Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Sunday, August 06, 2006
On romance
Sometime in life we turn from romance to reality. Is this turn permanent?
Two days ago I saw the recent movie version of Pride and Prejudice. While still preferring the BBC version as a rendition of Jane Austin's text, I was very taken with this movie and found it lingered with me. In my opinion, it carried off its goal to make the story steamy despite the restraint that characterized interaction in those days. With the exception of the spurned-proposal scene, in which Darcy and Elizabeth seem barely to avoid ripping one another's clothes off, the the means used to convey their physical passion are rather small (if pointedly made.)
For instance, we see Darcy's hand and know that he is feeling invigorated from the contact from when he handed her up into the carriage -- we see his hand and know he is feeling helpless as she leaves him rejected. We hear how Elizabeth feels because she tells us; we see how Darcy feels by reading small physical signs. How like life this is, no?
Darcy himself is a more sympathetic, if less complex, character in this movie: he has not the arrogance of Colin Firth's portrayal, but rather a more commonly-found ill-ease with self-expression. He's just a guy who doesn't express himself easily, especially with strangers; and he's struggling against strong emotions. In short, he's a person we're much more likely to meet, know, or be today than the excessively honor-bound and caste-conscious stuffed-shirt who inhabits more faithful renditions of Austin's text. This Darcy, while appealing less to my literary side, rather spoke to the me who deals with real people, and made me think about what I myself want, romantically, in this real world.
I tried to sum up to my partner the essence of romance, which I was thinking about post-movie, as I had seen the movie alone.
Why had the movie made me feel, along with the satisfaction of seeing the characters' romance fulfilled, a feeling of unfulfillment about my own life? I am in a loving relationship that will encircle me until death. I do not lack for love, and my partner and I take good care of each other, complement one another, and experience joy and tenderness in one another.
I felt rather silly trying to explain what romance means, apart from beautiful backdrops and dramatic declarations, apart from the triumph of love over strife, apart from the movies and fiction. The way I put it -- and I'm still struggling about whether this touches the heart of the matter -- is that romance in a moment comes from the participants' intensity of feeling. What makes a meal romantic is not the restaurant. A candle-lit dinner, a bottle of champagne in bed, an impromptu picnic -- all these meals can be romantic or mundane depending on the intensity of regard coming from those involved and directed purely at each other and the moment. It seems to me to be the undivided attention of your lover directed at you, and the returning of that attention, and surrounding circumstances which either feed or just don't detract from that attention, which make the moment a romantic one.
And that, not a view of mountains or a $200 meal or a bouquet of roses, is what I need to share. It is what I'm asking for. And damn me, but I'm not sure how to get it -- or whether it's even a valid thing to want.
Two days ago I saw the recent movie version of Pride and Prejudice. While still preferring the BBC version as a rendition of Jane Austin's text, I was very taken with this movie and found it lingered with me. In my opinion, it carried off its goal to make the story steamy despite the restraint that characterized interaction in those days. With the exception of the spurned-proposal scene, in which Darcy and Elizabeth seem barely to avoid ripping one another's clothes off, the the means used to convey their physical passion are rather small (if pointedly made.)
For instance, we see Darcy's hand and know that he is feeling invigorated from the contact from when he handed her up into the carriage -- we see his hand and know he is feeling helpless as she leaves him rejected. We hear how Elizabeth feels because she tells us; we see how Darcy feels by reading small physical signs. How like life this is, no?
Darcy himself is a more sympathetic, if less complex, character in this movie: he has not the arrogance of Colin Firth's portrayal, but rather a more commonly-found ill-ease with self-expression. He's just a guy who doesn't express himself easily, especially with strangers; and he's struggling against strong emotions. In short, he's a person we're much more likely to meet, know, or be today than the excessively honor-bound and caste-conscious stuffed-shirt who inhabits more faithful renditions of Austin's text. This Darcy, while appealing less to my literary side, rather spoke to the me who deals with real people, and made me think about what I myself want, romantically, in this real world.
I tried to sum up to my partner the essence of romance, which I was thinking about post-movie, as I had seen the movie alone.
