My Top 10 Animated Movies

Lists like these are tricky. Intentional or not, they tend to rouse a little dissonance. I think, however, that it’s all part of the fun. I’ve always enjoyed animated films, but like most people I also have partialities. There are scores of classic and new animated movies cherished by millions that I have neither seen nor likely heard of. So take this list as a subjective glance into my head rather than a distillation of the entire animated film library. I’m nowhere near qualified to do that. Here’s a good reason why: I don’t watch anime. The simple point is that each of these films means something to me. However your top ten differs from mine, I hope it’s for the same reason.

10: The LEGO Movie

Here’s a movie that could have played it safe and only ridden the coattails of the brand upon which it is based. Its producers were bold enough to take their vision further and, to their credit, they succeeded. Beneath the marketing veneer lies a sincere story that addresses complex topics like existentialism, denial, and why we play at all. It’s also a lot of fun, and packs in plenty of laughs. What’s most impressive about The LEGO Movie is its attention to detail. Everything is made of bricks. Oceans, steam, fire – all meticulously designed and rendered brilliantly to mimic old-school stop animation. 

9: Charlotte’s Web

Charlotte’s Web is special because it’s one of the first movies I remember watching as a kid. I obviously didn’t understand the concept of anthropomorphism, even though I practiced it all the time, but the movie may have been the first time I’d seen it depicted. In a sense, this helped me understand my imagination better. Charlotte’s death was sad, but seeing her children drift away in the wind while Wilbur watched helplessly was downright upsetting. I guess that also makes Charlotte’s Web the first movie to break my heart.

8: Aladdin

I lost track a long time ago of how many times I’ve seen Aladdin. While I was a member of the Oregon Marching Band, we played a set of tunes from the movie one year and it ended up being among my favorite performances. “A Whole New World” is arguably Disney’s best song, but the catchy music is only a part of why Aladdin rules. The colorful, charismatic cast, hilarious pop-culture jokes and swashbuckling sense of adventure make it a pleasure to watch again and again.

7: Toy Story 1 & 2

It was too hard to pick between these two, so I cheated and stuck them together (it’s my list, deal with it). When Toy Story came out in 1995, it was a big deal because no one had made a computer-animated feature before. I was six, and what I saw blew my fleshy little mind. It felt like I was watching all of my toys come to life and interact with each other and the environment in the same ways I used them. This was exciting, but it also felt like a finger was being jabbed into my chest because I would disassemble, disfigure and ruin many toys just like Sid. Toy Story absolutely changed the way I looked at my toys after watching it.

    And what can I say about Toy Story 2? It took everything I loved about the first film and elevated it. Expanded journey, more characters, funnier jokes, and a bigger heart. 

 
6: Fantasia

Fantasia doesn’t require much of an explanation. It handily speaks for itself. The abstract, slightly creepy story that sees Mickey playing with the powers of his sorcerer master somehow forms the perfect backdrop to the beautiful classical pieces that accompany each segment. Fantasia 2000 did a nice job bringing the magic to a newer audience, but the original is a wonder and a masterpiece.

5: The Land Before Time

I haven’t seen one sequel or episode of the spinoff TV show. My 1988-version-only LBT experience is fine just the way it is. Nothing will take away the feelings I had watching Littlefoot, Ducky, Petrie, Cera and the affable Spike journey together to find the Great Valley. Try not to think about that scene where Littlefoot’s mother freaking dies after saving him from a T-Rex. I hesitate to use the word traumatizing, but I was way too young for that level of feels when I first saw it. It remains one of the saddest movie moments I’ve ever watched. But the story of friendship and perseverance that follows is all the more tremendous for it.

4: The Incredibles

In 2004, the super hero market was somewhat saturated in the media. Spider-Man was hanging around, Jason Bourne was kicking it, The Punisher was shooting the breeze, Riddick was…okay you get it. Then The Incredibles came along and steam rolled them all. I think it’s the most overall fun movie on this list. The depth of its humor, stylish action and fantastic characters (“I know, darling, I know.”) separate it from the herd in so many refreshing ways. In addition, it made the heroes more relatable than most live-action films by focusing on their dynamic as a family. I know I’m not alone when I say I’m anxiously awaiting the sequel.

