Where’s the love? One woman told her husband that he would have to fall back in love with her after the wedding was over. Good luck getting him to the altar.

I don’t mean to imply that I want to be married today or even next year. That’s a bit like putting the cart before the horse considering I haven’t found a groom yet. However, this program does make me think, Where in God’s green earth are these people finding each other?

I understand how bitchy women end up with men for a night or a few weeks, but how can people propose to them? Even if she’s the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen, it’s the rest of your life. Find someone just a bit more mellow. The sex could be magnificent but if you can’t hold a conversation, then you’re not going to make it very long. Call a spade a spade and hold out for what you want instead of caving to what that harpy is nagging you for. Grow a pair guys! Come on!

Coming off of the train wreck I call the end of my last relationship, I’m having a hard time getting out there again. I don’t like going out to bars and clubs. I stand by my belief that you’re not going to be in the right condition to meet anyone of substance in that situation. Plus I get nervous and sweaty and start using comedy as a defense mechanism. People have been known to call me a “female Jack Black.”

So where do you go when you’re a young actress living in NYC? Some people meet at work, but most of the guys I work with are gay, so where does that leave me? If they are straight they’re taken. Plus, I wouldn’t want to have anything happen to the chemistry of a professional ensemble due to sexual exploits and their occasional post coital awkwardness.

Once upon a time, I had a close friend tell me that men probably didn’t find me attractive because I’m assertive and funny.

“Men want someone they can take care of,” he said.

I’ve spent so much of my life haunted by that sentence. At first I was saddened and hurt by it. I obsessed over how unfeminine he must have thought I was. Now that I’ve matured I’m angered by this sentence. What’s wrong with a self assured woman? Just because you’re confident doesn’t mean you’re not a woman. This is 2009.

There has to be somewhere for the modern woman looking for a meaningful relationship to go. I’m not starting a manhunt or anything, but clearly I’m not doing any of the right things. I’ve heard that you don’t look for love and that it finds you, but sitting in my apartment certainly doesn’t do any good.

A friend of mine wants to go speed dating, but I’m not quite sure it’s for me. I don’t like the idea of paying a company to set me up on dates. I just wish love was natural instead of the “industry” it has become.

"Eat Your Heart Out" by Leah Johnston

I wish I knew when I started to need someone in my life, romantically speaking. I can’t remember when the seed was planted, but I do know the period over which it bloomed, seeping into the hidden places in my heart and winding a web of silver spider silk around my mind, binding it up forever.

I didn’t see it coming, this immense, mind-boggling loss. I never expected to still be feeling pain when an unexpected song comes on the radio or as I lie in bed during the calm before sleep comes to call. Sometimes I really think I must be a sucker for pain. I almost enjoy the chills down my spine when I utter his name in secret.

I never thought of myself as a dependent person. I’ve always been someone who was unafraid to forge into the unknown, accepting all challenges with no regrets. I left home for boarding school when I was fourteen and now I’m doing my best to make my way in New York City. People would tell you I’m a rather self sufficient gal.

These days, I’m not so sure they would be right.

“I don’t know why you’re even giving him a second more of your time. Don’t waste anything else on him,” my Mom said to me over the phone.

A lump rose in my throat.

“I. Yeah, its not that easy. I can’t just erase someone from my life.”

There’s something about the process of leaving your first love that changes you forever. When you are left reeling from your last words as a couple, you don’t have the tools to mend yourself. The blunt, round pegs of friendly advice don’t fit in your newly formed square abyss. You are ill equipped to handle the personal tragedy.

After I broke up with my first love, I almost wanted to wallow in the loss. My relationship ended due to stress from being “long distance” and it killed me that I wouldn’t be able to get closure or make any new memories of us together. I wasn’t going to run into him at the grocery store and remember warm feelings. There was a good chance I might never see him again in person. The only way I could continue to have a relationship with him was to have a relationship with my loss. I became addicted to the pain. Every time I felt myself going numb, I would summon up some vision or sense of his presence lying beside me, arm draped over my waist. I would mash my eyes closed until I could remember every detail.

