Love Actually Is All Around

I know I haven't updated in a while. I've been busy working on my new blog "Last Leaf" which is where I'm going to chronicle my reading of the 1001 Books to Read Before You Die. I think it's easier than posting them all on this blog. So check that out if you're interested. I've spent almost my entire snow day break writing reviews of the 50 or so books on the list I've previously read.

Anyway, today is Valentine's Day, and it's a good thing I don't actually have a boyfriend because if I did I wouldn't be able to do anything. I've had a cough for about a month or so and over the past week it turned into a raging head cold. I think it's a sinus infection. But that doesn't matter. My feeling crappy shouldn't stop me from taking some time to appreciate all my loved ones: my family that means so much to me, my friends that keep me happy and smiling, and those who aren't really in my life as much that I miss spending time with. I love you all and thank you for everything you've taught me. You have shaped me into who I am today. I don't have anything too profound to say, my head is too congested for that, but I'm leaving you with this video.

The film Love Actually is very near and dear to my heart, and Hugh Grant's beginning dialog offers important words to live by. Valentine's Day isn't about being with a boyfriend or girlfriend or feeling badly for your own lack of said significant other. It's about celebrating the many kinds of love you experience day after day. It's something I think we all take for granted. So today, remember that, even if it may not seem to be true, love actually is all around.

Elementary!

And so my quest to read the 1001 books that a group of distinguished literary scholars propose that I should read before I die continues. I must admit that I find it rather daunting, seeing as if I read one such book every month (taking those which I have already read into account) I will finish the list in exactly seventy-nine and a quarter years. I'm almost twenty and will admit that I cannot rely on my ability to remain on this Earth until I am nearly one hundred years old, let alone be able to remain literate in the decline of my old age. Fortunately, I am more than capable of reading one book per month, no matter how my professors may conspire against me.

I found myself, along with practically half the nation, snowed in this past weekend. While many found it to be a miserable experience, full of shovels and back aches and ruined plans, I cozied up on my couch with my complete Sherlock Holmes collection and some tea, and got to work on this insane goal I've set for myself. Although I own the complete collection of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes stories, only two of his books were on the list: The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and The Hound of the Baskervilles.

I remember trying to read the Sherlock Holmes stories when I was in grade school and giving up. Reading them now, I can't see my ten year old rationale. For Christ's sake I was reading the 1000 page unabridged Les Miserables ! I certainly couldn't have found Conan Doyle's style or language confusing. At any rate, I was glad to be finally reading a body of work that I had missed out on for one reason or another so far in my life.

The language of these stories is not confusing at all, nor are any tricky literary devices employed to baffle the reader. Rather, what makes these stories so utterly enjoyable is a character study of Sherlock Holmes and his roommate Watson. (As an aside, let the reader note that Sherlock Holmes never actually says "Elementary, my dear Watson." He merely exclaims "elementary!" in the midst of conversation). The Adventure of Sherlock Holmes is a collection of short stories detailing thirteen or so cases that the London detective has taken on in his office on Baker Street. The formula for these stories is basic and consistent: Holmes is presented with the facts of the case, Holmes conducts an investigation that is often viewed as irrelevant to Watson, Holmes inexplicably solves the case then proceeds to enlighten both Watson and the reader as to his methods and reasonings. Holmes' powers of perception are fascinating and by the fourth story, I found myself attempting to anticipate the twists of the mysteries' conclusions before I reached the end. I of course was always lacking some vital insight, but that's the point of a good mystery. There would be no point if you could figure everything out. This formula resounded in The Hound of the Baskervilles as well. The novel is basically an extended version of one of the adventures of Sherlock Holmes.

In addition to the wonderful characterization of Holmes, the aloof cocaine addicted detective who confuses everyone (even sometimes himself) with his methods, the character of Watson is equally as intriguing. Despite the taxing effects on his personal and professional life, Watson is compelled time and again to follow after Holmes in his bizarre adventures and chronicle the details of their cases. His narrative voice shows a deep respect and sense of wonder for Holmes' intellect. I find the bantering conversations in which Holmes attempts to coax his friend into thinking about a case with the same chain of deduction amusing, as Watson struggles to overcome his own methods to widen his perspective and fine tune his observational skills. Theirs is a true friendship, focused on bettering each other and themselves while using their combined skills to achieve good for the wider London community.

All in all, Arthur Conan Doyle's stories were excellent reading material and facilitated an enjoyable weekend of being snowed in. I would give both works a resounding A+.

50 down, 951 to go.

