Never is there so much potential for beauty in humanity as in the aftermath of a tragedy. Somehow, when all things material seem broken and wrong, the human spirit radiates. People find it in their hearts to say and feel and do the right thing.
In tragedy, the human heart reaches out its arms and embraces those around it, and everyone is connected by the single, lonely heartbeat, searching for companionship in the time of abandonment. Tragedy is an inevitable and essential part of the human experience. It's like the loose thread in your coziest sweater. I think we take for granted how whole our lives are until the fabric of our existence feels the tug.
I'm not acting as advocate for those actions viewed as tragedies, simply seeking solace in an idea. Anyone who denies the magnitude of strength in Heritage's reaction this week, or admiration for Christian Bale when he visited the hospital in Aurora, or the reach of Rachel's Challenge, is only denying the most basic of human instincts. People want love. They want to share it, receive it, give it, see it, and genuinely know it. To be unified is to feel the love, and tragedy reminds us that we cannot stand alone.
Shakespeare's greatest works, the ones that people carry in their hearts, the ones that define actions and characters, are his tragedies. It is cathartic to experience such pain and emotional turmoil vicariously through Othello, King Lear, Macbeth, or Hamlet, but it is shattering to touch the agony for yourself.
Every action is an opportunity to react. The reaction that flooded Facebook was that of a shattered community, rebuilding and uniting itself with the love we'd all taken for granted. And it was truly beautiful.
It's reassuring to see such beauty in immediate life, and if anything that has come from this week is to stay, I hope it's that.
Share the love. For Madi, and for the beauty she's helped us find.
Friday, February 22, 2013
Thursday, February 14, 2013
No. 2
Another post of thoughts I can't develop into full-fledged posts independently, sorry. Or maybe you like these, in which case, you're welcome.
First
In reading The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton, a novel whose themes and language are dated (which is good, because I'm nostalgic), I encountered the phrase "of a sudden", sans 'all', and it occurred to me after all these years that it's a prepositional phrase. Being such, sudden is the object. Which means it's a noun.
Something important to know is that I envision a man similar to Poe or Hemingway living in my head, poised at a Dickens desk with a pot of ink and either a quill or fountain pen, depending on the poetic nature of the words I'm processing, be it through reading or writing. (This, for instance, is a piece more suited for a pen than a quill.) Anyway, I imagine this scholarly figure, henceforth known as Ernest Allen Poe, looking up suddenly from his parchment in a moment of disbelief. How could he have glossed over that fact for his entire life!? He's Ernest Allen Poe, dammit, authority on all things literary and scholarly in the realm of Natalie's brain. Why was he not informed of this before?
Being of a curious nature, I looked up the word "sudden" in the dictionary. The definition as a noun begins with a single word in italics: Obsolete. It then goes on to define it as an unexpected occasion or occurrence, which makes sense.
But then you compare the understood meaning of the phrase "all of a sudden" to what you can derive from defining each word individually, "the entirety of an unexpected occurrence" and realize something is missing. I, for one, feel like the original phrase must have been "in all of a sudden", meaning in no more time than an instant.
But where did we lose the 'in'? And for a while, we had lost the 'all' too, as evidenced by The Age of Innocence. I'm aware that this may not be enthralling to everyone, but have you ever thought about how our language is changing? Is there a graveyard of words whose tombs say nothing but their names?
But back to the point. Sudden is considered obsolete as a noun, even though it's used frequently in that specific context. How often do we think about what we're actually saying? Or more importantly, how often do we speak without actually knowing what we're saying?
It's not that I'm upset by it. I just think it's interesting that in a few hundred years, people may not recognize our language anymore. They may speak numbers by then, who knows. Or better yet, they'll have discovered the secret to telepathy, or some weird meteor rocks will hit the earth giving everyone the superpower to communicate wordlessly.
Or I've just been watching too much Smallville. Ernest Allen Poe is face-palming. And again because I used face-palm.
I think it's a little sad that even after all this time, and all my mildly feminist tendencies, I still personify my scholarly spirit as a man. Not just a man, actually, but two. At a desk named for another man.
It's indicative of something, I just don't know what. I don't feel comfortable writing about the inner-workings of my psyche on the internet, though, so I'm just going to leave it at this.
As my dear friend ED suggested, I think I'll start a Dear Abby option. Sounds like fun, and I'd enjoy it immensely. Plus, it would give me something to write about so I can hopefully get a more consistent posting schedule instead of an erratic, "I'll post when the muse hits me" pattern.
