Female role models.

Sigh no more ladies, sigh no more –
Men, were deceivers ever –
One foot on sea, and one on shore,
To one thing constant never.
But sigh not so, but let them go –
And be you blithe, and bonny,
Converting all, your sounds of woe –
Into hey, nonny, nonnny! 

This is the song you hear several times in Kenneth Brannagh’s Much Ado About Nothing, undoubtedly a movie most most dear to my heart. I know nearly every line, and what’s more, understand nearly every line — and with every watching grasp a few more that eluded me before. This is bound to happen when you watch a film a million times over since childhood; I first saw the film when I was probably around 10 or 12, and was quite instantly in love.

Not only was this my first serious introduction to Shakespeare, but it was also the first time I can recall that I recognized in a female character something that I wanted to be. Indeed, Beatrice is to me the perfect woman: smart, confident, joyous and just a tad bit illusive; but above all, a great wit. My adoration of Beatrice will forever preserve Emma Thompson as my favorite actress, and watching the movie always fills me with a childlike glee that points directly to everything which is sweet and euphoric about life.

Following Beatrice we have Elizabeth from Pride and Prejudice. I remember the comments my high school English teacher gave me after turning in my paper on why the novel is a feminist one; “This paper shows a deep emotional understanding of the novel. You could have never given me a better graduation present; keep Elizabeth as your role model and you will go far.” Elizabeth is a bit more subdued than Beatrice, and does not seem to revel in and pursue the attention her intelligence deservedly receives — in this manner I am much more like Beatrice. But Elizabeth is also a bit more human — she makes serious errors of judgment due to having her feelings injured, yet this does not prevent Darcy from seeing what quality of a woman she is. I would indeed recommend Elizabeth as a role model for any girl who was looking for one.

I note these two literary figures because they stand alone. I cannot think of any other women, real or fictional, to whom I’ve directly connected my ideas of a fine character. All the rest are men. Is it disheartening that these women are fictional? I don’t think so. Clearly women were displaying their wit enough in Elizabethan times to make a character like Beatrice feasible to an audience, and Elizabeth is, in all reality, Jane Austen’s portrait of herself.  So, in the best of my moments, I am thrilled and humbled to think that I might somehow be carrying on the virtues taught to me by Beatrice and Elizabeth.

My favorite kind of writing is akin to music.

It ebbs and flows; the end of one thought crescendos and laps into another, or the sudden revelation of one idea leads to sharp, high intensity beats that follow. Ideas pile and gather on top of each other in something that might appear to approximate disorder; but when the wave is fully ridden, the holistic beautiful song is heard, and understood.

Hence my natural affection for semicolons and run on sentences. Short, clear sentences can be musical, too, of course – the written equivalent of throwing down the gauntlet, like that pause right before an intense beat drum comes in: short, clear and demanding. But I suppose we most often write like we think; and for me ideas are connective, overlapping things, that cannot end without another beginning; it is hard to hear one note without feeling what is coming next. So much like music.

I remember the hardest final week I ever had in undergrad. I had four morning finals four days in a row, all in challenging courses. Every night, I took over the room recently made empty by my departed roommate, and locked myself in there to work on the next day’s final. For breaks, I would lay under the table I had dragged in, look up at the bottom of it and listen to Bach’s Concerto # 3, a piece of music which epitomizes the rhythmic beauty of thought. I would try to integrate all I had been trying to cram into my head within those notes; to see the connections and complications rising up and down with the rhythm. I was using music to organize and incorporate sheer information. The French Revolution thus played out to Bach in a beautifully organized music video, right underneath my table in an empty bedroom, surrounded by soda bottle caps.

Writing that will outlast the conventions of its own time is writing that resonates with this deeper experience of knowledge. Information and clarity are of first priority; but then, to capture the experience of thought!, what an accomplishment that is. My entire experience and understanding of myself as an intellectual is based so much on this experience; on the belief I have that ideas are not merely the discreet propositions that make them up, but are also understood by the way they echo within our brains, our skulls. This never changes the point, the thesis, the argument; but it does change what it might mean to you. It can make the difference between information that seems stale and impersonal to a truly communicative experience, where not only information is being conveyed across the ages but experience; the sheer thrill of the human intellect.

Ideas are logical, rhythmical, and follow from one point conclusively to another; and yet they can surprise as well as they can sooth, can lead us to sudden unexpected lows and highs than suddenly rush off in a new, exciting direction. They are accessible yet mysterious, concrete yet utterly abstract. They are music.

Barbara WaWa is made fun of for a reason.

I wouldn’t exactly describe her as the brightest crayon in the box. Of course, as TV interviewers go, what can you expect?

Nevertheless, it was interesting watching her interviewing Ellen Page from Juno, an actress who is obviously ten times more intelligent than Walters. I could read some of her thoughts when peppered with the mass-produced, moralistic questions Walters lobbed at her. “What do I think of the drug problems of Britney and Lindsey?” Ellen secretly thought. “Life is fucking hard and sometimes people do drugs and drink to deal with that, what else do you want?”

I evilly grin at the thought of being in Ellen’s place. What smart ass comments I would make, without any effort other than honesty. But of course, talk is cheap. I’d most likely do my best to hide my disdain and smile and nod nicely when asked to sing a song, as Ellen did.

And then there’s that; the Moldy Peaches crap we’re all so infatuated with now. I come out swinging – harsh, I know. It is cute, for about, one song.  Then it is just bloody obnoxious. Yes, it’s simplistic and honest, and written by a “real” person rather than supposedly “fake” super stars. This makes it a better listen than Justin Timberlake, but only barely. For while it might be charming to our outcast sensibilities, this does not make it good music. Or more to the point, smart music. Lyrics that any ten year old could have written repeated in a monotonish, almost zombie like way to a repeating guitar chord does not equal brilliance. But oh, it is so cute and honest and real! Yes well, its a fine line between this and unthoughtful cliche.

Ending note: My sense of this music as more shallow than it seems was confirmed by Amanda’s complete concurrence, after we both came to the conclusion independently and rejoiced at finding the annoyance mutual.

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