Apparently today, 7 years ago, I said this in one of my classes. And it was important enough for someone to post it on Facebook as it so kindly reminded me today.
Well how does one reverse engineer a memory?
I've said so many things - shot from the hip too many times to recall accurately.
Let's see, what am I certain of?
I'm sure it was a 9th grade class, and at around this time, I would usually be teaching "The Merchant of Venice," and the introduction to Shakespeare would be: Sonnet 18.
Ah, soggy, sappy, sentimental Sonnet 18; this old chestnut.
Shakespeare writes to an unknown "thee" (although a quick research would identify that this particular set of sonnets were dedicated to a certain "Mr. W.H.") with the central conceit of contemplating the appropriateness of comparing thee to a Summer's day.
Summer takes on the paradoxical role of being desirable and not so desirable. I mean, Shakespeare's English, why would he not find summer desirable? He enumerates Summer's trappings as temporal, even temperamental. And yes, flowers are beautiful, but they will fall. All beauty would fade.
Of course, the volta turns this idea on its head by suggesting that the kind of summer that "thee" has is of a different ilk. Rather, it's an eternal one, and it defies the laws of nature. And the kicker is that this eternity is tied to this sonnet, thee shall never die.
And by gum, did Shakespeare accomplish just that. Mysterious thee, does live forever. Far more than any of us, with our petty, less notable lives, could ever really accomplish.
Life, if we are to strip it down to its cold, impersonal essentials, is about dealing with death.
We are dying the very moment we are born. Living and dying are two sides of the same coin, and we just choose which side we would rather look at. (Hint, it's both.)
The basic premise of existence is to eat, drink, breathe, and procreate. To ensure the survival of ourselves as organisms, so we may reach a particular age that we may pass on our genes, so that our species will continue. Hence, some genetic immortality is achieved.
Thank goodness, we are not mere organisms. We are humans, blessed and cursed with self-awareness. Beyond the practicality of logic and science, are art, literature, ethics and their ilk that suggest that there is more to life than just existing.
So once humanity has gotten this survival thing down pat, we created culture - a by-product of our success as organisms. A collection of our beliefs, artifacts, practices, and creations that affirms that we are not just nihilistic blobs of sentient carbohydrates, lipids and protein.
Some men build skyscrapers, others win medals, and others write.
Writing, naturally, has a special place in my heart, as it should in yours.
Back before when history and literature was essentially the same thing, writing afforded us humans to collate our ideas and experiences, which allowed us to share this knowledge with other humans. Not only did this facilitate the transfer of said ideas, but it created the idea that we, collectively as a species, have a shared story - an identity. That our tribal experiences, are as different as they are the same. And yeah, to re-appropriate another work of our old friend, Bill Shakespeare, are we not all "fed with the same food" and "hurt with the same weapons"?
And so I write, hoping to contribute to this grand narrative. Sometimes, I end up do say the "write" thing every no and then.
I just wish I remembered exactly what I meant back then.
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