What is Love? Baby, don’t hurt me, no more.

As I’ve mentioned before, if an idea occurs to me, I assume that it has also occurred to others. So I do not claim invention of the following thoughts, only that I’ve thought them…

It occurs to me that the (current, Western) definitions for success, in any given category, are arranged in such a way, that only 1% of the population participating, will be successful at any given time. The measure of success, be it financial, political, or physical beauty, seems geared to benefit a sliver of society. This is probably a result of millennia’s worth of imperial social structures; a minority holding extreme control over a majority, throughout history this has been typically along religious and ethnic lines, sometimes both, and for reasons I don’t know, people through the ages have seemed to think that legitimacy is proven by visual traits. “I look like this, therefore only people who look like this can be the leader.”

I think this may apply across the board, but it is romantic love that I’m thinking of right now. Regardless of sexual preference or gender, we have this idea of (at least) two people, participating in a mutual admiration society of desire, admiration, adoration, lust, and thrill. Nothing wrong with that, it sounds spectacular!

But, what if… what if that’s all just a come-on? What if, like fiscal success in capitalism, it’s a system created to only benefit a narrow few? Say… 1%?

The One Percent of Love. If 1% of the West is gaspingly, frighteningly wealthy in money, perhaps that concept translates. Perhaps only 1% of the population experiences utter, breathtaking “love”. Perhaps the OPoL, in their giddy privilege, declared, “Why, this love thing is so simple and easy for me, it must be simple and easy for you too, you just aren’t trying hard enough.” Would we say this to someone who is colorblind? Seeing red and green is so easy, you just aren’t trying hard enough…Or, someone within the Autism spectrum, would you say, “oh, happy only looks emotive like this, therefore you don’t experience happiness”? No. At least, I certainly hope you agree that the answer is no.

So, if we wouldn’t tell someone that they don’t know other emotions, why are we so comfortable defining what romantic love/passion looks like? I don’t have these answers.

Post #1

Do people really read blogs? Unless they are how-to blogs; how-to for woodworking, or how-to healthy recipes, and even then, you just skip ahead to the instructions, right? I’ll apologize right now, there is no recipe at the end of this for raspberry tarte.

Like every other human asshole on this planet, I have opinions. Non-human assholes may also have opinions, but unless they belong to the cat who stared you down while peeing on you, they aren’t really known to us. I expect my opinions will be exactly the same as yours, exactly the opposite, wholly new, and utterly predictable. I tend to live by the rule that, if something occurs to me, then it has definitely occurred to someone else, so I don’t expect to blow anyone’s minds with my revelations.

The way I look at it, blogging or tweeting or Facebooking or scratching your opinion on an outhouse wall are all the same; we, like most species, survive and thrive by communication.  Unlike most animals, we figured out a long time ago how to communicate by messages too complex to be left in a urine trail, though, we never did lose the desire to talk shit… So, we write on each others  “walls”, and litter cyberspace with our peeps and snipes and yearnings because we are ultimately lonely, and we miss each other as much as we fear each other. So, here in the blog-o-sphere, we can be alone, together, talking to ourselves. I’ll bet that when the concept of screaming into the void was invented, no one thought the void would come with a navigable sidebar, and advertisements…

A blog is pretty much a public-facing journal, right? But instead of the nightmare of having your Dear Diary found and read, the blog flips that around; it begs for strangers and passersby to crawl inside, and even encourages anonymouses to leave a trail of opinion droppings. Maybe it was never a nightmare, the idea of having your diary found and read aloud. Maybe it was a fantasy, a basic human desire to have your deepest heart seen, heard, acknowledged. And because to do so of our own volition takes a level of courage not felt every day, the idea of someone else making the decision for us, is as much a relief as it is a terror.

Anyway, it’s a thought, and I guess this will be a place where I park my thoughts, along with pictures of my paintings, cartoons, short stories, and perhaps, the occasional recipe for raspberry tarte.

You skipped ahead, didn’t you?

Summer Solstice 2019

Wallowing turns out to be less fun than How I Met Your Mother, and the Lifetime Movie Channel would have you believe. Hiding under the blankets while devouring pints of fill-in-the-blank is less fun when there isn’t a wealthy British friend on their way to rescue you from yourself with Manolo Blahniks in one hand, or a reliable booty call on speed dial.

You know, it really did take ovaries of steel for Lizzy to turn down Mr. Collins. He wasn’t wrong, 18th century douchebag that he was, when he said that she could by no means be assured that another such offer would come along. However, Lizzy could afford to be brave, a little fact we like to forget in the grand fantasy. She didn’t have to apply for unemployment, purchase her own (cheap) groceries and then find ways to economize in their cooking, or go through any one of her travails alone. Most importantly, she did not do any of it alone.

I am stunned to discover how fucking painful it is to go it alone, once one has become accustomed to having support. After a lifetime of going it alone, having people to rely upon makes everything digestible, alone it feels like the trash compactor scene from Star Wars.