Why had the movie made me feel, along with the satisfaction of seeing the characters' romance fulfilled, a feeling of unfulfillment about my own life? I am in a loving relationship that will encircle me until death. I do not lack for love, and my partner and I take good care of each other, complement one another, and experience joy and tenderness in one another.
I felt rather silly trying to explain what romance means, apart from beautiful backdrops and dramatic declarations, apart from the triumph of love over strife, apart from the movies and fiction. The way I put it -- and I'm still struggling about whether this touches the heart of the matter -- is that romance in a moment comes from the participants' intensity of feeling. What makes a meal romantic is not the restaurant. A candle-lit dinner, a bottle of champagne in bed, an impromptu picnic -- all these meals can be romantic or mundane depending on the intensity of regard coming from those involved and directed purely at each other and the moment. It seems to me to be the undivided attention of your lover directed at you, and the returning of that attention, and surrounding circumstances which either feed or just don't detract from that attention, which make the moment a romantic one.
And that, not a view of mountains or a $200 meal or a bouquet of roses, is what I need to share. It is what I'm asking for. And damn me, but I'm not sure how to get it -- or whether it's even a valid thing to want.
On Christianity
It is tough to "come out" as a Christian in this online world, since this world is one chiefly of ideas and intellect. This is because my ideas and intellect are most aligned (I think) with people who feel liberally about social issues, who have more questions about the whys and hows of society and philosophy than they have answers, and who view the world as a complex place where accountability is elusive. These people, and myself, view with suspicion if not open hostility those who would move this country toward intolerance, toward stark moralism, toward an arrogant and military imposition of our will on others because of a belief in our own anointedness.
That is, in the paraphrased words of Gandhi, I love Christ -- but how I feel about Christians is another matter.
As a Christian, however, I believe I am responsible for exploring, deepening, and challenging my own faith and understanding. I also believe that I am responsible for sharing my belief with others. That's kind of uncomfortable and makes me secretly fear becoming a pariah, a "Jesus freak." It makes me feel that everything else I say will be discounted or discredited.
But there it is. I am a person of faith, and I am accountable not only for nurturing my relationship with God but for not being secretive about having that relationship. Veiled threats at the bottom of vapid religious chain e-mails -- you know, whose message is "if you're a Christian, you'll send this to everyone in your address book" -- don't make me feel a twinge about deleting them. My faith has nothing to do with trite poems or prayers for personal success or the religion of feeling good. My faith does have to do with being a thinking, doubting, exploring, intellectual person, though. And since this site is a place I have staked out for doing those things, it is incumbent upon me to claim faith here.
(Plants flag.)
That is, in the paraphrased words of Gandhi, I love Christ -- but how I feel about Christians is another matter.
As a Christian, however, I believe I am responsible for exploring, deepening, and challenging my own faith and understanding. I also believe that I am responsible for sharing my belief with others. That's kind of uncomfortable and makes me secretly fear becoming a pariah, a "Jesus freak." It makes me feel that everything else I say will be discounted or discredited.
But there it is. I am a person of faith, and I am accountable not only for nurturing my relationship with God but for not being secretive about having that relationship. Veiled threats at the bottom of vapid religious chain e-mails -- you know, whose message is "if you're a Christian, you'll send this to everyone in your address book" -- don't make me feel a twinge about deleting them. My faith has nothing to do with trite poems or prayers for personal success or the religion of feeling good. My faith does have to do with being a thinking, doubting, exploring, intellectual person, though. And since this site is a place I have staked out for doing those things, it is incumbent upon me to claim faith here.
(Plants flag.)
Monday, March 27, 2006
Actuality and Potentiality
When I was a child and enamored of questions, I asked my father Which came first--the chicken or the egg?
My father answered promptly, The chicken. Because actualitiy precedes potentiality.
I've been thinking of that answer lately in the context of my self-conscious blog theme, the attempt to embrace the loss of so much potential.
How much does actuality precede potentiality? Is any actual thing better than any potential thing? Is an actual sort of good thing better than a potential awesome thing? Is it like in law, when you commit a crime against the state and it bumps it up a notch in severity, so that an actual good thing is the same as a potential really good thing but not as a really awesome thing?