3: The Lion King

When The Lion King hit the scene, it marked the loss of innocence of a generation. I’m sure we all know why. Hyperbole aside, it’s a truly wonderful film and a veritable roller coaster of emotional highs and lows. The fact that it gets so many things right stamps it firmly in the upper rungs of this list. James Earl Jones, Jeremy Irons, Matthew Broderick, Nathan Lane, Rowan Atkinson, Whoopi Goldberg and (pretty much) Elton John? Check. Gorgeous visuals? You betcha. Excellent soundtrack? Confirmed. Gripping narrative? Cowabunga. 

2: Toy Story 3

When I first saw the announcement for Toy Story 3, I was more skeptical than excited. The first two films were excellent, but they had their day. We’d all moved on, grown up, and I just wasn’t able to see how Pixar could bring us back without somehow cheapening what came before. It’s amazing, then, that it managed to not only eclipse its predecessors, but do so in a way that sensibly provided the closure us college-age viewers never knew we needed. It’s a fun-filled, twist-ridden ride that nails the chemistry its main cast had 11 years prior, and its touching finale speaks directly to those who may have let go of childish things but can still appreciate their influence.

1: Up

Few movies, animated or otherwise, provide the kind of experience Up does. Every time I watch it, the power of its storytelling hits me in the gut even though I know what’s going to happen. Its opening four-minute montage is such a graceful, heartrending, passionate piece of exposition that it nearly outweighs the rest of the film. But only nearly. Every scene and bend in the narrative is executed flawlessly, as are the relationships cultivated therein. I can think of no fewer than four moments where I utterly failed to hold back tears watching it in theaters, but Up isn’t my favorite animated movie because it made me cry. It’s number one because it’s the complete package: perfect soundtrack, visually striking, genuine, and earnest, but with laugh-out-loud gags and a deeply moving story that anyone can enjoy. 

Party Bus

"Fun level is conditional upon user's definition of the word 'Party.'"

Now that I'm scurrying to and fro in a car, it's led me to reflect on times when I used other forms of transportation.

When I was in middle school I rode the public bus home from west Eugene to north Eugene every day. It was a two-connection ride that took about an hour and a half. On the first bus I'd sit in the back with a group of three other regulars: two guys – a larger fellow named Jeremy and his younger brother – and a girl whose name I have no idea how to spell, but it was pronounced "Katang."*

None of us were that similar, so we didn't get along very well. Jeremy's family was poor, and he and his brother liked to engage in mostly self-deprecating humor. The sort where everyone laughed, but mainly out of discomfort because what was said likely had a sad truth behind it. Katang was a nice enough girl, polite and temperate. But as a conversationalist there was a lot to be desired. Some days she wouldn't say a word to any of us, and when she did it was usually only in response to something else.

I suppose I can't blame Katang too much. Jeremy and his brother were obnoxious, and if the group could be asked today what I was like, I imagine they'd say I was kind of an asshole to everyone. Something I wouldn't argue. I think it was because I considered myself smarter than the others. Really, I was just a naive band kid, boastful and lacking modesty. By the time the bus ride was half over, though, I'd be the only one left. Sitting quietly alone, I would miss their company.

The second bus was always interesting since a large group of students from North Eugene High School used it as well. I did my best to avoid talking to them because they seemed to speak an entirely different language. Occasionally they'd amuse themselves by asking stupid questions like what my preferred liquor or brand of cigarette was. Yes, with my high water jeans, saxophone case and over-gelled hair...clearly, I spent my free time chain smoking and knocking back fingers of rye malt.

They also gave me a nickname. Little P. When I'd step off the bus someone would always call out, "Yo, Little P, peace to the P.O.C.!" I figured in time I might come to understand what the fuck that was supposed to mean, but I'm still waiting. By now, chances are one of them gave birth to a Little P of their own. I'm certain the lectures it's heard on peace treaties for this nebulously defined P.O.C. have been invigorating.

