without conditions.

And I have stood in awe of love. Time and time again.

It’s truly the only thing that matters.

Fuck all who say otherwise.

– gb

www.WinTheWarWithYourMind.com

20170304-024746.jpg

The Apprentice Is Now The Master

Totally black.

The screen went totally black and it became completely silent in there.

Just ten minutes left of the mystifying movie Midnight Special and the projector shut down.

As if sitting in a crashing fighter jet, I ejected myself out of the seat and headed to the lobby to alert the officials while everyone else in the theater just sat that there like helpless lambs.

The movie was back on in minutes. The ending was remarkable. Super sick flick. See it.

That was me being my dad. Jumping up like that. Making sure everything was okay. Ready to fix, fight or flee without hesitation.

If there was a fire or an armed maniac, I would have been in my car, completely safe, before anything went down.

100%.

No doubt.

My dad and I used to say that the nazis never would have gotten us.

Get on these trains?

Not. Very. Fucking. Likely.

Maybe this feels like I’m reaching. Like escaping a movie compared to a death camp is a stretch.

Well, it’s not.

It’s just a difference of a degree.

When I was young, feuding with my dad over everything and nothing, I prayed that I’d just disappear. That I could just be an orphan.

But now, after all of these years and after all of these experiences, I literally couldn’t be more grateful that I’m Harold Berman’s son.

So, what does this mean for you, the reader?

Probably nothing.

I just knew I needed to share. And now we’ll see what unfolds next.

And, I just looked out the window and saw a little brown bird picking twigs up with it’s beak. Presumably to make a nest. For its kids.

There’s no better way to end this than with that.

thank you, so much, for taking the time to be with me in this moment,
gb

P.S I snapped this photo right before the movie restarted. Normally I would have texted it to my dad. And he would have said, “You’re a real pisser.”

read my new book, LOVE LOOKS LIKE THIS, here: http://www.amazon.com/Love-Looks-Like-This-Berman/dp/0692665382/ref=sr_1_6?ie=UTF8&qid=1458762345&sr=8-6&keywords=Love+looks+like

20160403-174958.jpg

Forgive Me Father…

Sitting here at the kitchen table, at one in the morning, in the house I grew up in, I’m about to type words which suddenly sound like a confession.

I just caught the end of Almost Famous, a movie I’ve seen many times, and the final minutes made me feel more alive than real life usually does.

It’s as if every expression of unconditional love, friendship, forgiveness, and selflessness I unknowingly miss from my childhood has been summarized and exquisitely encapsulated in a few facial expressions and dead-on dialogue.

Why a confession?

I don’t know really, but that’s how it’s resonating.

Maybe because I’m admitting that I’m not always so in love with life.

And that’s a little sad.

I just wish I can feel the feelings this film leaves me with more often.

I swear I’m going to figure out how. I’m going to dedicate my whole goddamn life to it. For me and for you.

Because that love, stripped down and exposed, is an intoxicant like no other.

20151112-011914.jpg

Fuck Matt Damon

You know what, fuck us.

Just, fuck us.

Fuck our whole goddamn species.

I saw The Martian the other night and these were my exact thoughts as the closing credits hit the screen.

Fuck.

Us.

In case you’re not up on the movies, The Martian is a new one starring Matt Damon.

He plays an astronaut who’s left for dead on Mars by his crew. But get this ladies and germs, he’s totally alive. And they totally go back to save him while all of Earth’s inhabitants sit on pins and needles.

It was awesome.

Such an awesome movie.

So awesome that I clapped as soon as it was over.

Nevertheless, fuck us.

It’s so pathetically human to risk everything, without sparing an expense, to save just one person.

As we should.

But what’s so pathetic of us is that within just two klicks of everyone reading this, there’s definitely a kid who went to bed hungry or some old person who’s totally been forgotten about.

And I certainty don’t see any sympathetic mother fuckers forming candlelight vigils in the middle of Times Square for these poor folks as they did for Matt Damon.

C’mon Gabe, it’s just a movie.

No, it’s not just a movie.

It’s our reality and you know it.

But no one’s life is worth more than anyone else’s.