If this is going to happen, there must be rules. And the rules which will follow must be followed, capiche?
1) You must address all queries to askdearnatalie@gmail.com
2) Per the norm, the email should begin with "Dear Natalie"
3) Come up with a clever name to sign off with, i.e. "[Adjective] in [Location]"
4) Please don't use any real names, otherwise I'll be forced to reassign them Power Ranger alter egos.
5) Make sure what you're writing about is appropriate for the blog. I reserve the right to disregard any undesirable posts.
6) I also reserve the right to post anything not specifically labeled as DO NOT PUBLISH.
7) In order to get an answer, you have to recommend my blog to someone. Uh huh. Yeah. I went there.
I think my thought well has run dry for the time being. I'm sure at some point in the near future, it will kick up again, so don't you worry your pretty striped head. No. 3 will happen eventually.
Something important to know is that I envision a man similar to Poe or Hemingway living in my head, poised at a Dickens desk with a pot of ink and either a quill or fountain pen, depending on the poetic nature of the words I'm processing, be it through reading or writing. (This, for instance, is a piece more suited for a pen than a quill.) Anyway, I imagine this scholarly figure, henceforth known as Ernest Allen Poe, looking up suddenly from his parchment in a moment of disbelief. How could he have glossed over that fact for his entire life!? He's Ernest Allen Poe, dammit, authority on all things literary and scholarly in the realm of Natalie's brain. Why was he not informed of this before?
Being of a curious nature, I looked up the word "sudden" in the dictionary. The definition as a noun begins with a single word in italics: Obsolete. It then goes on to define it as an unexpected occasion or occurrence, which makes sense.
But then you compare the understood meaning of the phrase "all of a sudden" to what you can derive from defining each word individually, "the entirety of an unexpected occurrence" and realize something is missing. I, for one, feel like the original phrase must have been "in all of a sudden", meaning in no more time than an instant.
But where did we lose the 'in'? And for a while, we had lost the 'all' too, as evidenced by The Age of Innocence. I'm aware that this may not be enthralling to everyone, but have you ever thought about how our language is changing? Is there a graveyard of words whose tombs say nothing but their names?
But back to the point. Sudden is considered obsolete as a noun, even though it's used frequently in that specific context. How often do we think about what we're actually saying? Or more importantly, how often do we speak without actually knowing what we're saying?
It's not that I'm upset by it. I just think it's interesting that in a few hundred years, people may not recognize our language anymore. They may speak numbers by then, who knows. Or better yet, they'll have discovered the secret to telepathy, or some weird meteor rocks will hit the earth giving everyone the superpower to communicate wordlessly.
Or I've just been watching too much Smallville. Ernest Allen Poe is face-palming. And again because I used face-palm.
Second
I think it's a little sad that even after all this time, and all my mildly feminist tendencies, I still personify my scholarly spirit as a man. Not just a man, actually, but two. At a desk named for another man.
It's indicative of something, I just don't know what. I don't feel comfortable writing about the inner-workings of my psyche on the internet, though, so I'm just going to leave it at this.
Third
As my dear friend ED suggested, I think I'll start a Dear Abby option. Sounds like fun, and I'd enjoy it immensely. Plus, it would give me something to write about so I can hopefully get a more consistent posting schedule instead of an erratic, "I'll post when the muse hits me" pattern.
If this is going to happen, there must be rules. And the rules which will follow must be followed, capiche?
1) You must address all queries to askdearnatalie@gmail.com
2) Per the norm, the email should begin with "Dear Natalie"
3) Come up with a clever name to sign off with, i.e. "[Adjective] in [Location]"
4) Please don't use any real names, otherwise I'll be forced to reassign them Power Ranger alter egos.
5) Make sure what you're writing about is appropriate for the blog. I reserve the right to disregard any undesirable posts.
6) I also reserve the right to post anything not specifically labeled as DO NOT PUBLISH.
7) In order to get an answer, you have to recommend my blog to someone. Uh huh. Yeah. I went there.
Fourth
In respect of Valentine's Day, I'll follow up my Love's Letters Lost post. I'm choosing to spend this Love Day with some of the friends I care most about. I made a choice a while back to not celebrate love that was unsure or dishonest. My guess is it was about the time Hemingway became a part of my psyche.
