CNN posted an oddly poignant article the other day: among the kajillions and jillions of folks who have seen Avatar, a growing number find themselves confronting a post-cinematic depression syndrome, such as it is.

From the link above:

"A post by a user called Elequin expresses an almost obsessive relationship with the film...'it's so hard I can't force myself to think that it's just a movie, and to get over it, that living like the Na'vi will never happen. I think I need a rebound movie,' Elequin posted."

To a degree, it's not terribly hard to empathize.  Part and parcel of the wonder of film is its ability to transfix and ultimately transport; a larger-than-life science fiction blockbuster may well be Gilligan's three hour tour made manifest.  Who doesn't want at least a little of what Elequin's having?

In the everyday, moments of surpassing awe are few and far between. Things are smaller, days are shorter; your neighborhood grocer probably doesn't look like Brad Pitt or Angelina Jolie.  We take what we can get, and quite often without really, truly being honed in on what it is we're admiring.

One of my favorite authors, the short-story king Raymond Carver, writes of eating during a time of loss as "a small, good thing."  Within a different context, we see house painting done well as another small, good thing.  The happiness upon entry into a freshly-painted living room, the serenity of an evening spent reading under a newly faux-finished ceiling, or perhaps the simple joy of a great-looking exterior to come home to after a long winter's worth of cracking, peeling, and the like--our ultimate aim, as Nigel writes in the entry below, is to 'ooh' and 'aah' you in the everyday.