"My mind rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram, or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. But I abhor the dull routine of existence. I crave for mental exaltation." (Arthur Conan Doyle)

Life is Not a Succession of Urgent "Nows", It is a Listless Trickle of "Why Should I's".

This evening, when I got home from work, the following video was in my inbox. The sender was anonymous, although I have a few ideas of who it could have been. Regardless, the sender is well acquainted with my views on the English language and the importance of its proper use.

I take for granted the vocabulary and knowledge of language and grammar that my closest friends and I have. I forget that I chose to associate (for the most part) only with articulate people. Those who know me well would not hesitate in saying that I have a low tolerance for stupidity. It's true. I think my generation is ruining itself with the language of e-mails, texting, and social networking.

Twitter and texts are forcing us to cut our sentences into condensed little blurbs that one can only hope are complete enough for the reader to understand. We abbreviate words until they're almost unrecognizable.

The epidemic of "up-speak" as my dad prefers to call it, is rampant with people my age, making even the most decisive of statements sound like a question. Mean what you say, and stick up for yourself.

Unnecessary phrases have crept into people's sentences: you know....like...etc. Once you're made aware of it, hearing how many times the word "like" is used in people sentences becomes infuriating.

All these trends are creeping into our writing too. I couldn't believe it last year when one of my professors told the class that he read an essay in which the author actually wrote "u" instead of "you". The other day in class, we had a presentation about how to write e-mails and letters as well as proper punctuation. I became instantly offended by the tone of our lecturer. She was talking to the class like we were a bunch of stuttering two year olds and clearly assumed that none of us knew how to write. Suddenly I realized that her skepticism was probably justified. Seriously, what is my generation coming to?

What can we do to stop it? Be aware! Think before you speak. I rehearse my answers in my mind before I even raise my hand in class. Practice! Write for fun. Write about anything. Just write. Read everything. I've learned more about my speaking and writing preferences from Jane Austen novels and other books I've read than in most of my formal English classes.

Language is such a beautiful, powerful tool. It's nuances are almost infinite and convey even the most elusive of emotions. Don't let it be wasted just because you're too lazy to form a complete sentence.

Typography from Ronnie Bruce on Vimeo.

"I am a lover of truth, a worshipper of freedom, a celebrant at the altar of language and purity and tolerance." (Stephen Fry)

My Julie & Julia Moment

I love lists. To-do lists imply an eventual achievement of goals. My own to-do lists guarantee success. Who makes a practical to-do lists of things they can't do? It's the epitome of counter-productivity.

The other day I purchased the book "1001 Books to Read Before You Die." It's a list I think I can achieve. I've already read about 40 of them, so I'm well on my way. Plus, I own a bunch of other books on the list, but haven't gotten around to reading them. I'm not going to start another blog to document my progress, but I probably will update this one whenever I finish another book on the list and write a review of sorts. It'll make up for the fact that I couldn't add a third major in English to my two degrees and a minor.

That's it really...no profound thoughts....no examination of a random idea that occurred to me. I'm planning on writing one of those soon in light of my recent trip to see the revival of the musical Hair....but I just wanted to solidify my commitment to read all 1001 of the books on the list....it's going to be epic.

"She is too fond of books, and it has ruined her brain." (Louisa May Alcott)

Where Is the Something that Tells Me Why I Live and Die?

“You’re an English major at Villanova right?”
“Oh no, Mrs. Marciano, I’m business and humanities.”
“Right…I must have thought that because I remember you telling me how much you love to write.”

I had this very conversation with my Chester County Voices Abroad roommate’s mother this past weekend at our most recent trip planning meeting. Her comment was an innocuous one but it has nonetheless reminded me of many conversations I’ve had with myself over these past two years during my academic career at Villanova. Ever since my first class as a part of the Villanova School of Business, the same question has been nagging at me from the back of my mind: “is this really what you want to be doing?” For a while I was able to silence that annoying part of myself, focusing all my attention on maintaining my GPA, but recently it’s come back to bite me, so to speak.

Whenever I explain my two degrees to people, they always wonder how business and humanities are related, and to be honest, I can’t even give them an answer. My decision to also pursue a degree in Humanities, now looking to add a minor in Art History is, in part, my last ditch effort to do something I’m really interested in. I’m warming up to business, I really am, but I still can’t help feeling that I decided to go into business to “fit in”, to get a “real” job, to do something that will make me money. But by doing so, have I sold myself out? Have I given in to the very consumerist culture that I rallied against in high school and continue to resent today? Have I given up my happiness to go after a career that is socially favored? Sometimes I convince myself that the answer to all of these questions is a resounding yes. Is it?