I don't believe in Singles Awareness Day. I'm single, but it doesn't bother me. I don't think today is about letting it be known that I'm not in a relationship. Today is about celebrating the spirit of love, and it comes in so many forms. Personally, I'll be reading more of history's greatest love letters and spending some quality time with other girls like me, who would rather be single.
I think what's hardest to explain is that I am in a committed relationship right now, with myself. Have been for 18 years. I've worked hard and long to make sure my life is something I could wake up to in the morning, and smile about when I go to sleep at night. And though it will never be done, my self-renovation is well underway.
So maybe it should be Singles Awareness Day, in that singles, reluctant or otherwise, can take an inventory and become aware of themselves. Because in most cases, when people take stock, they'll realize they can love themselves, and if someone can love himself, then others can too. It may be schmatlzy, and perhaps a little overdone, but it's because it's true, and yet there are still those who choose to disregard it. So I'm saying it again: having a solid relationship with one's self is the foundation for solid relationships with others. You've gotta start somewhere.
And to those of you in a dedicated relationship with someone else, I humbly encourage you to do the same anyway. All it will do is make your relationship stronger. The only difference is, you'll have to share what you find. That's my catch, sharing. I know that now.
So that's my bit, let Valentine's be about self love as much as love of others. My friend Chase writes a blog Chasing Somewhere, and in his last post, Singles Awareness Day, he makes a solid closing argument. Don't let your love be commercialized, let today stand as a declaration of the importance of love, that it is celebrated by its own holiday. Understand what it means to have a love so valuable it deserves its own day, and show it.
I don't believe in Singles Awareness Day. I'm single, but it doesn't bother me. I don't think today is about letting it be known that I'm not in a relationship. Today is about celebrating the spirit of love, and it comes in so many forms. Personally, I'll be reading more of history's greatest love letters and spending some quality time with other girls like me, who would rather be single.
I think what's hardest to explain is that I am in a committed relationship right now, with myself. Have been for 18 years. I've worked hard and long to make sure my life is something I could wake up to in the morning, and smile about when I go to sleep at night. And though it will never be done, my self-renovation is well underway.
So maybe it should be Singles Awareness Day, in that singles, reluctant or otherwise, can take an inventory and become aware of themselves. Because in most cases, when people take stock, they'll realize they can love themselves, and if someone can love himself, then others can too. It may be schmatlzy, and perhaps a little overdone, but it's because it's true, and yet there are still those who choose to disregard it. So I'm saying it again: having a solid relationship with one's self is the foundation for solid relationships with others. You've gotta start somewhere.
And to those of you in a dedicated relationship with someone else, I humbly encourage you to do the same anyway. All it will do is make your relationship stronger. The only difference is, you'll have to share what you find. That's my catch, sharing. I know that now.
So that's my bit, let Valentine's be about self love as much as love of others. My friend Chase writes a blog Chasing Somewhere, and in his last post, Singles Awareness Day, he makes a solid closing argument. Don't let your love be commercialized, let today stand as a declaration of the importance of love, that it is celebrated by its own holiday. Understand what it means to have a love so valuable it deserves its own day, and show it.
I think my thought well has run dry for the time being. I'm sure at some point in the near future, it will kick up again, so don't you worry your pretty striped head. No. 3 will happen eventually.
Sunday, February 10, 2013
Love's Letters Lost
I don't know how to admit to this, I've spent so long denying and repressing it... I'm somewhat of a romantic. Though I am thoroughly embarrassed by grand gestures (it's like when people sing Happy Birthday, and my poise just shrugs in a "Don't even look at me, bro!" sort of way) I am nevertheless touched when I see magical moments for other people. Somewhere in the big ball of wibbley-wobbley timey-wimey, there's a girl falling asleep in fluffy pink pajamas, and dreaming of what life will be like when she's old enough to fall in love.
I think writing love letters has become a lost art. Or at least writing them well. Robin Williams has a line in Dead Poets Society, "Language was invented for one reason, boys - too woo women - and in that endeavor, laziness will not do." A lot of today's wooing and courtship comes from choosing 'our song' and making inside jokes, and fitting the cliches. I say a lot, because I know everyone feels that they're the exception, and I'm not even saying there aren't exceptions. And realistically, this comes from my experience which is limited to, well, my personal experiences. I don't know every love story out there, every warm fuzzy gotten, every text sent.