I was asking for the pain, worshiping it as the only resource I could salvage from the ship I lost at sea. I was holding onto every memory and every word, wrapping myself up in them to keep myself warm because I feared I would never find anything that compared to the depth of my over-dramatic, self-inflicted woe.

The first time I realized I had an paralyzing addiction to this relationship was when my ex and I decided we had to stop saying “I love you” and “I miss you.” I remember the conversation coming to a natural end, followed by a painful burdened silence.

“Yup.” He said.

“Yeah. Well. Uh. Ok.” I said.

“So… I’ll talk to you later then.” Click. The call ended.

I cried and cried, squirming in my bed. I cried till my eye lids hurt. I cried till my pillow looked like a Rorschach test.

Then there’s the question of whether or not you still talk after that point. Is there any reason to risk the pain crushing you repeatedly? Maybe it’s the masochist in me, but when I saw his number flashing on my phone and playing that familiar siren’s song, I had an Pavlovian response.

“Heya.” I would take a deep breath and try to sound busy and important on my end of the line. “What’s up?”

“Nothin’. Nothin’.”

That always drove me crazy. Why do we call each other to say essentially “nothing” is going on unless it’s to fill a need, that emptiness. I wanted him to say he needed me, admit his pain and his struggle. I wanted to know for sure that he was no better off than I was.

We spent the rest of those stilted phone calls working arduously to make conversation, lifting the brick of each topic until we had an unsteady step pyramid. Every time we spoke, I wished we hadn’t, but I couldn’t pull myself away. Every time I thought I could move on, he would call and I would answer. I hated myself immediately afterward. Worse, in low moments I would pick up the phone and call him, hating myself afterwords for voluntarily opening those old comfortable wounds.

I’ve talked to a lot of friends about losing their first serious relationship. There is a sort of camaraderie that comes with the territory. When you’re going through this endless pool of loss, it’s very easy to think of yourself as the only person in the world who could feel or understand such intense pain, but really, when you start talking to other people, you find out you’re just like everyone else.

This phenomena makes me feel two ways. One: It’s comforting to know other people feel the same way you do. Two: It’s disheartening to reduce the lingering magic and longing of your break-up to a right of passage when it’s all you think you have left. It’s never fun to not feel special.

I want to believe that what I had was extraordinary, that this sumptuous affliction actually means something, but I have to wonder if it really does. What if it’s just a bridge everyone crosses at some point?

Everyone says, “You’ll heal eventually.”

I don’t think that’s true. I think everyone just somehow learns to operate under new given circumstances, like an amputee victim learning to walk without a limb. I don’t think the loss of virginity is when you lose your innocence. The loss of innocence occurs when you realize you have to deal with life under unexpected and seemingly unendurable terms.

I’m tired of wading through my antiquated romance. I don’t know how, but like most things, the first step is to accept this new recess in your life, this tiny, bottomless well lodged between your ribs. It’s a fact. It’s not going any place, but that shouldn’t stop you from going anywhere you please. Perhaps you won’t get over it, but you can get on with it, wresting and contending with your life as you take baby steps out your front door and into the real world, learning to live with your phantom limb.

[The following video is from So You Think You Can Dance. It is an especially moving performance by Kupono and Kayla, choreographed by Mia Michaels. This piece is what pushed me to write this article.]

Sometimes I wonder if everything we do in our modern world makes us intrinsically less human, distilling passion and instincts into gray suits and briefcases. Are most of the populous really living to the full potential of our race? Where is the action, the desperation of true love, and the intricate sword play in our every day lives?

In ancient Rome, people walked around armed with swords. There was always a potential threat. A word could get you killed if it landed on the wrong ears. Sex was for anyone who had but a need or a whim for release and everyone was doing it openly with everybody else. If the husband didn’t like being cuckolded, he could simply go out and kill the man his wife was sleeping with. No one would begrudge him this satisfaction.

Today, we have the right to bear arms in this country, but the majority of people that I associate with on a daily basis don’t. Some even openly reject that right, supporting many gun control laws that would keep guns out of the hands of most American citizens.