I don’t want money for the sake of money. I don’t want to be a cut-throat, take no prisoners kind of business person. I’m not interested in having four cars, or three vacation homes, or one of the mansion-esque houses I see as I drive to school every day. Despite sounding like I’m insane, I can honestly say that I’m concerned about providing for my future family. Reading my finance texts last semester put me in a sudden panic that I wouldn’t be able to pay for my children’s education or give them the same wonderful experiences my parents were able to give me. Taking my current interests and passions into consideration, it seems as though tacking on a business degree is the only reasonable way to ensure my financial security.

I remember many moments from my senior year quite clearly. I remember when Mrs. Barone, my vocal coach, Mrs. Campbell, my choir director, and many of my friends’ parents were upset that I wasn’t studying music in college. I remember when parents approached me after various plays and musical productions assuming that I was going to be a successful theater major. It’s true that I want to do all of these things. I would love to be able to dedicate my life to music or performing, I’ve dreamed about it since I was little. I love taking people away from reality into worlds that only the arts can create. Such worlds got me through some of the most difficult periods of my life, and I feel that it’s my responsibility to give that feeling to others as well. But I’m painfully aware of the competitive nature of the industries that I truly desire to work in. My chances of making it are literally “one in a million”, and I just can’t bring myself to take that risk. My friends who have chosen to follow their dreams when selecting college majors inspire me more than they will ever know. So what’s stopping me?

I do my best to maintain my passions on my own. I’m involved in Community Theater, sing in more choirs than I probably have time for, and write stories and this blog in my spare time, but I would love the chance to actually make a go of one of these careers. I’d love to go to an open casting call for a Broadway musical or film….I’m actually considering the upcoming open call to replace the current Broadway cast of Hair. I’ve thought about trying to write a novel and get it published. And as much as I hate to admit it, I think the thing that hinders me the most from going after any of these goals, is my fear. My fear of being rejected, my fear of wasting time on my dreams, my fear of altering the plan my parents have for me. I tell myself I’ll pursue these ideas after I graduate and have a job, but will I really? Will the family I might have become my next excuse?

Does all of this really mean I’ve sold myself out? Maybe. I’d like to think it doesn’t. Regardless, I’m still pushing to find that job that will meet all my interests. Fortunately, every kind of company needs someone proficient in Management Information Systems, and hopefully I’ll be able to find a theater, publishing agency, or museum that needs one around the time of my graduation. Who knows, maybe my habit of singing to myself while working could finally pay off!

"Success is not the key to happiness. Happiness is the key to success. If you love what you are doing, you will be successful." (Herman Cain)

Let Him Swim in the Deepest Ocean or Glide Over the Highest Cloud

Best smile, most likely to succeed, most school spirit. These are examples of the senior superlatives one would expect to find leafing through the pages of an old high school year book; the simple categories that classmates see fit to place their peers in as they prepare to graduate. But my high school was no ordinary high school, and my friends were no ordinary friends. Consequentially, I was given no ordinary senior superlative. Much to my delight, I was crowned “most likely to marry a fictional character”. I truly can’t argue with my classmates; I doubt I could have chosen a better superlative myself. Proof of this fact is all around me. Just this past weekend, I despaired along with several of my friends as we simultaneously watched the brilliant David Tennant regenerate into the eleventh Doctor during his final episode of the long-running British show, Dr. Who. Fortunately, my wonderful friend Rosetta and I realized how difficult it would be to watch such a painful episode alone, and we overcame our shock and outrage together in order to comfort each other as the tears ran unwillingly down our cheeks at the end of the night. Almost instantly, the memories of similar moments in my life flashed before my eyes and I realized just how dependent on fiction I have become. I find it both an alarming and intriguing priority in my life, and feel compelled to explore my continued obsessive love affair with all things fictional.

Each summer when I was in grade school, I placed a yearly bet with my father. Together, we would create a well balanced list of around 20 well sized books comprised mostly of classic literature (for every two classics I could pick something “lighter”). If I completed the list by the end of the summer, he would bestow upon me a $100 reward. It was his creative attempt at ensuring that I became an avid reader. I think we both secretly knew the bet was pointless. Early in my childhood I became addicted to the feel of a book in my hands, the worlds I could be taken to by the words of an author, and the smell of the old leather Smithsonian Institute bookmark I used to use (the scent still lingers in the pages of my copy of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. I now fondly refer to it as my “childhood Harry Potter Series smell”). By the end of 7th grade I had earned myself the nickname of “Hermione” after being seen reading the thousand page plus unabridged version of Les Miserables for fun. I suppose that I do owe this love of the classics to my father. It’s more than likely that without his encouragement and constant gifting of books like The Scarlet Pimpernel and Great Expectations, I’d be one of those teen girls I can’t help but judge. Those girls who learn their vocabulary and life lessons from series like Gossip Girls, those girls I could never bring myself to befriend in high school.

