Watching shows has morphed from a niche, cubbyholing couple’s pastime—something to be enjoyed, sparingly, like a crisp glass of White—to a global respite. Call it a cultural lexicon, if you will. A powerful enough action to side-step language barriers, take brave swings at generational divide. That global trauma we experienced five years ago collectively magnified our relationship to the screen. The desperate art of absenting ourselves is aided by plot lines. We watch them unfold from any number of positions and environments. Bradbury developed the idea of Parlor Walls, made the violent point that humanity was losing itself to sensation. We all like being entertained; it places us squarely outside of ourselves for a previously agreed upon amount of time. We use those minutes as tickets. A greater, more aestheticized reality awaits us if we only—well, just look—and that aspect of watching contains its own complexities: Do we find ourselves in these shows, like cartoons figure Enlightenment on a shrink’s couch? Does watching perform a certain parasocial love we’re hardwired–socially, behaviorally–to cast about for in our leisure time? When we’re off the clock, which screen do we want to spend our time with the most? Does our rote watching replace another, longer-ago and forgotten activity? And, if it does, would we recognize it still? Can our loyalty to our fictions be cast in an alternative, downy light that recommends human nature, hold its tongue against lacerations (we’re lazy) (“girl rot”) (Netflix and Chill ’till I Die)?

“But that’s what the intellectuals do these days, they watch movies.” Someone smart once told me that, and I’ve sat beside it ever since, will use the philosophy liberally in this case. To play advocate, argue this: watching invokes the brain, is oftentimes one of the most cerebral acts we perform all day. Watching requires a certain level of analysis and memory recall to equate itself with work. Industry can be laconic and still serve a function. Maybe I’m talking about art, here, or maybe I’m writing around the Elephant: disability. Sagging, hopeful bottom. The elephant trumpets—enough, enough—stop talking already. The movie’s starting. 

Thank you for being here, for staying alive.