Is it Real

Date:                           August 9, 2010


Location:                    Plattekill, NY




            I have found in my rather lengthy tenure on this earth that life is a very interesting thing to watch.  It may not always be a fun and enjoyable thing to experience, but it is almost always interesting to watch.  From the perspective of an observer one tends to connect multiple observations in order to understand or explain each single incident.  The level of reality in each observation does not necessarily matter.  An example of this would be relating a situation that is happening at the moment to an incident that you might remember from a movie and then quoting the line from that movie as if it really pertained to what ever is happening in front of you.  Your subconscious mind does not care that one is fictional and one is real.  It only cares that both moments are relative to the same memory neurons on your mind.  Sometimes we spend too much time relating to movie lines when describing real life, but that is fodder for another blog.


            This morning my wife came into the bed room, as I was finally pulling my slumbering body out of bed, all in a flutter.  She had risen early to grab the Grisham book she had been reading so that she could finally finish the novel.  As is often the case in a Grisham novel the end of the book captivates you into not being able to put the book down until you get to the final page.  This may be one of the many reason that Connie and I both enjoy reading his works.  This morning, at this time, my wife did not seem to be in an enjoyable mood.  Instead of good morning or some other expected morning salutation I got a tirade on the fact that that blank blank book did not have a proper ending.  How could she have spent all of that time caring about the characters in the novel to find, that as she ran out of pages to read she still did not have all the answers to all the questions that had been postulated in the story.  That stupid book did not have an ending, blah, blah, blah, rant, rant, rant.


            The fact that she did not enjoy the finality of the book is not the point of my blog. She was very right in her opinion.  The point of my blog is that, as she was expounding on literary opinion, I was reminded of the final scene in “Harry Met Sally” when Harry barges into the New Year’s Eve party to finally tell Sally how he really feels. This is an example of reality and fiction running parallel in my mind with little concern for differentiating between the two.


            After Sally refuses Harry’s simple statement of his love he is forced to more eloquently explain his necessity to, once again, enter her life.  His explanation of how he loves how it takes her a half an hour to order a sandwich, or how he wants her to be the last person he talks to at the night and the first person he talks to in the morning and how he enjoys that she gets a crinkle between her eyes when she thinks he is being crazy is as good a description of love as I have heard in many movies or literary examples.  It is also simple and to the point.  Love is about the passion and flowers and special moments in two people’s lives, but it is also about the, almost, insignificant moments in their lives.  It is more about the simple moments when they barge into the room angry and upset at the summation, or lack there of, of the novel they just read.  It is about the simple moments shared.  For if you do not have those moments you do not really have a relationship.  Passion is easy to share and enjoy, small moments of real feelings are much more delicate and precious.


            So as the poets have pondered, How do I love thee, Let me count the ways” if that list does not include things like your mates animus for cheese, or their frustration at a particular authors literary style, or their willingness to trek though miles of New York City to attend a concert under the stars in Central Park, or even to forgo the normalcy of a stick house to board a bus and travel across this country then maybe you are not in love.  You may be in heat, but I question your sincerity about love.  It is the small points of wonder and appreciation you feel for each other that makes that poets list long.  It is the crinkle in the nose that signifies true happiness.


            So, how do I love thee, let me count the ways, by the way have you read “The Associate?”  And the secret to Harry and Sally’s true happiness was that they finally became friends.