But this is not where my dependence on fiction lies. It cannot, for many of my friends are avid readers, buying books every chance they get, just as I do (working at Barnes & Noble was far more dangerous to my bank account than I could have ever imagined). No, my love of reading is not what makes me unique. Its source must, therefore, lie in my obsessive nature.

Anyone who knows me, even if only as an acquaintance, would most likely tell you that I am incapable of merely “liking” anything. I must instead allow my love of an idea, person, book series etc. to completely control my psyche. These are not fleeting obsessions that are here today and gone tomorrow; I chose my subjects of interest with careful consideration. I can list them on one hand: Jane Austen, Pirates of the Caribbean, Alan Rickman and his many films, and the Harry Potter franchise. I acknowledge these may seem to be common obsessions, but can you honestly tell me you’ve met someone who owns a Pirates of the Caribbean themed car, has an entire bookshelf filled with various versions of Jane Austen novels and adaptations, ordered an out of print Rickman film from Spain since it was unavailable in the US, or passed notes with her friends in class pretending to write as characters from Harry Potter? I doubt it. But what do these obsessions get me besides stares from strangers who overhear my eccentric conversations, obstacles to my personal financial goals, and fear from my parents that I may actually be insane? My answer is simple. An immersion in the worlds of these obsessions has instilled in me a yearning for a life far more exciting than the one I lead.

Don’t get me wrong, I realize that I’ve had a rather exciting life. I’ve been blessed to be able to call some of the most epic people I’ve ever met my friends (just ask the employees at On the Border). I’ve had the opportunity to perform in Europe with Chester County Voices Abroad for the past four years (with my own fan club), and I had the time of my life in London for four months last year (getting a hug from James McAvoy was definitely a highlight). My adolescence has been far from ordinary, but my love of fiction, I fear, has ruined me forever.

While I remain grounded in the reality and practicality, putting school and work at the forefront of my mind when necessary, I can’t help but think that I have developed some unrealistic beliefs about life and love. My adoration for Jane Austen’s most beloved male heroes such as Mr. Darcy and Colonel Brandon has raised the standards that I expect in a relationship. I don’t expect someone to walk out of a field surrounded by mist to come and sweep me off my feet, but I expect a level of respect and chivalry that seems to be forgotten in today’s society. I refuse to reduce myself to the appearance and behavior that “men” of my generation seem to expect. I will never lower these standards in order to satisfy those who place an emphasis on being in a relationship, who fear being alone. I will not change my beliefs in order to get a boyfriend. My own standards can be discouraging as I observe my prospects at Villanova (perhaps this explains my fascination with older men). In fiction however, I can find such men of character and substance that I desire without leaving the comforts of my room. In this way, I have become dependent on Ms. Austen to believe that great men like those in her novels still exist, and that one day, if I’m lucky enough, I’ll find myself one. Of course, I assume it doesn’t help my case that I expect anyone who seeks a relationship with me to hold an interest in or, at least, accept my obsessions. I doubt a relationship with me could work if a guy were to feel threatened each time I make an inappropriate comment or sigh as Alan Rickman comes on screen in a film. Regardless, my love of fiction has begun to spill over into my everyday life, and while it may make me unique or looked down upon in today’s world, I’d like to think that I’m a better, stronger, and more mature person because of it.

But what of the obsessions that I cannot possibly hope to translate into real life? For you, dear reader, I have a name; a name that has practically defined my existence since the fourth grade. That name is Harry Potter. I’ll never forget when I first read of the boy wizard and the adventures and challenges he shared with his friends. I was enthralled with the world J.K Rowling created from the very first chapter. Her creativity astounded me, as I read of the spells, sports, and items her imagination invented. I woke up every morning hoping to receive my letter from Hogwarts that would tell me that I was a witch and going away to school in Scotland. I vowed to know everything I could about the series, and as far as I know, I’ve lived up to my promise. Despite all of this wonder and awe and magic, the most impressive aspect of the world of Harry Potter for me is the character development that Rowling has expertly woven throughout her seven inspired books. From the very beginning the character of Severus Snape stole my heart, and I’ve still never heard the end of it from my friends and family (“you would love a minor character” “he’s old and a jerk” “he has greasy hair!” “he hates Harry!” “HE KILLED DUMBLEDORE!”). Despite their jokes and accusations, I had such a feeling of trust in his character that I’d scarcely had in anyone else in my life. This, in and of itself, is interesting considering my own severe real-life trust issues. I can only guess as to why I seem to attach myself so strongly to fictional characters like Severus. Perhaps I find it easier to trust characters in a novel, since a betrayal by a beloved character is just as fictional as they are. However, such betrayals rarely occur (I suppose I’m a good judge of character) and the opposite effect happens. The characters I love have, within their intricately woven plot lines, lived up to my expectations, and have earned my trust. Maybe it is for this reason, that I become so helplessly devoted to these characters, sobbing as I read of their deaths and hardships. Rowling’s development of Snape has given me something that is rare to find today, a trustworthy person completely motivated by love. Severus is not perfect, on the contrary he is severely flawed. But what makes him different is the acceptance his flaws and mistakes and the manner in which he spends the rest of his life atoning for them. His death is an unjust one, tragic yet disturbingly beautiful and one of the hardest scenes of literature I’ve ever had to read.