One observation I’ve made is that the interpretation of the right to bear arms has been distorted. It was originally intended to describe the right to form a militia in order to defend our rights. Now people see the right to bear arms as the right to protect themselves with hand-weapons as opposed to the right to defend the belief system upon which our country was founded. People want to be able to carry concealed weapons or keep guns locked in their cars while they’re at work, or even keep rifles in their homes as if they lived in the Old West.

I am aware that my view on gun control is based mostly on my urban upbringing. If New Yorkers were allowed legally to carry concealed weapons, I think all hell would break loose. Even without a law allowing us to carry lethal weapons, there is sometimes a persistent sense of compression in the city, like at any moment something might pop. Objects could be set in motion that could change our circumstances or our lives at any moment. I feel it often when it’s late at night and I’m taking the subway home with only one or two other occupants in my car. I’ve also felt it as a scuffle between a few men catches my eye from across a crowded street. That sense of compression stays in tact because people do whatever they can, for the most part, to keep themselves cool and contained, with a few exceptions.

Most of the time, when we get angry, it festers with no outlet, eating us alive from the inside out. Rather than attack others, we attack ourselves and blame ourselves for not being able to keep things together. Sure, sometimes we’ll talk things out behind closed doors, but very rarely is there the possible threat of one of us killing another.

Be assured that I am talking from the perspective of a young, private school educated, urban woman. I know that crimes of passion happen every day, but they certainly aren’t happening in my every day life or within the circle of people I normally associate with. I’m also not suggesting that we should all be barbarians and begin killing each other every five seconds and gnawing on turkey legs in our spare time.

The word “barbarian” perplexes me. What does it really mean? The vision of Ancient Rome I described earlier certainly had some barbaric elements, but there was a general movement towards an organized government, which, by definition, is not barbarism.

Then again, I think what I admire most about interpretations and historical accounts of ancient Rome are the more impulsive, passionate qualities of the culture. That is what I mean when I say I wonder if we are “distilling” humanity in our modern culture. I think a lot of people have lost touch with what it means to live in a high stakes environment, to feel the life coursing through their veins or to act on their needs with conviction on a daily basis.

I began thinking about all of this a few weeks ago when a friend of mine from Florida mentioned that people there are allowed to shoot trespassers who come onto their property on sight.

“Holy shit!” I exclaimed incredulously, always the articulate blogger. “But you can’t kill them, can you?”

He just laughed at me and shrugged. “Sometimes when you shoot ‘em, you kill ‘em.”

So even though I often wonder where the passion has gone while I’m making my commute to and from work amidst the milling herd, wondering when we all got slipped our daily dose of “soma,” I am also horrified at the opposite end of the spectrum. It just shocks me that in some parts of the country, entering someone’s property is enough to warrant violence without warning and murder without much punishment. There’s just something about that idea that doesn’t sit comfortably in the pit of my stomach.

It gives me this image of an orange farmer screaming, “This. is. FLORIDAAAAA!” while brandishing an AK-47.

When I was a kid, I used to play with flashlight lightsabers and go to the movies with my friends. From what I hear of rural childhoods, “blowin’ shit up” is a regular after-school activity. YouTube is overflowing with videos of kids from throughout the center of this country blowing up whatever they can find in front of a camera. I even stumbled across one video where a few teenagers were wading into the Mississippi River to find tube worm mound colonies, a staple of that particular ecosystem, and setting them on the ground, followed by shooting them to kingdom come with rifles. The had no clue that they were probably destroying the ecology of that part of the riverbed and were more interested in seeing the strange gooey blobs get blown to smithereens. I also got the impression that they wouldn’t have cared much if they did know about their possible eco-footprint.

This sort of dispassionate violence is what frightens me. A majority of our youth is disconnected from the fact that guns are not toys. They are absolutely lethal. The NRA famously insists that “Guns don’t kill people. People kill people.” However, I’m going to have to jump on the band wagon with British comedian and actor Eddie Izzard here and say, “Yes, but the guns certainly help.”

I remember holding a water gun and pointing at my Dad when I was a little girl.

“Bang, bang, Daddy!” I shouted, holding the gun at his face, point blank.

He moved the gun away from his face with the palm of his and looked at me very seriously. “Never point a gun at someone unless you mean to kill them.”

