Against my better judgement I've fallen in love, with a woman named, "Amanda." I can't remember the exact moment when it happened. As we all know, falling in love is a stupid and ridiculous thing to do, not to mention hazardous to your health. It's analagous to swatting a mountain gorilla with a rolled-up newspaper. Imagine getting your arms and legs ripped off as a result, and ape feces crammed down your throat for good measure. Somehow, though, you survive. Cutting edge surgical techniques enable the best surgeons in the world to put your arms and legs back where they belong...on your body. This painful surgery is followed by several years of agonizing physical therapy. Eventually, you get your life back together and are able to move on. But for reasons that are unclear to everyone, a couple of weeks later you roll up a newspaper and smack another gorilla in the head, with predictable results.
That's love. There is no pain like a broken heart (although a toothache is no picnic, either). But we want to love and be loved so badly that we're willing to taunt the gorilla and risk a savage beating. You can't do anything with a broken heart, except annoy your friends and family with your melodramatic declarations. You turn into an emotionally brittle sad sack. People close to you will find themselves wishing that you would just die and get it over with. It's a pathetic state of affairs.
Despite having been beaten by the love gorilla, I couldn't help but fall in love with my darling Amanda. She's a wonder to me. And my experience in these matters have served me well. The love gorilla does teach you things while beating you senseless. For example, I know to steer away from being possessive. That way lies disaster. Some people never learn that lesson, so I'm doing well. I also learned that from Buddhism and the Star Wars movies, so it must be true.
It's surprising to me that this happened given the anti-social attitude that I've been enjoying of late. The political realities of our times have compelled me to burrow into the bark of a nearby tree and enter into a state of hibernation. It is in this fashion that I will survive the last two years of the Bush administration. And in this comatose state I am safe from at least the worst cruciations of social anxiety disorder. Generally speaking, people make me want to flee in the opposite direction. As much as I enjoy the company of women, this is true of them, as well. But I immediately felt comfortable with Amanda. After I got to know her, admiration and friendship followed. And after that I rolled up the newspaper and went to the zoo, as it were.
I've tried retracing my steps, and I can't reckon when it happened. I didn't want it to happen, that much I know. Anxiety, and a disposition of detached insouciance, have caused me to isolate myself in this little flat. The lack of social interaction of any consequence made me lonely, perhaps, but also comfortable. My cocoon made it impossible for me to do something that I would later regret. For things that people are always doing in the course of any day, but to me are tremendous sources of unease. That is the nature of my anxiety, depression and self-loathing.
It's fashionable these days to mock neurotic people like myself. I could be called a "whiner" or a "drama queen." This offends me greatly because so many people engage in thoughtless, cruel and stupid behaviour which, for reasons that are unclear to me, seems to offend less than my over-wrought self-analysis. And I'm not complaining about anything, I'm just reporting my emotional state of mind. All of my problems originate with my mental illness. I feel that the world has treated me well, you fuckers! But I'm not happy about the soul-crushing depression and anxiety. Should I be? Eh, Nietzche? I enjoy analysis and empathy, even if it labels me a,"pussy." We live in a time and place that favors simple-minded anger and judgement. Those are the trendy emotions. Just listen to our fucknut president and you'll know of what I speak. There is no room in his lexicon for words like, "thoughtful" and "compassion."
Everyone's a fucking superman. Considerate reflection is seen as a sign of weakness. People like myself who have scruples are kept up at night because of what we're doing in Iraq. We can't stop wondering what the troops and Iraqi people are going through. The horror is impossible to fathom. But that approach is so old hat. You're supposed to cultivate an irony-free consciousness. Leave compassion and empathy and logic at the door. Walk into a room and declare that the US shouldn't, "cut and run," and say things like, "bring 'em on!" Whatever you do, don't get caught in a moment of reflection. That's for pussies.
So I'm not whining, I'm reporting about how I see the world, filtered through my diseased, mottled brain. I have a place to live, health care, food, music, and all the books I can read. Despite that, my brain is going to whisper sour nothings in my ear that will lead me to a ha' penny place, mentally. That is the nature of my struggle. We all have something. Some people like to go to rodeos and tractor pulls. There is always somebody worse off than you.
I've been hibernating and accessible only to my family and a small circle of friends. But I've found a new love. We read Dostoevsky together, the language turns romantic (but not maudlin), and we both decide to celebrate this occurence that is both phenomenal and common. It's so difficult for me to relate what it has meant for me. It feels like a gift that I don't deserve. But one that I'll happily accept. Amanda, I do so love you. We must gently cultivate it. Savor it. Celebrate it. Enjoy how it is a disaster for wretched cynicism.
Love can be a merciless prick. A foul cunt that feasts on our hearts if we're not careful. We must go into love knowing that we are flawed human beings. Romance is a wondrous aspect of love, but let not it distract from our friendship. If love was not meant to be, I'll dance with the gorilla again. I can take it. So long as I may call you my friend until my days are done.
Let us enjoy each other!
Under the Harvest Moon
by Carl Sandburg
Under the harvest moon,
When the soft silver
Drips shimmering
Over garden nights,
Death, the gray mocker,
Comes and whispers to you
As a beautiful friend
Who remembers.
Under the summer roses
When the flagrant crimson
Lurks in the dusk
Of the wild red leaves,
Love, with little hands,
Comes and touches you
With a thousand memories,
And asks you
Beautiful, unanswerable questions.
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