Words

Almost every day, I hear something or read something that enlightens me, affects me, saddens me...invokes some sort of emotion from me. I love words. I love them. When I watch movies, I tend to want to put on the subtitles so I can read the script (so as to not miss a very important line or word) and match the acting to the emotion. So every now and then I like to share words that inspire me.

That being said, I know that I'm not in the Boston area and sometimes things happen where I wish I was with my family and friends. As most everyone who is reading this blog is of some familial connection, you know that Nana was sent to the hospital today and when I spoke with her, she sounded positively exhausted and sad.

Sometimes not being home, not being able to be with family when they need you, is like not being with a child when they speak their first words or take their first steps. You feel like you should be there, and you feel horrible that you're not. I think sometimes when you realize that a loved one has suffered a health crisis, just like Stacey in March and now Nana in April, it puts life into perspective. It makes me think about when I was young, silly and invincible....when I used to think that life would always be sunshine and roses.

So here is a passage from a book called "Looking for Alaska" by John Green. The reference to last words is from the narrator who has a talent for knowing the final utterances of famous and obscure persons alike:

She reached into her overstuffed backpack and pulled out a book. "Gabriel Garcia Marquez. The General in His Labyrinth. Absolutely one of my favorites. It's about Simon Bolivar."
I didn't know who Simon Bolivar was, but she didn't give me time to ask. "It's a historical novel, so I don't know if this is true, but in the book, do you know what his last words are? No, you don't. But I am about to tell you, Senor Parting Remarks."

And then she lit a cigarette and sucked on it so hard for so long that I thought the entire thing might burn off in one drag. She exhaled and read to me:

"He - that's Simon Bolivar - was shaken by the overwhelming revelation that the headlong race between his misfortunes and his dreams was at that moment reaching the finish line. The rest was darkness. "Damn it," he sighed. "How will I ever get out of this labyrinth!"

I knew great last words when I heard them, and I made a mental note to get ahold of the biography of this Simon Bolivar fellow. Beautiful last words, but I didn't quite understand. "So what's the labyrinth?" I asked her.

(skipping a few paragraphs)

Her mouth was close enough to me that I could feel her breath warmer than the air, she said, "That's the mystery, isn't it? Is the labyrinth living or dying? Which is he trying to escape - the world or the end of it?" I waited for her to keep talking, but after a while it became obvious she wanted an answer.

"Uh, I don't know," I said finally. "Have your really read all those books in your room?"

The one thing that I loved about this book was that it was so raw and honest and forceful. Sometimes a simple book technically about teenage angst and intense emotion can strike an argument within yourself....and this did that. Tonight, after talking to Nana, and after thinking about my life and everyone within it, I wonder how many times I can circle a labyrinth before I start to feel like a dizzy little hamster....I wonder when I'll stop and just lie flat, look up at the sky and think that life's too short to run through a maze aimlessly. Think of it like being trapped in a room for life and you can do nothing but stare at gray walls all day. I would guess that a labyrinth would be something like that except more frenzied.

The whole point of the book is, of course, contingent on the meaning of the labyrinth that Alaska quotes from Bolivar. Is it living versus dying or is it simply a metaphor for suffering? The beautiful thing is that you can translate it however you'd like. I choose neither of those answers. The labyrinth is a journey, sometimes good, sometimes not...it either represents a frantic search, a harrowing journey or a horrifying trap of your worst nightmares. The frantic part is the need to escape. But what lies outside the walls?

Does life need to be a labyrinth? And if so, does the poor little mouse ever escape? Is escape better than the confined, familiar walls?

Oh, Lord, I've gone on too long for this. I'm sure I might expect a myspace from Mute Dave.