Sure, it was just a water gun, but my father made certain that I knew what that toy represented. He said his father had imparted the same wisdom to him.

Dispassionate people own lethal weapons in states like Texas and Florida and they can use them without much cause or repercussion. I’m perplexed and torn. On the one hand, I think it is our right to protect ourselves and our families and that people, given the proper licencing, should be able to own guns, though I realize it’s still hard to control how many guns get into unqualified hands. Plus, the dramatic part of me wants my life to be an epic and adventurous tale worthy of the Odyssey. On the other hand, I don’t think we should be teaching our children that guns are a worthwhile “pass-time.” Hunting for food when food needs to be hunted is one thing. Blowing up bear bottles and Indiana Jones action figures for no reason is another. Plus, in terms of our humanity, I don’t think we need the danger of weapons or our lives constantly hanging in the balance to spur us into living a fulfilling life.

Violence isn’t the answer, but I think dispassion is an epidemic.

How do you cure dispassion? How do you light the proverbial fire under humanity’s ass?

When Prometheus stole fire from the Zeus on Mount Olympus and brought it to the mortals below, he took a risk. He wagered his life to bring warmth and knowledge to his fellow man. His story isn’t famous today because of violence, but because of his daring and his contribution to mankind. There is also the bit about how he was punished by having his liver be eaten out by vultures only to grow back every day for all of eternity, but that’s beside the point.

Maybe, what we all need to spice up our lives is a little calculated risk taking. Set your sights on something and go for it. Don’t let opportunities pass you by. Listen to that little voice in your head when it tells you to do something. Listening to your instincts is what keeps you from being a sheep in the middle of a herd.

Perhaps that’s the cure. Only time will tell.

The film is extremely layered and more complex than most Disney movies. Sure, it has its fair share of adult jokes to entertain parents and the most perfect portrayal of what dogs would say if they could talk that I have ever witnessed (I won’t repeat any of it here because it will truly ruin it for people who want to see the movie), but the themes in this movie are what make it so special. I will be discussing parts of the film in detail, so SPOILER ALERT for anyone who cares, but honestly I think reading this would only provide a lens through which to view the film.

Firstly, it contains a poignant vignette detailing the childhood and relationship of Carl Fredrickson and his wife Ellie. As children, they vow to adventure together to Paradise falls in the footsteps of their hero, explorer Charles Muntz. The children grow up and end up getting married and building their dream house, all the while saving up for their adventure. But life often comes with curve balls and they never quite get around to seeing their goal through before Ellie dies and Carl is left with their house full of fond memories and dreams of Paradise Falls. This part of the movie could honestly stand on its own. The story telling is winning and perfect. Bright and funny, you fall in love with the children versions of Ellie and Carl before they fall in love with each other. The depiction of Ellie is particularly articulate. A firecracker, she helps a stifled young Carl to come out of his shell and includes him in her adventurer club.

When I was younger, my best friend Pam and I used to create clubs just about every day. We had soccer clubs and spy clubs and God knows what else. I know we would have had a great relationship regardless of these childish enterprises because we’re like sisters, but I think those clubs did have a very special way of keeping our imagination and impulsive sense of adventure at full throttle. It was very believable to see the relationship between Carl and Ellie bloom from the seeds of their adventurer club to the full bloom of life long love because in my own life, I have grown into such intimate sisterhood with my friend Pam. By intimate, I mean to say honest self deprecation and the examination of the soul rather than some torrid lesbianic affair that the word “intimate” brings to mind for some people. So keep it in your pants, gents.

During the montage of the relationship between Ellie and Carl and her ultimate end, the story tellers gave us specific visual cues to hold onto; the way Ellie always has to set the little, red, ceramic bird on her mantle at the right angle, the mail box that Ellie and Carl put their hand prints on, and most importantly, Ellie’s adventure book which she shares with Carl on eve of their first day as club-mates and presents him with on her last day on Earth.

The first half of the book is filled with Charles Muntz idolatry and drawn pictures of her dream house resting at the top of Paradise Falls. The second is labeled with a title page that reads:

“The Things I’m Going to Do.”

