It Might Be Love

Hello my pretties,

I have a lover's quarrel with the word "love." It seems to be over-used, mis-used, and mistaken for anything from sexual consent to the quality of steak. I hate the word love, but I love the idea of love, notwithstanding its various connotations. To wit: give me love, but give me the real thing, with no additives or preservatives, full of nature and decay and rebirth and cyclic goings on. Don't f.u.c.k around with love, or even with the word, for it will surely hide itself from you. It is the gift of the magi, which is no gift at all except in the sense that the magi shows you what you had all along. You are not in love, my pretties, as much as you are in love with the ideas of what love seems to be to you.

Time and gravity work together, remorselessly and viciously, to hasten us towards a good definition of love. Time will never stop; it goes on and grinds us finer than the mills of any god, forcing gravity to wreak havoc on breast and buttock and optimism and faith in humanity. But they are co-conspirators in life, that wonderfully elusive, flighty thing that is as hard to define as anything else. But this is what love might be: the idea of bonding on a level so deep and abiding that all we see is the inner soul. The shared miseries and joys that only time and gravity can bless us with as we come to another bend in the river, past Adam and Eve, before God and algebra scare the s-h-i-t out of us. It is a full circle that we travel more than once, and this motion, though dizzying, might let me love.

It might be love, this awareness that comes with age and humility and quiet joys that, still, never match the tactile ecstasies of youth, but are joys that last longer - embers that burn longer, not hotter. It is not for me to promenade my years like a medal, but rather for me to use those years to guide me past whatever is around the next bend. The next dark corner of the dark corners in my soul, corners that I must have so that I can distinguish light from illumination, so I can tell what I am from what I used to be.

My head spins and my thoughts strain to stay against the centripetal force of change and years and experiences and epiphanies and flashes of intuition that really isn't intuition at all but an accumulation of little things that add up to a big thing. And what is the big thing? Just another in a long, long line of big things that breed this thought, this cursed, beautiful thought that maybe love isn't what love is. Despite my verbal convolutions, I know what I mean. I mean that love is always in disguise, and unless you like costume balls, you're screwed.

Which is why, at any given moment, I could easily fall in love with a woman anywhere around the age of 50. No, I'm not casting the net out there, seeing what I get; it's a declaration of truth and, ultimately, a decision to bare my soul and let you, dear reader, see just how vulnerable I am. And, dear reader, just how vulnerable you are, or will become.

The truth is, we have shared experiences. Incredible heartaches have assailed us at some points in our lives. We have been through the fires of life, have learned lessons far too late, have regretted so much, have felt intense and everlasting joy which we strive mightily to recapture before we are gone, and we are desperate - desperate I say! - to find some sort of meaning in the milieu of kaleidoscopic entropy that we call life. We have been caged, set free, and caged ourselves yet again, and the view, my pretties, is much uglier but much more intriguing than before. Let us be what we must, for we will strain against what we know cannot be right; we are not pert-breasted nor full of naive optimism anymore, but we have something better. We have sorrow, and sorrow is the most fertile ground in which to live. We are the only ones who know the substance and texture and taste of real hope.

It doesn't matter if we are tall or short, petite or full-figured, gay, straight, or both. It might be love, living as long as we have, thumbing our noses at life, which dares us to survive as long as we can. Yes, my pretties, I want to kiss you, to love you, to hold you in a secure and tender embrace, but I want this for you, for I know that it might be love. It might be the last, best chance to see God through the fracture, the last, best way to connect with mother earth, to be, finally, pacific and part of it all. Then again, it might be an attempt to escape bad TV and lonely holidays. It might be love, or a reasonable facsimile thereof.

So, love me tonight with Ry Cooder strains echoing hauntingly in the recesses of my too-full mind. Touch me with cotton panties and Karen Carpenter vocals, liberate my darkness with "The Bluest Eyes In Texas" sung a capella, in three-part harmony. Moan and scream in pleasure, but let it be your pleasure, not mine, for mine is at hand, feeling hot breath on skin, feeling the claw marks that grab for life and love and all the things we lost in the fires of life. And, dear reader, let it be your little secret, your moment that no one can take away, that moment of all moments when you knew, you knew that it was love. The morning sun will show receding storm clouds on country roads, and you will walk that road, and it will be the road that haunts your dreams and soothes your soul when you wash clothes, wash dishes, dust the china, ruffle the pillows, cook the meatloaf, brush your teeth, clip your nails. The ennui will be magical when it might be love, because, dear reader, if it might be love, then it might be the magic elixir that gets us through another decade. It might be the thing that makes us love better, longer, deeper, hotter than the kids who fall in love with tattoos and young teachers. Brad Pitt may have Angelina, but he can never kiss as good as we can - if it might be love.

Love is what we know. I just don't know if it's what we have...

 

DS

DentedSyke DentedSyke
56-60, M
3 Responses Feb 15, 2009

Hi, Ds, wow i am new to this site, you certainly convey a twisted yet accurate view of the human state of mind.<br />
curious as to where in the world you live, and love the idea of the commune only knowing very well that human emotions such as jealously, possesivness, and all the others throughout time have always been and always will be a big interference factor. email me back if you want to chat! aloha from Maui Hawaii

Thank you for sharing that. I 'love' your way with words...

very nice story!