Tucson Shooting and a/b

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No politics or ruminations or jokes or YouTube clips or, well, much of anything to say at this point except to extend best wishes for a speedy recovery to our friend “Ashleigh Burrows,” who styles herself in comments here as “a/b.” She was apparently one of those injured in yesterday’s shooting in Tucson. According to another RAMH favorite, Nance, a/b was hit by three bullets, which did not hit any organs but did shatter her hip. She’s awaiting surgery on Wednesday, as we understand it.

Quite possibly she likewise awaits — almost as eagerly — the arrival of an Internet-connected keyboard, so she can say something pithy about the whole experience.

If you get a chance, stop by at The Burrow and wish her well.

[Thanks again, Nance!]

[Update 2010-01-12: Comments are now closed on this post.]

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P.S. In a slightly not-quite-macabre coincidence, at the time I learned about a/b I’d already begun reading this article at the NY Times — about what happens to your cyberself after your earthly one moves on. May be something to think about, if you haven’t already.

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The (Mostly Bogus?) War Between Men and Women

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From Seems to Fit, Chapter 23(ish):

Bonnie loved her own laugh. Or rather, she loved that George and other men loved it, that spontaneous eruption of trills and musical bubbles which erupted from her throat and open mouth when something struck her as especially funny — especially when the something wasn’t meant to be funny. She loved the way it made men’s heads swivel in a restaurant or crowded train, looking for the source of sudden brooksound. This laugh always caught even her by surprise, the first blurt and the ripple of voice and breath which followed quickly on its heels: it felt like a rabble of schoolkids at recess, chasing after and tumbling over one another.

But she also knew the trouble which could follow when that laugh emerged at a moment not funny at all to those around her, to men especially, no matter how deeply ridiculous the moment (and the seriousness with which men regarded it) might be.

How different are men and women? And what, exactly — even approximately — takes place at the vertices where they bump into one another?

I’m not talking physical vertices, of course. (This isn’t that sort of blog.) It’s like… Well, a couple years ago I devoted a blog post to the importance of edges: those (sometimes invisible) lines where two disparate things meet. In simplest geometric terms, an edge occurs where one two-dimensional plane intersects another. (In order to intersect at all, the two planes must “differ” in at least one respect: their angles in space.)

But all kinds of things scrape up against all kinds of other things. The taste of one cupcake ingredient juxtaposed with another. The sound of a musical note against a silence. Countries. Cultures. Ideas.

Are you familiar with the word frotteur? It comes from the French word frottage, rubbing, and is a term applied to someone who derives physical — often sexual — pleasure from rubbing against someone else. While the pleasure isn’t physical (I’m not that far gone), I sometimes think of myself as a frotteur of ideas and facts.

So what the heck is it, exactly, that happens in that narrow, narrow, quark-wide little gap where men and women intersect? Is it a “war”? Is it even friction? Is it even confusion?

(In what follows, please understand that I’m certainly not ignorant of extreme cases — relationships of brutal violence, physical or otherwise, or weird power trips and perversions. I’m just not talking of them for now. I’m talking of “normal” relationships — whatever the hell that means.)

[Read more…]

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Is It Love? (Local Edition)

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Among the valued newcomers to RAMH‘s roll of occasional commenters, you may have encountered one “Ashleigh Burrows.”

(I use the quotation marks there because that name, as I understand it, is a nom de plume. Which makes it interesting that she calls her blog The Burrow: it’s an eponym for a pseudonym, and how many times can one claim to have seen one of those before?)

a/b, as she styles herself in her comments here, there, and elsewhere, is (like many of us) a writer still unconvinced that simply writing well is enough. When not actively fretting along those lines, she fills in the blog with, well, good writing on a wide variety of topics — provocative questions, political commentary, accounts of daily life with a cast of bizarrely nicknamed characters (The Big Guy and G’ma, sure, got them, and the Big and Little Cuter I pretty much understand to be her kids — but Amster? Aged Parm?)…

Anyway, I direct your attention to a recent post at The Burrow, “Is It Love?” It’s full of the sort of nagging, not-quite-rhetorical questions which some of us (yes) love to chew on:

  • Can one look at another with devotion and desire, knowing that the feelings are not returned, and still call it love?
  • Is there a cognitive component that is necessary for love to exist?
  • Can you love someone you do not need? If the loved one were to vanish and you felt no pain, did you really love at all?

And so on. She sums up:

Many, many questions. I’m not sure the answers are available. I’m not sure that your answers would be mine (or [jilted lover of Aeneas] Dido’s). I just know that love is strange.

Aye. That it is… strange, and troublesome as hell. Even more than “the sex talk,” I wonder how parents manage “the love talk” for their blossoming charges. I don’t have any kids myself, of course. But if I did, what follows would be how I might try to explain it to them — in hopes of arming them before the first thunderbolt hit.*

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