During the powerful montage, Ellie and Carl strive to do those “things” but other things always get in the way and Carl is wracked with depression when he realizes that his wife will never get to fill in those pages. I think we all dream about the things we’re going to do. When we’re children, we’re allowed, encouraged even, to dream up elaborate lives and goals for ourselves. I often think about where I am as opposed to where I thought I’d be. I’m not old enough to be a sage, but I do know that life takes you places you didn’t necessarily think you would go. I also have my journals from my clubs with Pam and they are similarly half full. I never did join the CIA or play soccer in the Olympics so after a while I ran out of things to record from my life as a Secret Agent with a cover as a famous professional athlete.

I was surprised to find that the screenplay writer, Bob Peterson, was not afraid to touch the subjects of Ellie’s miscarriage and personal tragedy at the very outset of the film. I knew I loved this film during the transition from the sepia tones of the sensitive and tender scenes of their wedding and renovating the house and colorful shots of the couple painting the nursery for their expected child, to the stark shot where Ellie finds out she’s miscarried, followed by the shot of a concerned Carl watching her from the window as she is seated in the yard. There was something about the oddly placed wooden dining room chair sitting on the grass and her hair gently wafting in the breeze that was so sad and so intimate. There was also a collective gasp when Ellie died. A little girl sitting in front of me poked her mommy in the arm and exclaimed in disbelief, “She died!?” It brought to mind the first time I saw Bambi. However, when Bambi’s mother dies its a good way through the film. This was within 10 minutes of the start, and yet we as the audience had already felt the weight of a lifespan of love and loss.

For Carl, Ellie lives on in their house through her pictures and the chairs sitting side by side that the couple had enjoyed in their living room, her picture on the wall, and her adventure book. Unfortunately, as is the case with many lonely, elderly folks these days, he ends up facing the reality of a nursing home. Rather than cave and leave his beloved house behind (which he talks to as if it is an incarnation of his dead wife), he opts to spend his last dime and use every remaining helium tank and balloon from his balloon cart to fly his house and his memories far away from his hometown and the waiting nursing home attendants.

This image was so gorgeous and poetic to me. He packs all of his grief, loss, and stubborn habits into his house and takes off with them, leaving the world behind and ready to live cloistered in them for the rest of his life in solitude and peace. When he escapes, he’ll be able to dwell as much on the past as he desires rather than facing the changing modern world springing up around him.

Little does Carl know, his nemesis, a young “eagle scout” who constantly tries to give unsolicited aid to the elderly is stuck on his front porch.

The two characters embark on an adventure to Paradise Falls where they nurture and enrich each other in ways I certainly didn’t expect. Of course it was predictable that the kid would breathe new life in Carl’s stale existence, but what I didn’t expect was the portrayal of the boy named Russell.

He wasn’t just a lively kid that reminded Carl of his wife and how they had acted together as children. Russell was the victim of a broken home. His mother was dead and his father left. Russell describes his memories of his father pinning on his scouting badges and how he hoped that getting this final “Aid to the Elderly” badge would bring him back. I was struck by the brilliant writing of this monologue that exposed how memories of someone aren’t always exciting. They’re just the little important boring things about existing with a person that you remember after they are gone, whether they leave you by choice or they are taken from you.

I relatively recently got out of a long term relationship where I was truly in love with someone. The things I remember and miss aren’t necessarily trips we took or the highs and lows of our time together. I remember waking up next to him and snuggling close, or the way he draped his arm over may waist when we watched Lost on my laptop at night, knowing that I would almost immediately fall asleep- Just the little things that make a house a home.

When they land at walking distance from Paradise Falls, the man and the boy begin dragging the house towards that “promised land” as it floats above their heads. In a moment, instead of being a vehicle, it becomes an obstacle that Carl must contend with and eventually let go of. I found that it was such a perfect metaphor for loss.

You let loss carry you for a while. Then you carry it until you’re ready to let it go.

Watching this play out on screen was such a joy, both in the sense that I giggled and in the sense that I cried. I truly recommend this movie, and for me, seeing it in 3D at the Regal Union Square was worth every penny.