*Out of curiosity I decided to Google it, and appparently "Katang" is an actual word. It's the name of an indigenous Laotian subgroup whose members live in longhouses and stretch their earlobes with bamboo. The more you know, I guess: http://joshuaproject.net/people_groups/12566/LA

I Never Did Like Mushrooms

Pretty accurate, actually. Just replace 'bad' with 'Scheiße,' and you've got the idea.

               

            Cockroaches were a consistent problem in the restaurant I worked at. Every night I had to pour a bucket of warm water and bleach into the drains to keep them away. As the smell of chlorine rose up from the slats, my thoughts would often drift toward the macabre. I pictured a company of the insects toddling though the pipes beneath us. Maybe they had heard tales: a rich stock of food and other spoils just waiting for anyone intrepid enough to claim it. Suddenly, a chemical tidal wave sweeps them away, back down to whatever murky hole they crawled out of. With that, the expedition meets its end. Most would die, though some of the resilient bastards might live. I would wonder if cockroaches had developed the capacity to seek vengeance, and if I should sleep with one eye open and a boot tucked under my pillow.
          I can’t remember what I hoped my first job would be. Maybe it’s better that way. What I do remember is that my expectations were low. Washing dishes and doing grunt work wasn’t impressive, but I was seventeen and earning my own money. By this measure it was enough. My father drove me to work and picked me up when my shifts ended, generally 11 p.m. or later. I’d come home smelling like grease and dish soap, my fingers pruned from pan scrubbing. Because it was usually a school night, I’d head straight to my room and fall onto my bed in a heap.
          Chanterelle isn’t around anymore, but it was a tiny restaurant at the edge of downtown Eugene. Its entrance was at the end of a plain hallway, past another restaurant and a novelty store. The owner was an ambitious but naive man named Kurt who’d recently purchased the restaurant from its original proprietor and chef of 23 years, a towering German by the name of Ralf. It was this pair who interviewed me for the job. Ralf didn’t say much except at the end when he nodded and told me, his voice choppy and deep, “You seem like a good young man.” The next day I was asked to come in for training.
          As it turned out, the replacement chef was there that day as well. He went by JP, a thin guy in his late 20s with a new wife and a taste for garage band music. During prep times he would blast The White Stripes in the kitchen, singing along with a raspy, east coast inflection that made him sound like a teenager. JP spent most of the day learning the menu with Ralf while I was shown the ropes by Isaac, a 30-year-old with sandy hair, who’d been washing dishes at Chanterelle for two years and was being promoted to busboy.
          Isaac was a good tutor, though his dependence on the word “fuck” and its derivatives made for a colorful lesson. I tied on my apron and went through a dizzying routine of organization, sanitization and initiation. I was taught not only how to clean lettuce and operate a dishwasher, but also how to operate within this well-oiled machine that had retained pretty much the same clientele for over two decades. With time I got good at it, but on occasion that time took a turn for the wearisome or awkward.
          When Ralf taught me how to make appetizer salads, he was very particular about every aspect of their preparation. He watched quietly as I plated one, then told me it looked like shit and to try again. I did, but it still wasn’t right. I was mixing in too much dressing and the salad sagged under the weight. Ralf grew impatient. He took the plate away from me and dumped the sloppy mess into the garbage. We started again, only this time Ralf decided to explain things differently.

            “How old are you again?” he said.

            “Seventeen.”

            “Right. You know women, and how you like to have their tits up?”

            I was deciding whether I should laugh or just nod silently when the 68-year-old held up both hands and made a squeezing motion.

             “That is how the salad should be.”           

          A couple of weeks in, I walked out of the freezer with an armful of lobster tails and saw JP prepping abalone, our most expensive entree. He dropped the shellfish on the ground as I entered the kitchen. Not missing a beat, he hunched over and scooped it up, a finger pressed to his lips in earnest. Someone paid fifty dollars for it later in the night, and I walked back to the sinks without saying a word.
          Kurt came to me on a Monday holding a box of latex gloves and a flashlight. I tried my best to not appear incredulous, but I already didn’t like where this was headed.

