Love
(scroll down for the other posts in the series)
Falling in love is something I know about. It's got me into a fair bit of trouble over the years. I've managed to extricate myself from a few Ill-Advised Entanglements, but I've also tumbled headlong into some Really Stupid Situations.
It normally starts the day after. After what? Well, could be anything really. From a glance across a crowded room to a full night of rampant sex, the next day is the one that sees me mooning around, staring into space and thinking of nothing but That Person, reliving each tiny moment then projecting forwards into every conceivable future scenario, from our next potential meeting to the day I sob at their funeral. It's this crucial solidification period that sets the seal. It's self-brainwash time. Fix them into your mind, pour concrete around their image.
Hangovers are a crucial part of this mental cementment. The day after the night before has always induced a strange wistfulness in me. Combine this with a cosy self-snugglement, subtle horn and an unusual capacity for moments of disconnected joy, and you have the perfect conditions for Falling In Love. I blame sleep deprivation.
You might have guessed what started me thinking about this. But no, I haven't fallen in love. Because I'm (finally!) wise enough to recognise A Bad Idea when I see one. I can take a step back from myself, watch what I'm doing, query the mechanics of my impulsive and passionate mind. And, at last, understand how it works. That the object is a very abstract beast. It's not a person, not at all. Not a real one. No, it's just my imagination, inventing characters in the plot of a detailed fantasy life. The actual people are just the actors, and I am the director.
We program ourselves all the time. Most of the time we don't notice, or don't want to see. Rather than acknowledge that we are manufacturing our own experience, we prefer to place the blame on outside agents. God, illness or... love... which has a mythical existence all its own. We fall into it, as though there really were some big pot of invisible stuff into which we stumble. We are submerged, become saturated, invaded, infected. We have no control. We don't see the lip over which we trip. We can't save ourselves on the way down. And as we climb out, we smile smugly with the knowledge that it wasn't our fault. "Oh dear," we say. "I seem to have fallen in love." We won't admit to choice.
We refuse to own up when we wash our own brains, whether with fear, habit, acceptance or emotion. But once we do see, accept, take responsibility for what we do, we can switch the cycle on the machine. Add a bit of fabric conditioner, do an extra rinse, or open the door mid-cycle and spill the whole load on the floor.
I like to love. I have a lot of it to give. The trick is to focus it all in the best places. Which is easy to forget, with eleven years of relationship behind you. But that thirst for the shock of the new, there are plenty of ways to satisfy it. And love is a fire that never goes out. It's time to start stoking.
As for you, my fickle reader, I've cast you in the role of fireside friend, where you sit with a smile and a stick for prodding the blaze. Watching embers sparkle and glow while I embark on a series of posts about All The People I Have Fallen In Love With. There are a few of them. It'll take a while.
My First Love
My First Requited Lesbian Love
Falling in love is something I know about. It's got me into a fair bit of trouble over the years. I've managed to extricate myself from a few Ill-Advised Entanglements, but I've also tumbled headlong into some Really Stupid Situations.
It normally starts the day after. After what? Well, could be anything really. From a glance across a crowded room to a full night of rampant sex, the next day is the one that sees me mooning around, staring into space and thinking of nothing but That Person, reliving each tiny moment then projecting forwards into every conceivable future scenario, from our next potential meeting to the day I sob at their funeral. It's this crucial solidification period that sets the seal. It's self-brainwash time. Fix them into your mind, pour concrete around their image.
Hangovers are a crucial part of this mental cementment. The day after the night before has always induced a strange wistfulness in me. Combine this with a cosy self-snugglement, subtle horn and an unusual capacity for moments of disconnected joy, and you have the perfect conditions for Falling In Love. I blame sleep deprivation.
You might have guessed what started me thinking about this. But no, I haven't fallen in love. Because I'm (finally!) wise enough to recognise A Bad Idea when I see one. I can take a step back from myself, watch what I'm doing, query the mechanics of my impulsive and passionate mind. And, at last, understand how it works. That the object is a very abstract beast. It's not a person, not at all. Not a real one. No, it's just my imagination, inventing characters in the plot of a detailed fantasy life. The actual people are just the actors, and I am the director.
We program ourselves all the time. Most of the time we don't notice, or don't want to see. Rather than acknowledge that we are manufacturing our own experience, we prefer to place the blame on outside agents. God, illness or... love... which has a mythical existence all its own. We fall into it, as though there really were some big pot of invisible stuff into which we stumble. We are submerged, become saturated, invaded, infected. We have no control. We don't see the lip over which we trip. We can't save ourselves on the way down. And as we climb out, we smile smugly with the knowledge that it wasn't our fault. "Oh dear," we say. "I seem to have fallen in love." We won't admit to choice.
We refuse to own up when we wash our own brains, whether with fear, habit, acceptance or emotion. But once we do see, accept, take responsibility for what we do, we can switch the cycle on the machine. Add a bit of fabric conditioner, do an extra rinse, or open the door mid-cycle and spill the whole load on the floor.
I like to love. I have a lot of it to give. The trick is to focus it all in the best places. Which is easy to forget, with eleven years of relationship behind you. But that thirst for the shock of the new, there are plenty of ways to satisfy it. And love is a fire that never goes out. It's time to start stoking.
As for you, my fickle reader, I've cast you in the role of fireside friend, where you sit with a smile and a stick for prodding the blaze. Watching embers sparkle and glow while I embark on a series of posts about All The People I Have Fallen In Love With. There are a few of them. It'll take a while.
My First Love
My First Requited Lesbian Love
8 Comments:
Wonderful post - why haven't I read you before? It's thanks to Vitriolica that I'm here.
I can echo all you said about Lurve and could add a few chapters. In fact, that's what I'm doing in my current graphic novel... but all will be revealed by & by.
Adding you to my blogroll. Roll on!
Um, trying out your next novel on us? Or will it be an autobiography?
Whatever, as long as you provide the interesting bits we will come.
"I like to love. I have a lot of it to give. The trick is to focus it all in the best places." - Those lovely words right there remind me of my poly days, and as for the rest of your post, it was absolutely beautiful. :)
Joe: No, nothing to do with the novel. It's just something I've been meaning to do for a while now (write about all the loves in my life), and then I was inspired to write this post - which seemed like the ideal springboard.
Natalie, welcome aboard!
Maddy: Haha, polygamy is the last thing I want. When I say "all the best places", I envisage them all residing in one person!
And it really does have to be in one person or else it can get very messy.
But love is a grand a beautiful thing its true...!
cementment. good word that.
Marvellous post, and I so look forward to reading your future instalments. Are there men and women up and down the country quaking in their beds for fear of your steamy revelations? I'm sure they needn't, but it's a nice thought.
The over-riding impression I had from reading Casanova's memoirs years ago was that here was a man who fell in love, or convinced himself that he'd fallen in love, very easily. Yes, he'd have a go at any available female, but there are an extraordinary number of occasions where he launches off into just the kind of morning-after fantasy you describe.
Of course, some people have difficulty in seeing beyond David Tennant.... I didn't see the TV version, but I gather that in a wacky post-modern way it was surprisingly faithful to the facts as Casanova gives them to us.
I recommend his memoirs, by the way. I read them complete, courtesy of Edinburgh City Libraries.
Love how you phrase that manufacturing our experiences. That puts your finger on it. Culpability sucks but has joy and freeedom enough too.
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