Simulacrum

Recently my roommate taught me two words: foamite, and simulacrum. Since a word meaning an inanimate object that hoards germs doesn't sound too appealing as a blog post, we'll go with the imitation, an "unreal or vague semblance." I am drawn to the artificial. People sometimes ask me how I've passed the time, and once in a while I can dazzle them with fascinating answers full of strength of character and depth of thought; but truthfully, I also have had to answer many times that I was at home, watching a bad movie. Step Up 2: The Streets comes to mind, or most recently the mediocre romance, P.S., I Love You. I take pleasure in watching characters who for 2 hours can say the perfect, if coined, phrases, visit grandiose homes in Ireland, find fabulous careers as luxury shop keepers in New York, and glide around in designer clothing while maintaining that they are poor. It is a hallow escapism to be sure, but also satisfying to see happy, romantic stories unfold.

Is this like Plato's "chairness" of romance, where there is the perfect thing out there and we produce and consume cheap imitations until we find it? Or does this easy-to-swallow romantic simulacrum corrupt and distress our already limited understanding of love? I know in my heart of hearts that the love shown in most movies is a far cry from the time and effort it takes to build that perfect romance, but wouldn't it be nice if the serendipity only found in Hollywood would be real? I watch the artificial, and let it persuade me for a time that it is someone's reality, if not mine. And when the lights come on, it is exposed as the love boggart, a shadow of what I hope to work towards someday. This post is neither a quip nor a giggle, but I conclude that simulacrums are seductive distractions from this universal truth: perfect love is a lifelong process, and where the movies glitter like fool's gold, the real thing will yield a depth and richness only known by those who already have it. I hope.