            “Hey dude, I’ve got a job for you,” he said.

          A mouse had died somewhere in the bar over the weekend. I laid down on my back and slowly panned the flashlight under the cabinets until I found it. It was just within my reach, so I slid it out by the tail and set it in a paper bag and threw it away.
          I tossed out sacks of waste that weighed almost as much as I did. Oils and fats got poured into an aluminum container, which I would lug to the communal grease dumpster – a black cauldron full of God-knows-what that always smelled of bacon. Maybe they recycled the stuff into candles. Maybe it just got poured into a different, bigger dumpster. I got bruises and cuts and burns, and developed a foul vocabulary to help me deal with it all.
           I was always on my feet, always moving. Breaks were out of the question even though they were a legal requirement. No one forced me to work through them, it was just too busy and I couldn’t afford to fall behind. At the end of the night, dishwashers were typically given a cut of the waiters’ tips. Depending on who was working that night, I’d pocket anywhere from three to fifteen dollars. Sometimes I’d get nothing. Regardless of what I received, I was always appreciative, and the staff liked me for it.
           We kept the trash and recycling bins on the exterior of the building, and I always took my time out there while breaking down boxes or discarding empty wine bottles. A railroad track ran parallel to it, and if a train rolled by I’d wave at the passengers. Or maybe gossip with the employees of adjacent restaurants who were out on a smoke break. On quiet evenings I’d be able to hear music from the jazz club next door, so I’d linger for a while and listen.
           That lasted for eight months, then I went to college and took a campus job. I like to think that the cockroaches are still at war with whichever poor soul has to flush them to oblivion. Or maybe they grew up and moved on, too.

That Time I Was an Ice Queen

I was an exceptionally poor sport as a child. Whenever I played board games with my family and things didn’t go my way, I’d throw a fit. These situations typically ended with me smacking everything off the board or flipping it over entirely before being sent to my room to pout. A combination of good parenting and time corrected this, but didn’t erase the fundamental emotion. It wasn’t anger; I was just stubborn. And still am, much more so than I let on. Most would agree that I project a generally mild personality, which isn’t some sort of mask. It’s more of a deliberate mechanism I use to temper a deeply rooted competitive spirit, one that can often be unsympathetically aggressive.

But here’s the funny part.

My favorite board game by far was Candy Land, where players wind around a colorful track in a race to reach the Candy Castle. Literally the only requirement to play this game is the ability to identify colors. Along the track you pass by a number of Candy Land’s inhabitants, such as Grandma Nut or Lord Licorice, and some cards let you skip right to them. The best of them all was Queen Frostine. With her billowy blue dress and snowflake wand, she was a captivating and majestic figure. 

"Excuse me, but am I the only one around here who thinks
those Candy Crush bastards ripped us off?" - Queen Frostine

Nothing was more important to me than getting the Queen Frostine card. Sometimes the difference between a flipped board and a non-flipped board hinged on it.

For whatever reason, I became fixated on this female character. It got to the point where I had my grandmother stitch me a tiara and veil, and make me a wand. There are photos of me, when I was maybe five years old, running around outside with my uncle, veil flowing in the wind and wand waving proudly. I remember this happening. I also remember eventually getting bored of them, then moving on to whatever interested me next.

It’s remarkable how many implications can be drawn from a simple act. My mother told me much later that, at the time, she thought maybe this was indicating something. I was too young of course to understand why what I was doing wasn’t “normal,” it was simply fun to me. That fun just happened to translate into me pretending I was a magical frost queen who lived in a sugarcoated utopia.

We all perform our gender. It’s when we don’t adhere to the rules of gender performance that people actually take notice, and a multitude of assumptions are made. What we identify as masculine or feminine behaviors, preferences and attitudes reside at the apex of culture on high display, and are difficult to look away from. The focus is less on being, and more on doing.

 

"It appears we're at an impasse."

