Saturday, April 2, 2016

April 2: Cheap Commodity, Monster Energy Drinks, Billy Collins, "I Love You"

We all say it.  When I leave for work in the morning, I kiss my wife goodbye, whisper, "I love you."  After I'm done saying bedtime prayers with my son, I say, "I love you, bud."  As my daughter leans over me, presents her head for me to kiss before she disappears into her room for the night, I say, "I love you."

I often wonder if saying "I love you" so much lessens its meaning.  My son, when he gets a new computer app, says, "I loooooove this game."  I'm teaching Cormac McCarthy's The Road in my good books class currently; I told my students, "I love this book."  My daughter loves drinking Monster energy drinks.  My wife loves taking naps.

I often wonder if love has become a cheap commodity.  Maybe we should reserve that word for really important people and things--like spouses, children, parents, siblings, and the occasional stuffed crust pizza.  For example, yesterday, I stopped by the cemetery to visit my sister's grave.  I talked to her for a little bit, and, when I left, I put my hand on her headstone and said, "I love you."

Perhaps we should find substitutes for the word "love" when "love" really isn't the correct term.  Here are some suggestions:
  • I am grateful for...
  • I put up with...
  • I don't hate...
  • I can stand...
  • I accept...
  • I enjoy...
  • I wouldn't mind...
  • I can't avoid...
  • I like...
  • I get along with...
  • I don't get sick by...
Those are just a few alternatives I've come up with.  Try them out.

Here's another Billy Collins poem, because you all know Saint Marty loves Billy Collins.

"I Love You"

by:  Billy Collins

Early on, I noticed that you always say it
to each of your children
as you are getting off the phone with them
just as you never fail to say it
to me whenever we arrive at the end of a call.

It's all new to this only child.
I never heard my parents say it,
at least not on such a regular basis,
nor did it ever occur to me to miss it.
To say I love you pretty much every day

would have seemed strangely obvious,
like saying I'm looking at you
when you are standing there looking at someone.
If my parents had started saying it
a lot, I would have started to worry about them.

Of course, I always like hearing it from you.
That is never a cause for concern.
The problem is I now find myself saying it back
if only because just saying good-bye
then hanging up would make me seem discourteous.

But like Bartleby, I would prefer not to
say it so often, would prefer instead to save it
for special occasions, like shouting it out as I leaped
into the red mouth of a volcano
with you standing helplessly on the smoking rim,

or while we are desperately clasping hands
before our plane plunges into the Gulf of Mexico,
which are only two of the examples I had in mind,
but enough, as it turns out, to make me
want to say it to you right now,

and what better place than in the final couplet
of a poem where, as every student knows, it really counts.

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