Our species is totally fucking doomed until those nine words become our collective religion:

NO ONE’S LIFE IS WORTH MORE THAN ANYONE ELSE’S

And not to freak anyone out, but I’ll let you in on a metaphysical little secret: there’s truly only one life. And it’s flowing through all of us.

Right now.

In this exact moment.

Life, this perfect, unified, inevitable, ineffable force, is flowing through you and I, through the rich and the famous, the sick and the poor, the birds, the bees, and of course the trees.

And what should we be doing with this one life of ours?

Caring for it. All of it. Because, we are it.

thank you for trading your time for these words – it means the world to me,
gb

buy my goddamn book here: www.livelikeafruitfly.com

20151108-234928.jpg

Found In Translation

Lost In Translation is a transcendental meditation which originates innocently on screen, but soon blossoms, delicately and tenderly, outward through my soul.

I watched it for the first time tonight since seeing it in the theater fifteen years ago. And when I say transcendental meditation, I’m not referring to Maharishi’s TM. I mean transcendental, as in something that transcends.

Transcends ego. Transcends everything that makes us less human. Less beautiful. Less separate. Less loving.

Because deep in the moment, underneath everything, all that’s there is love.

And if you allow yourself to really be with this movie, if you allow your senses to open to it completely, if you surrender to the experience of it, a subtle hum of raw love will overtake you. Almost intravenously.

A raw love for the spaces between sentences and thoughts. A raw love for the uncertainty between what’s happening and what will happen. A raw love for the truth that tugs on our pants like a wide-eyed child. A raw love for a love which moves so slowly, and so solidly, we must pause to feel its presence.

I always pray to feel less sad, but if it means I’d have to feel even an ounce less alive and less content and less grateful in times like this one, I hope that prayer is overlooked and unanswered.

It’s late at night as I write this and I know the world will be right back in my face as soon as I awaken but maybe, just maybe, a trace amount of this effortlessly enlightened, lighthearted dewiness will continue to reside.

I hope the same for you.

www.LiveLikeAFruitFly.com

20150325-004527.jpg

I Do All Of My Own Stunts

I listened to Charlie Parker as I cooked dinner tonight.

Jazz isn’t out of the ordinary for me, and it’s not like you can listen to anything else after watching Whiplash on demand.

So it was me, and Bird, and the sound of sizzling Brussels sprouts drenched in sriracha sauce. All I needed was a glass of Cabernet and it totally would have been a scene in a movie.

It surely felt that way.

But right now, my life feels like what happens to characters after a movie ends. The credits roll, and in the theater you’re like, “I wonder if he became a famous musician after all of this? Do you think he got back together with that girl?”

And the person you’re with says, “It’s just a movie. Nothing happens with them next.”

And you’re like, “I guess you’re right.”

But you still think about it silently on the car ride home. And again before you go to sleep. “He really was a great drummer. Maybe he got a gig at the Blue Note. And I hope he stabs that J.K. Simmons bastard to death.”

And then you start worrying about him in jail after he kills his teacher. “I wonder how many push ups he could do?”

And then you start thinking about The Shawshank Redemption. “His first night in the joint, Andy Dufresne cost me two packs of cigarettes. He never made a sound.”

And then you fall asleep.

So, I’m like a movie character after the credits. Guy gets his book published, lives on the beach in Florida, guy’s father gets sick, guy moves back to New York, father dies. And then the movie ends and you turn to the person you went to the movies with and whisper, “I wonder what he’ll do next.”

I’m kind of just waiting. Seeing which way the universe will unfold. Listening to jazz. Writing this to you. Yes, you. The person reading this right now.

After I ate, I was interviewed by some blog-talk radio station and then I sat back in front of the TV. Not much else to do with this continuing blizzard outside.

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly was on. A true story about a writer who at the age of forty-three, suffers a stroke that leaves him completely paralyzed. Completely paralyzed except for his left eye. Which he blinks out the alphabet with.

I turned it on during a flashback scene. His father was sick and he was shaving his face for him. They jokingly mock each other back and forth and then his father says, “I remember what I wanted to tell you – I’m proud of you. I’m proud of you.”