So maybe acting on my stubborn, competitive side when I was younger could just be another of case of “boys will be boys.” How does that reconcile with impersonating a cartoon queen, beyond the fact that I was too young to get it? A different example: If a woman is a feminist, then she will tune her gender performance to deflect men, in light of her clearly anti-patriarchal views. Either of these is a shortsighted assumption based on expectations defined by culture. Girls can be just as competitive as boys. Feminism is a complex structure of beliefs that contains more nuance than “Men suck,” i.e., just because a woman is a feminist, it doesn’t mean she finds men unattractive.

The point is basic – gender performance is a weak indicator of self, yet so observable that it receives more attention than it deserves. Individuals have to decide how much they want this to affect their lives, and it would be impossible to speculate what this means for each person. Or, you know, maybe you also frolicked around for a few days with a veil and wand like I did.

Sushi, Farts, And Brilliant Night Skies

 

I spent this past weekend visiting my step-mom’s family in Battleground, Washington. My aunt Shirley, her husband Kier, and their four kids own a house and property nestled between several fields and stands of trees on a hill just outside of city proper. It’s a strikingly beautiful location. Cows graze lazily in adjacent meadows, small farms dot the landscape, the wind meanders around the treetops, making them sway. A vegetable garden about the size of a tennis court sits just to the right of the main road entrance. There’s plenty of room for running and games as the property line cuts a wide circle around the house into the forest. You simply couldn’t ask for a better or more private location to gather a large group of friends and family.

One thing about the Gombart family is that they’re an immensely creative and imaginative bunch. They always take full advantage of this space by decorating the hell out of it each year in accordance with a specific theme, and spend months planning and putting it all together. The last time I went it was Pirates of the Caribbean, while previous years included a rodeo. For this occasion the theme was Asia. A massive paper mural adorned with all the Chinese signs and their corresponding birth dates was taped along the front of the house. Kier stood at the ready with a mallet in hand next to a small gong, clanging it as we walked past to announce our arrival. Around back was a structure made of lashed bamboo poles with lanterns and origami hanging down. Wide canvases painted with Japanese symbols were staked along the perimeter. There was a stage and even a sumo mat spread a few meters away from the porch. 

Everyone ate lunch together – salad, tea, limeade, homemade sushi, fresh fruit. Then we gathered on the lawn to watch the first of three scheduled events: Sumo wrestling. They pulled out all the stops on this one, including two of those “one-size-fits-all” plastic sumo suits. It’s your own personalized fat suit that you squeeze your legs into, hoist up around the shoulders, and then inflate via a nozzle behind your neck. When I put mine on I felt like I was wearing a space suit, except my belly and ass were spilling all over the place while my arms flapped uselessly at my sides. You’re also not able to actually walk in these things. I waddled and hopped awkwardly to the mat, my cousin scooting over in his suit to square up in front of me. Speakers were set up, and Kier downloaded a virtual soundboard with chants, gongs, a 3-second countdown, and even a gravelly voiced announcer with cool phrases like “First blood!” and “Megakill!”

He also had the foresight to include farts.

Sweaty and bulbous, we squatted down in preparation for the match when Kier triggered a thunderous fart. It echoed across the landscape and sent our audience into peals of laughter. After the countdown, my opponent and I lunged at one another, colliding our portly synthetic epidermises to the tune of several more rips of splashy flatulence. By the time I had knocked my cousin out of the ring we were both utterly exhausted from the exertion while everyone else was exhausted from laughing so much.

We moved on to the second event. A Ninja Warrior-inspired obstacle course that included a hay bale climb, a balance beam, and a stick attached to an old cherry picker. This last piece was interesting. Essentially you hung on for dear life while being lifted into the air and carried to another platform for drop off. To spice it up, three plastic bottles sat on sticks along the way, and needed to be kicked off for bonus points. Several valiant attempts were made at this with a few victors. During my attempt, my grip gave out while flailing my legs at a bottle and I sliced my hand as I fell. “Impressive!” boomed the fake announcer.