That's another thing, texting. I'll take splitting a milk shake over a texting courtship. I've been there, I know it gets me nowhere and nothing but bullshit. If you're the kind who make it work, wonderful. But I encourage you, find another way, something to supplement. Don't just let your thumbs do the talking, don't spend your life waiting for that phone to buzz. There's so much more to a person than what they can say in 3-5 minutes (the appropriate time to wait before responding to a text, according to the tween magazines).
I am now the age that I believed as a little girl was the age to fall in love. And by today's standards, I don't want to. I feel more like the little girl today than I do the young woman that I am, I'm just waiting to grow up to the right age to fall in love, the passionate, mad, inconvenient love, because what I've seen of love today is not enough for me. It's a taco truck.
That girl grew up, now old enough to fall in love. She wears a lot of grey and black, and rolls her eyes at Nicholas Sparks novels and Katherine Heigl movies. But she never outgrew the little dreaming girl. But society did.
Society has labeled romance as this quirky, bumbling passing of time between two people. Romance, now, is incomplete without the comedy. What I consider romance is older than old fashioned, and I'm not talking two straws in a chocolate malt. What the little girl in pink believed in was the kind of romance that Shakespeare dared to write, the kind that lies dormant in poetry and art until the beholder brings it to life.
Society has labeled romance as this quirky, bumbling passing of time between two people. Romance, now, is incomplete without the comedy. What I consider romance is older than old fashioned, and I'm not talking two straws in a chocolate malt. What the little girl in pink believed in was the kind of romance that Shakespeare dared to write, the kind that lies dormant in poetry and art until the beholder brings it to life.
Matt Nathanson has a song, Modern Love, that kinda sums me up. It used to be because of the one "Watch your back, I'm nobody's girlfriend," line, but now it's because, upon closer inspection, the lyrics really embody what I'm trying to say. So go ahead and click on the song title and take a look for yourself, but I'm gonna explain the seven words that really drive my point home: this modern love is a taco truck.
When I first heard the song, I had to do a double take. Taco truck, what? Is he on drugs? Probably, but I don't care. After excruciating research, I found an interview where he explains it, and the rest of it is worth reading too because he is an artist and wonderful, thus the providing of the link.
But modern love is a taco truck. It's not the nice sit down dinner, not the home-cooked, feel-good meal it used to be. Now dinner comes to you and you stand outside and eat it instead of sitting down and experiencing dinner for real. I still believe in dinner for real.
When I first heard the song, I had to do a double take. Taco truck, what? Is he on drugs? Probably, but I don't care. After excruciating research, I found an interview where he explains it, and the rest of it is worth reading too because he is an artist and wonderful, thus the providing of the link.
But modern love is a taco truck. It's not the nice sit down dinner, not the home-cooked, feel-good meal it used to be. Now dinner comes to you and you stand outside and eat it instead of sitting down and experiencing dinner for real. I still believe in dinner for real.
Admittedly, this was sparked by my current bedside companion, The World's Greatest Love Letters, compiled by Michael Kelahan. And as someone whose cynicism has developed from failed relationships and trust issues, reading something as honest and beautiful as Alexander Pope's letter to Mary Wortley Montagu gives me faith. The blind kind of faith whispered into the little girl's pillow. And faith that I won't let her down.
I think writing love letters has become a lost art. Or at least writing them well. Robin Williams has a line in Dead Poets Society, "Language was invented for one reason, boys - too woo women - and in that endeavor, laziness will not do." A lot of today's wooing and courtship comes from choosing 'our song' and making inside jokes, and fitting the cliches. I say a lot, because I know everyone feels that they're the exception, and I'm not even saying there aren't exceptions. And realistically, this comes from my experience which is limited to, well, my personal experiences. I don't know every love story out there, every warm fuzzy gotten, every text sent.
That's another thing, texting. I'll take splitting a milk shake over a texting courtship. I've been there, I know it gets me nowhere and nothing but bullshit. If you're the kind who make it work, wonderful. But I encourage you, find another way, something to supplement. Don't just let your thumbs do the talking, don't spend your life waiting for that phone to buzz. There's so much more to a person than what they can say in 3-5 minutes (the appropriate time to wait before responding to a text, according to the tween magazines).
I am now the age that I believed as a little girl was the age to fall in love. And by today's standards, I don't want to. I feel more like the little girl today than I do the young woman that I am, I'm just waiting to grow up to the right age to fall in love, the passionate, mad, inconvenient love, because what I've seen of love today is not enough for me. It's a taco truck.
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