Coda: All That's Known

Over the last few weeks, several of you (plural, non-gender specific) have suggested that I (singular, gender-specific, sexy) pen an unofficial graduation speech. I lack the time, energy, and caffeinated beverages to embark on such an endeavor, but what I offer instead is a sort of coda to the hastily assembled but surprisingly well-received concerto that was my senior retreat lecture. That speech wasn't about sharing my wisdom--after all, I've just learned to drive, so it's no surprise the secrets of life continue to elude me--it was about sharing the wisdom of others and leading my peers to an understanding of said pearls of knowledge. If those quotes were meant as a guide for our senior year, then this one serves as both an excellent epilogue and a perfect prologue;

"All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know."-Ernest Hemingway

Don't thread through thesauruses, devour dictionaries, go spelunking down into the slippery depths of meaning, mythos, meditations on the human condition. Hemingway didn't sit down at the typewriter believing that the fate of humanity was dictated by the rat-a-tat-tat of his fingers on keys. He inhaled the world around him, took in what he liked and didn't like, and recorded it. Mythos, meaning, and meditations on the human condition came from his experiences, not the other way around. One day, he looked in a shop window. Than night, he wrote the world's shortest short story;

"For sale: baby shoes, never worn."

The imagery is a brittle, beautiful surface, the hot blood of heartbreak thrums underneath, and in thirty seconds or less, our understanding of the world, of its infinite joy and sorrow, has increased a little bit. These workmanlike words on a sign may be just another advert to passersby, but to the people who donated those shoes they mean the world. Hemingway saw, reflected, recorded, and from that came beauty.

This brings me to the point of this essay, perhaps my greatest social concern; our obsession with manufacturing meaning and truth and beauty, as if it could somehow be brewed, stewed, and squeezed out of an eyedropper. This weekend, Catholic school parents have spend thousands of collective man-hours cajoling their offspring into countless snapshots.

Oh my God, my kid's processing into the gym! Take a picture.

That gown looks good! Use flash, honey.

That dress is absolutely hideous. Hold still while I take one for that Facebook Mommy doesn't know how to use.

Candid photos are a wonderful thing; posed photos strike me as almost sinful in nature because they express a desire to capture that which needn't be captured. A photograph should be a document of something beautiful unfolding, not a document of you and your friends posing for a photograph. These pictures attempt to take something utterly forgettable and deem it worth remembering.

Which leads me to another thing I hate; the expression "We're making memories!"

We don't create memories on an assembly line. They find us when we least expect it. They walk into your life like a new friend, announce themselves quietly and permanently.

I will not remember that time I stopped on the way into St. Pius for a photo-op. I will remember that time two years ago when I drove home, and "Fire and Rain" came on the radio just as the sun sunk gracefully into its celestial cradle, and what I heard and what I saw became one. I do not treasure the video of me meticulously fixing my bowtie as I prepped for prom (the event, not the promising Disney film); I hope I never lose the one we took afterward, as we belted "Dog Days Are Over" with the windows down. These moments were not paid for or planned for. They were pockets of peace and piquant beauty in the frayed fabric of our world. I guess if I were to come up with a ring-a-ding slogan for what I've learned over the past 18 years, its this; "Appreciate what you can't anticipate."

And, of course, I've gotta finish up by relating it all back to the movies. In Goodbye Cinema, Hello Cinephilia, critic Jonathan Rosenbaum sorts his peers into two categories; the conquistadors and the explorers. The first party is concerned only with big victories, with capital-G-Great Cinema that will net Oscars and impact the very nature of the medium itself. The ladder group savors the Big Breakthroughs, yes, but also dives headfirst into smaller, less prestigious fare, seeking not necessarily a flawless final product but instead looking for little joys; the delivery of a certain line, the caliber of a supporting performance, the metaphorical diamonds in the rough. As I guide you through the world of cinema (and literature and music AND life, for that matter), I promise to always be an explorer, not expecting buried treasure everywhere I go but simply setting out and allowing the little glimmers of golden promise to awe, amuse, and astound me. And I encourage you to do the same.

The typical graduation quote: "Carpe diem. Seize the day."

My version is less eloquent, but it will do; "Let the day seize you. Let yourself be formed, challenged, changed. Set out to do great things, but do not let the drive to achieve them put you in a position where you cannot slow down, get out, smell the roses, sing along with the music, embrace old friends and create new ones. Realize that, to change the world, you must first be part of it. You must experience it a lot to alter it a little. Keep all this in mind, and, along the way, write the truest sentences you know. Live the truest life you can."

Mazel tov, graduates. Here's lookin' at you, kids!