Coming out of the flashback, voiced over, the writer says something like, “Praise from my father. We’re all children, we all need approval.”

Jesus man, what are the chances of “coincidentally” turning the TV on right at this scene? It really is like I’m in a movie.

I remember my dad’s scruffy face so well. I rubbed my face against his right after I watched him take his last breath.

And on the couch tonight, watching this movie about this guy who can only live through memories, I decided to feel grateful. Really grateful for everything.

My breathing. The heat that kicked on in the house at that moment. Etcetera etcetera.

But then I started to question it all. Once again. Is it okay to feel grateful after realizing and re-realizing the abhorrent suffering of others?

I guess the answer is yes. Anything that causes you to feel grateful is okay in my book.

And maybe that’s the answer. The answer to the question I’m always asking myself. What’s the best way to live this life of ours?

In appreciation.

In appreciation of all the little things. Always.

Because the big things just seem to happen. With or without our approval, asking for, or understanding of. They just seem to happen.

Listen, I know I’m not saying anything new here. We’ve all heard the “be grateful” rap before.

And I honestly had no idea I’d end up talking about this when I first opened my laptop. I was just thinking about that kid in Whiplash and I just wanted to write about how much I miss being young. Being young with myriad possibilities.

Alas, such is life.

And what happens to me next in this movie I’m in?

Who’s to know really.

Maybe the pages have already been written by the great scriptwriter in the sky, or maybe it’s being written as I go. Maybe it’s a quantum combination of both. No one knows for sure and be wary of anyone who professes they do.

Here’s one possibility for the next scene though: A woman found my book Where Is God When Your Loved Ones Get Sick? on Facebook and she fell in love with it. It turns out that she’s friends with Robby Krieger, the guitarist from The Doors, and since I mention his old band a few times in that book, she’s giving it to him this weekend.

Maybe he’ll tell the world about it and I end up living happily ever after.

I’d like to see a movie like that.

thank you for trading your time to read this – it really means the world to me,
gabe

www.WhereIsGodWhenOurLovedOnesGetSick.com

20150305-234747.jpg

Nothing Left To Let Go

I’m broken wide open.

Gloriously so.

All I am, right now, is an exposed heart.

Warm. Loving. Gentle. Full.

Unaffected by any anxiety.

It’s the way I get after seeing a truly lovely movie.

I wish I can feel this way forever.

Because I’ve felt enough of everything else.

Like the last bit of sun at the end of a summer’s day, I will sit in this for as long as I can.

I wonder if there’s anyone else in this moment who feels the same.

I hope so.

I really hope so.

with love and gratitude,
gabe

www.LiveLikeAFruitFly.com

20150203-210733.jpg

Love Equals MC Squared

I know it’s old fashioned of me, but when a movie really permeates my soul, I applaud it in the theater as soon as the first words of the closing credits hit the screen.

It’s definitely a little dumb since the actors and writers can’t hear me, but I don’t care. I clap for the them, and the director and the lighting people, right there anyway.

But my favorite is when my adulation allows others to bring their hands together. People who normally might feel a bit too self conscious to do so.

The other night I removed my glasses, dried my eyes and clapped after the last scene of Interstellar.

Maybe it wasn’t the intended message of the movie, but here’s my takeaway: love transcends everything. Even time.

It now reminds me of what I once scribbled to myself a few years back: Time isn’t passing. We’re passing through it.

love/thanks,
gabe

– – – www.DoYouNeedAMiracle.com – – –

20141110-135948.jpg

Knock Knock Neo

It’s official – we’re in the goddamn Matrix.

I’m at Starbucks and the music is blasting. I can clearly hear it through my headphones and for the most part, it sucks.

So, I asked them if they can turn it don’t a notch. Without making eye contact, the girl behind the counter said, “Not during frappy hour.”

Frappy hour? Are you fucking kidding me man?

“Do not try to bend the spoon. For that is impossible. Only try to realize the truth: there is no spoon. Then you will see that it’s not the spoon that bends, but only yourself.”

(I swear, a woman wearing a red dress just walked in. Holy shit. A sign? Definitely.)

20130505-145624.jpg

Read my new book: http://www.BullshitFreeWritingGuide.com

Post Navigation