The final event was a rickshaw race. A rickshaw is a small human powered carriage with room for one or two people in the seat. The person in the back had to hold a cup of water steady while the driver ran through a course as quickly as possible. Most everyone took a crack at this, with one team making a particularly daring run with little to no regard for balancing the cup. As they flew around the final corner of a downward slope leading to the finish line, the driver’s legs slipped on the grass. He fell instantly on his face but held his grip, yanking the rickshaw to the ground and sending his poor passenger, whose focus at the time was on balancing the water, tumbling headfirst out of the seat. Luckily no one was hurt, and they even managed to retain a few drops in their cup.

The day ended with dinner followed by a talent show. Most of us slept outside in tents, but before turning in everyone watched Jet Li’s Hero projected onto a sheet hanging on the side of the house. I didn’t stay awake long enough to finish the film, but right before drifting off I took a moment to gaze at the sky. It was a cloudless night, and the last thing I remember thinking was how clear and beautiful the stars looked up and away from the light of the city.

War of the Worldz

"So yeah. Right about here, I think, would be a great point for my shirt to get ripped off?"

Here we are at last. World War Z. The movie adaptation of one of my favorite pieces of zombie literature. So, what did I think?

Goddamn it. Buckle your seatbelts…

First things first. I typically like watching film adaptations because I appreciate the limits and advantages of the medium compared with those of written works. Most of them suck, but a few of them are brilliant. James Ellroy’s L.A. Confidential is a rich and expansive crime novel that I thoroughly enjoyed. The 1997 film adaptation was just as much fun because its script took everything dark, intriguing, sexy, and complex about the book and condensed it into a narrower framework that paid homage to its source yet worked beautifully on its own.

I’ll skip the part where I attempt to stand on a flimsy pedestal and seethe over how novels are better than their movie counterparts simply because they are novels. Virtually everyone who’s read the source material of an adaptation will agree that the original content is superior. Yes, books will always be a more effective vessel for exploiting the tool that best scratches our itch for creative satisfaction – that tool being the imagination. Fine and dandy. I watch movie adaptations because I want the visual representation to be distinct. I want it to simultaneously vindicate and surprise my imagination while at least maintaining the flavor of what it’s adapting.

Sadly, World War Z fails in this pursuit and happens to be an average horror/thriller anyway.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t make this point abundantly clear: the film is not actually World War Z. Sure, it shares the same title as the book, but that is quite seriously the only common thread I could identify. This movie is essentially what Sunny Delight is to orange juice. It could have just as easily been titled Zombeez, Zombeez Err’where LOL! and I wouldn’t have sat up in my seat yelling, “Hey! This is the plot to World War Z!” They are completely different experiences. The book deftly and realistically examines what the impact of a worldwide zombie plague would look like through a series of disturbing interviews with survivors of the war. While I would never say it belongs in the upper echelons of American literature, it’s provocative and mature, and gave me plenty to consider once I’d finished it.

The film, on the other hand, jettisons this approach in favor of spectacle and peril. It’s a shallow and ironically soulless movie about U.N. investigator Gerry Lane (Brad Pitt), who is tasked with traversing the globe in search of clues to thwart a sudden viral outbreak that is rapidly turning the world’s population into mindless screeching beasts. I don’t really recall the names of any other characters because, frankly, the film didn’t make me give a damn about them. You’ll meet a character, they’ll say or do something to point Gerry in the right direction, then usually die or fade into the background a few minutes later. Its story is riddled with enough horror clichés and bone-headed mistakes by the characters that by movie’s end you’ll likely be shaking your head and chuckling, flabbergasted by their stupidity.

Also, the movie just isn’t particularly scary. Sure there are a few jump scares, but they’re rather cheap, mostly due to the watered down tone of the film in keeping with its PG-13 rating. Whose idea was that? If they were trying to make the movie more palatable then all they succeeded in doing was make it boring. I don’t need excessive gore for thrills, but zombies are brutal and gruesome by their very nature. By making the movie almost entirely bloodless, the filmmakers put a leash on a critical aspect of what makes zombies so horrifying. In my view, this was a mistake. What you’ll mostly see are hordes of zombies running pell-mell at the fleeing populace, pouncing on anyone they find and then sort of slapping them to death. 

