It's a strange and magical thing, the way meaning sprouts up around a film, transforming it into a security blanket, a recurring nightmare, a sensory memory. It's a privilege to associate, to be overwhelmed by connotation, to adopt external, self-contained objects into our own systems. I still can't believe a movie can be both itself and a legitimate, involved Experience in its viewer's life. I still can't believe how much we can let film form us. E.T calls to mind the fabric of my old couch and the sounds of my mom looking for kleenex in the kitchen. I remember what I was wearing when I watched The Flight of The Red Balloon. And so, on the occasion of my brother Sam's birthday (and on the occasion of him STILL living in Indonesia and STILL being only able to receive online presents) a ridiculous image essay from films that speak his name to me. These things are soaked in meaning because we watched them together and they remind me, in all sorts of conscious and unconscious ways, that my big bro is and has always been seriously Loving and also that our childhood was rad.