I will try to keep spoilers at bay, while still exploring some of what "Kumiko, The Treasure Hunter" asked of me.
That Werner Herzog recommended the picture was endorsement enough. We know his heroes - Aguirre, Fitzcaraldo, seekers and dreamers, the borderline mad or those who have slipped across the border, those for whom nature is no deterrent, no obstacle, for whom nature may not even be noticed in pursuit of the treasure.
What I wondered is whether my seemingly ordinary dreams, desires, goals, are any less fanciful than Kumiko's. At my rather advanced age, is the thought of a book, of books, of new design collections, sheer folly or has it burrowed into me for a reason, a reason other than disappointment? These are sobering days for reasons beyond my knowing, other than that chaos and Hunter Thompson's bad craziness seem to have grabbed the wheel. More sobering still is the notion that what feel like benign imaginings of future achievements may be slightly or excessively mad. Do we know when or if we've become crackpots?
As I voiced these questions after the movie ended, my son gave immediate reassurance and I trust his assessments. This young man can pick the green cantaloupe which will ripen perfectly every time. That makes me the guinea pig/cantaloupe of senior citizen pipe dreams, for I am willing to trust what calls to me even when I have little or no idea how to get from here to there, other than doing my share of the work. I wish to believe that if I build it, they will come, yet there are no guarantees. There is just the feeling, with no way of knowing whether my feeling differs from Kumiko's, no way of knowing if wanting and believing and footwork will be enough. Still, I am not entirely confused. I know it is too soon to give up. Perhaps Kumiko stopped by to help me remember that.
