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Saturday, May 10, 2008

"Love loves to love love."



That is the only line I remember from James Joyce's, Uylsses.

This is the first part of a multi-blog I'm doing on Love (yes, the in-sentence capitalized version, signifying its idea-ness.)

Honestly, I don't really know much about love. Never been "in it" myself. But! I do know the many incarnations, intimately, like each cut/pimple/blemish/zit on my face.





Yep. That's about my usual reaction to a beautiful woman (minus the black hole in this guys' pants. I tend towards some sort of a lump.) But, y'know, what guy doesn't act like this in their head when they see/meet/talk to/cop a feel with a beautiful women? And honestly, for most guys - don't deny it, dudes - even the most basic-looking girls always come off like the wet-dream in this picture. (Side note: this picture was done by the same crack-team responsible for Ren & Stimpy, of glorious 90's cartoon fame.)




Normally, I'm a total chauvinist (probably because of my lack-luster lady skills) but sometimes, you just gotta give it up. We guys can, and are, often pretty big fucking dumbshits when it comes to interpersonal skills.

But, back to Love. What is Love? Is it that feeling you get when you see a reaally hot chick walking past the Abercrombie&Fitch store with her oh-so artfully shredded super-mini jean-skirt and bosom-clinging blouse? Or, is it something deeper, like an erection, but more romantic?

I used to think of Love as this thing people fall into. It was like a void. It sucked you up somehow, black-hole style, and when you came out the other side it was a different world and you were a different you. (I went through a serious sci-fi phase in my life...and I read a lot of Stephen Hawking.)

Only a couple of years ago, right on the cusp of high-school graduation, Love was this to me:





Can we say: emo? Give me some credit though - a string of unfortunate rejections (Brianne Aronson was the worst; fundamentalist Christian...what was I thinking?) and, I hadn't gotten laid yet.

So, yeah, Love was pain. You came out of this big, life changing emotional experience that made you "in love" with another person, and then they fucking ripped your guts out while the sounds of, No Use For A Name's More Betterness album, played in your head - loud and on repeat.

I remember in those formative years of teen angsty-ness EVERYBODY was dropping the L-bomb. On notes, and poster-boards, and cheap little candied hearts, they'd pass along those three little (but big!) words like they were going out of style...which I guess, they kinda were.

Honestly, I said them, too - but only once! And it was only because she said them first. Does that make it better? Probably not. In fact, it actually made it worse.





Damn fucking straight. At least, for that first accidental usage of intimacy I neither felt, nor could conceptualize.

But once I got out of the intense drama of high school and my own over-compensating masculinity and into the transitional period between eighteen-nineteen, Love got a little bit cooler for me. I thought, "Love's badass, man! She'll waste my life and turn all these emotions into supercool artistic trash that I can show off to all my friends."

Yep. Who doesn't use their semi-life-changing experiences to fuel their own post-high school summer hipsterness? (Which is always considered the coolest time of your life, according to HRO exit polls.) But, seriously, Love kinda took on a new comfortability for me. I was SO over being big and dramatic. I liked thinking of it in a downplayed romanticism:










Little did I know, Love was only trying to pump-fake me. Stay-tuned for the next installment of:

Love! A lamester's story.

(I know, good title, right?)

3 footnotes:

Andruba said...

I will be waiting for part 2... :P

mary said...

Each From Different Heights
by S.D.

That time I thought I was in love
and calmly said so
was not so much different from the time
I was truly in love
and slept poorly and spoke out loud
to the wall
and discovered the hidden genius
of my hands.
And the times I felt less in love,
less than someone,
were, to be honest, not so different
either.
Each was ridiculous in its own way
and each was tender, yes,
sometimes even the false is tender.
I am astounded
by the various kisses we're capable of.
Each from different heights
diminished, which is simply the law.
And the big bruise
from the longer fall looked perfectly white
in a few years.
That astounded me most of all.

Holly said...

Hghly bngbl post, lil' shaver.