"Holy shit, run! They're ferociously tickling everyone in their path!"

It’s frustrating, considering this is pretty much the first highly publicized, big-budget zombie film to be released since Zack Snyder’s 2004 remake of Dawn of the Dead.  The ending does leave a door open for a sequel, which makes me equal parts nervous and hopeful that Skydance will somehow improve this mess. And while I’m sure when the day comes I’ll haul myself to go see it in theaters, my expectations will certainly be lower than they were for this film. Which is a shame. But my little heart just can’t handle being broken like that again.  

*sniff*

Lovability

Ice, ice, baby...

A couple of days ago I watched a man on the sidewalk as he stood next to a sign that read, “Love. A Feeling or a Choice?” He was surveying those who passed by which one they felt defined love best. I did not approach him, but I mused over the question for a while before deciding that neither option was satisfactory. They don’t go deep enough, because love cannot simply be a choice or a feeling. It’s both – it is an ability.

A character in the film Dan in Real Life (a very funny and sincere movie) mentions this to the protagonist at one point. I’ll try to explore my interpretation of its meaning. When I say love is an ability, I’m not referring to it as a skill so much as the basic idea that it’s something you are able to do. You possess the will and the emotion, a synchronized harmony, that is necessary for love to be cultivated between two people.

For argument’s sake, let’s claim that love is just a feeling. I agree with this to the extent that I do not believe we can choose who we have feelings for. Love can be sneaky. It can also stampede right past you and leave your head spinning like a top. But the emotion happens some way or another. It can be blindsiding, or it can be a slow burn that requires a little patience before it ignites. So at the end of the day you have all these feelings floating around. That’s great, but now what do you do with them?

Circumstances dictate the tempo of our lives and every single one of us experiences moments where we swim with or against the current. Love doesn’t respect this system and it certainly doesn’t cater to what is convenient, only to what is true. This is where choice comes into play. You can harbor all the feelings in the world for someone, but will you choose to act on them? I’m going to sidestep this for a moment, because you might be thinking, “Cameron, look! You said ‘feelings’ before ‘choose,’ so your logic reveals that love, at its root, is a feeling and not a choice.”
 
You’d be right, but not entirely. Again, I think that, fundamentally speaking, we can’t choose to feel authentic love for a person. It just happens, like an itch or a spontaneous craving for Jelly Bellies. You could fake it, but it wouldn’t mean anything. I also believe that in order to experience true love, the emotion has to genuinely exist and come foremost. That’s just my opinion, but the argument that this means love can be defined as only a feeling is flawed when considering the bigger picture.

Going back to where we were: You have these warm & cozy emotions, but they’re essentially worthless unless acted upon. How are you supposed to share love with someone, not simply have love for them, if they’re unaware of your affections? Something at sometime somewhere needs to coalesce, and that requires the choice of action.

Now, you tell me which one is more valid. The feeling, or the choice?

I say neither. How does the saying go…It’s not what you feel, but what you do, that counts. Love is not this black and white, but the idea still holds weight. The love you feel isn’t tangible unless you are willing and able to do something about it.

Perhaps you’re willing yet, for whatever reason, still unable. This doesn’t mean your love for someone isn’t genuine or less meaningful, your ability to love this person has simply been cut short. Maybe the timing is off. The circumstantial flow is sweeping you in another direction. Love is rather pesky this way. Some are able to oppose the current, while others are not. There’s no right or wrong answer here. It’s a personal choice that doesn’t necessarily have bearing on the emotional element, but the ability to love is affected nonetheless. A few are lucky enough to find both their lives and their love ambitions moving in the same direction. Whether by providence or preparation, if this applies to your life, don’t ever take it for granted. Love completely and for the right reasons. Make it worth it for those who are still searching, still wanting, or still waiting. Everything has a way of working itself out in the end.

We choose to feel; we feel, therefore we choose.