It is in my readings and rereading of the Potter series that I have realized I want my life to be an epic novel. I somehow have taught myself to expect that magnificent adventures will present themselves to me, and my friends and I will tackle them just as Ron, Hermione, and Harry tackled the troll in their first year at school. The impossibility of this can sometimes be depressing, and so I’ve resorted to writing my own stories, transforming characters into who I want them to be, giving them opportunities in which to prove their worth, and forming the kinds of relationships I dream of in my imagination. I’ve become one of those midnight writers, who sit up at night with the glow from a laptop screen as their only source of light. When my life doesn’t go the way I planned, I write. I create the adventure, the love, the order that I crave and can’t achieve. It’s a wonderful feeling. Some people do drugs, some people get smashed, while I read and write to calm the stress of my worries and cares. And suddenly, there it is; the source of my dependence on the fiction created by the written word. How ironic that the very obsessions that some may call me crazy for are the same things that keep me sane. Well fine, call me crazy, I’ll just sit here in my Hogwarts robes casting spells without you and loving every moment of it.

“Fiction is love and hate and agreement and conflict and common adventure, not lonely musings on have-beens and might-have-beens.” (A.B Guthrie, Jr.)

We'll Forget the Past, but Maybe I'm Not Able....

2010.

The number seems to glare at me as I type, daring me to forget it the next opportunity I have to write the date. It is something alien, unknown, and indescribably exhilarating.

2009, for me, was a most peculiar year. It offered me some of the most pleasurable and the most painful moments I have experienced in my brief lifetime. The beginning of the year carried me abroad to London, the city I fell in love with and consider my second home. I made friends I will never forget, met celebrities that I actually didn't embarrass myself in front of, and discovered the true delights of independence. I learned more about myself in that semester abroad than I had scarcely realized before, and I would trade almost anything to be there still.

I arrived back in the United States, leaving a large part of me behind in that beautiful country of Shakespeare, and Austen, and Rickman. Only months later I was abroad again, and my whirlwind two-week tour of Italy with Chester Country Voices Abroad was a welcome diversion from the longing I felt for the UK. In the two weeks I spent there with my family, friends, and musicians, I saw the sights I had only imagined when I was younger, finally visiting the country that sparked my interest in travel. The rest summer flew by in a haze of fraps and derivatives as I worked seemingly endless hours in the Barnes and Noble Cafe and continued working on my two degrees during Nova's summer sessions.

I felt overworked and overwhelmed as I returned for my second year at Villanova. I struggled to maintain friendships and survive the torture VSB was inflicting on us all. I grew closer to my coworkers at Barnes and Noble, forging a pair of the strongest friendships I have ever held. I witnessed the near perpetual worry of my family as we continued our attempts to make sense of my Uncle's cancer and my grandparent's failing health. I constantly worried myself with my own flaws, and the way it impacted my family life.

Some of these moments of 2009 I wish I could forget and erase as easily as I could do to my hopeless attempts at balancing the accounting equation. I wish I could take away my family's pain, choose different teachers, or stay in London forever.

Society encourages us to "move on" and let go of the memories that hold us back. Part of me wants to do just that, but something stops me. Do our bad memories truly hold us back, or do they help us move forward with a renewed sense of who we are and what our purpose is? I am inclined to believe the latter.

2009, at times you could be a real bitch, but you also gave me some of the most treasured experiences and friends I will ever have. I will not leave you behind, but will carry the lessons you taught me into the new year. 2010, I have high hopes for you. You will continue to make me better and stronger than I am today. It is my deepest wish that you will also provide guidance and illumination that will help me surpass the worries and fears of 2009 and whatever else may come. Bring it on 2010. I'm ready.

"What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from." (T.S. Eliot)