The other thing I thought about is how much I am, actually, that it never occurred to me that I might be. Is it somehow possible for all the myriad actuals to gang up on my previous potentials and kick them around the playground? And if so, how strong would the potential of, say, hosting Saturday Night Live really have been? That would have been a pretty puny possibility even 20 years ago before doors started closing.
What does it mean to be the kind of person who can't afford a Mercedes but who bakes a cake for each of their employees on their birthday?
Or the kind of person who can't get Sears to fix an air conditioner, but who can convince conservative business people to take innovative--and expensive--risks?
Or can spend a day reading water meters and a night reading about the capital improvement financing instruments used by Miami/Dade County?
I am so much less than I'd hoped, but so much more than I'd imagined.
My father answered promptly, The chicken. Because actualitiy precedes potentiality.
I've been thinking of that answer lately in the context of my self-conscious blog theme, the attempt to embrace the loss of so much potential.
How much does actuality precede potentiality? Is any actual thing better than any potential thing? Is an actual sort of good thing better than a potential awesome thing? Is it like in law, when you commit a crime against the state and it bumps it up a notch in severity, so that an actual good thing is the same as a potential really good thing but not as a really awesome thing?
The other thing I thought about is how much I am, actually, that it never occurred to me that I might be. Is it somehow possible for all the myriad actuals to gang up on my previous potentials and kick them around the playground? And if so, how strong would the potential of, say, hosting Saturday Night Live really have been? That would have been a pretty puny possibility even 20 years ago before doors started closing.
What does it mean to be the kind of person who can't afford a Mercedes but who bakes a cake for each of their employees on their birthday?
Or the kind of person who can't get Sears to fix an air conditioner, but who can convince conservative business people to take innovative--and expensive--risks?
Or can spend a day reading water meters and a night reading about the capital improvement financing instruments used by Miami/Dade County?
I am so much less than I'd hoped, but so much more than I'd imagined.
Monday, January 30, 2006
Monday 1.30.06
I think at this point I've developed the urge to memorialize all the things I could have become but didn't...
I guess I've reached the age at which I am no longer the person with so much potential. My actuality is what it is, and what it isn't, is not.
Which leads me to this multifaceted interest, this desire to (in my spare time?) develop new skills or gather new knowledge, so that I can somehow through activity push forward that magical potential.
Three things have contributed to this:
--My life partner, with whom I share a great love, nevertheless sees almost as defects the things I love most about myself. My partner would be overjoyed were I to close some chapters of my life and pursuits and, instead, focus more on traditional roles and "duties." BLECH!
--I have become a parent. I will never again be the most important person in the world, and I have discovered an entire new spectrum of ambition and failure. (Mostly it's wonderful, and often it's bliss. But it does totally reconfigure one's life and make things that would previously seem to be great successes into small things, and make previously only tough things incredibly hard.)
--I have turned 30.
At least the last point I share with others of a contemplative bent, thanks to a blog I stumbled onto (www.jdedman.com.)
I will attempt to address some of these things in the way that seems most natural to me--by writing about them--here.
I think at this point I've developed the urge to memorialize all the things I could have become but didn't...
I guess I've reached the age at which I am no longer the person with so much potential. My actuality is what it is, and what it isn't, is not.
Which leads me to this multifaceted interest, this desire to (in my spare time?) develop new skills or gather new knowledge, so that I can somehow through activity push forward that magical potential.
Three things have contributed to this:
--My life partner, with whom I share a great love, nevertheless sees almost as defects the things I love most about myself. My partner would be overjoyed were I to close some chapters of my life and pursuits and, instead, focus more on traditional roles and "duties." BLECH!
--I have become a parent. I will never again be the most important person in the world, and I have discovered an entire new spectrum of ambition and failure. (Mostly it's wonderful, and often it's bliss. But it does totally reconfigure one's life and make things that would previously seem to be great successes into small things, and make previously only tough things incredibly hard.)
--I have turned 30.
At least the last point I share with others of a contemplative bent, thanks to a blog I stumbled onto (www.jdedman.com.)
I will attempt to address some of these things in the way that seems most natural to me--by writing about them--here.
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