Blog Dis
The limitless capacity of love
2024-01-09
Poets especially will tell you that the sole purpose of existing is to be loved, to feel love, to give love to others. I've read the words of many poets, some Old English in style, others as modern as rigid plastic, and all have waxed philosophic on the travails of love as seen through their young, hopeful eyes. The older we become, or rather as I'm fond of correcting others, the more we evolve, the more our perception of love solidifies, often times into something that is pure cynicism and for the rare few an idyllic notion that is like everlasting hope.
Love is passion and love is hate. Love is not lust. I gave my two cents worth to a male friend, oh about three weeks back, when we last chatted by phone. He talked with great enthusiasm about the newness of love, that when he begins a relationship he adores the feelings the new love gives him when the sex is just starting out, in the beginning. Sound familiar? I had replied, rather indelicately, "I believe you're confused, my dear." I started. "You're in love with lust. And, the love of those feelings is in fact a misdirected desire for the physicality of the sex and, the feelings about which you speak so casually are in fact to me the definition of sentiment." True blue genuine love is the result of developing a concrete understanding with your new love, an emotional thread that attaches itself between you and your beloved. And the feelings as a result of this true blue love, on the other hand, are the hurts you endure when your love is in question or in pain. Feelings are the gut reactions your body emits when in the presence of your love. Whereas lust, that physical turn on which is experienced in the act of enjoying sex, should not be confused with love.
But then what the heck do I know? I've not been 'in love' in a while, and I mean in love with another who reciprocates my love, rather than confuse this state of being with unrequited love; you feel it yet they haven't a clue how deep your love goes. We all, at some point in our lives, are well acquainted with unrequited love, puppy-dog love and obsessive love. I've also known the intimacy of lust, which is fleeting and capricious and intense. But, I will damn myself to the fires of an erupting volcano if I wake up one day and hold a confused thought in my head that lust is bona-fide love. There are scads upon scads of quotes on the Uddernet, which deal with the subject of love. Here's one that resonates with me because it states the obvious that perfect love, the purest of love, will truly only occur once in your life.
"Each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved. Difference of object does not alter singleness of passion. It merely intensifies it. We can have but one great experience at best, and the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as possible." Oscar Wilde; Irish poet and playwright (d. 1900)
Someone currently in love would argue with this quote and I couldn't give a rat's ass if they did, quite frankly, because they'd be missing the point of Mr. Wilde's statement — that the greatest love you have experienced is the benchmark which defines your life and how you'll devote your life to chasing that same feeling. And here we come full circle again to that notion of feelings. I believe in the brutality of honesty when I discuss intellectual concepts like love. When I'm in love, I'm fecking miserable. I'm overly emotional, jealous, outraged, nit-picking and irrational. I hate myself when I'm in love. To me, love is a form of brain-damage. People will kill the supposed love of their life, if that person leaves them, betrays them, neglects them. How is that love then? Perhaps this explains why I gravitate towards poetry because through the hearts of poets, I'm better able to comprehend love. Most certainly, I believe that love fades, lust betrays and life is a game.
Yet, I will more than likely contemplate the concept of love up until the day I die. Or, I could be like cats who appear to have a limitless capacity for love, at least for feral populations. Cats have love to give, every day of every hour of every night or morning, when their biological bodies enter into heat. Love for them is like a waterfall that once turned on, hurls itself over the edge into the abyss. Cats never question their love or complain when it's taken away. They merely go about their business and wait until the next wave of love comes along. Humans could learn a lot from feral cats.
I will leave you now with one last silly thought, at the very end of this diatribe, but before this, I shall close off this discussion with the erudite words of Friedrich Nietzsche, "There is always some madness in love. But there is always some reason in madness."
Ask Elizabeth Taylor, were she still with us, what she thinks of love. She'd probably tell you that passion has been her greatest downfall... that and Richard Burton, given that she re-married him twice. And we all know that this late great British actor, who died in 1984, had a voice that could launch a thousand ships, and a schlong as long as an elephant's trunk. Well... now that's something worth loving, don't ya think?
Love is passion and love is hate. Love is not lust. I gave my two cents worth to a male friend, oh about three weeks back, when we last chatted by phone. He talked with great enthusiasm about the newness of love, that when he begins a relationship he adores the feelings the new love gives him when the sex is just starting out, in the beginning. Sound familiar? I had replied, rather indelicately, "I believe you're confused, my dear." I started. "You're in love with lust. And, the love of those feelings is in fact a misdirected desire for the physicality of the sex and, the feelings about which you speak so casually are in fact to me the definition of sentiment." True blue genuine love is the result of developing a concrete understanding with your new love, an emotional thread that attaches itself between you and your beloved. And the feelings as a result of this true blue love, on the other hand, are the hurts you endure when your love is in question or in pain. Feelings are the gut reactions your body emits when in the presence of your love. Whereas lust, that physical turn on which is experienced in the act of enjoying sex, should not be confused with love.
But then what the heck do I know? I've not been 'in love' in a while, and I mean in love with another who reciprocates my love, rather than confuse this state of being with unrequited love; you feel it yet they haven't a clue how deep your love goes. We all, at some point in our lives, are well acquainted with unrequited love, puppy-dog love and obsessive love. I've also known the intimacy of lust, which is fleeting and capricious and intense. But, I will damn myself to the fires of an erupting volcano if I wake up one day and hold a confused thought in my head that lust is bona-fide love. There are scads upon scads of quotes on the Uddernet, which deal with the subject of love. Here's one that resonates with me because it states the obvious that perfect love, the purest of love, will truly only occur once in your life.
"Each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved. Difference of object does not alter singleness of passion. It merely intensifies it. We can have but one great experience at best, and the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as possible." Oscar Wilde; Irish poet and playwright (d. 1900)
Someone currently in love would argue with this quote and I couldn't give a rat's ass if they did, quite frankly, because they'd be missing the point of Mr. Wilde's statement — that the greatest love you have experienced is the benchmark which defines your life and how you'll devote your life to chasing that same feeling. And here we come full circle again to that notion of feelings. I believe in the brutality of honesty when I discuss intellectual concepts like love. When I'm in love, I'm fecking miserable. I'm overly emotional, jealous, outraged, nit-picking and irrational. I hate myself when I'm in love. To me, love is a form of brain-damage. People will kill the supposed love of their life, if that person leaves them, betrays them, neglects them. How is that love then? Perhaps this explains why I gravitate towards poetry because through the hearts of poets, I'm better able to comprehend love. Most certainly, I believe that love fades, lust betrays and life is a game.
Yet, I will more than likely contemplate the concept of love up until the day I die. Or, I could be like cats who appear to have a limitless capacity for love, at least for feral populations. Cats have love to give, every day of every hour of every night or morning, when their biological bodies enter into heat. Love for them is like a waterfall that once turned on, hurls itself over the edge into the abyss. Cats never question their love or complain when it's taken away. They merely go about their business and wait until the next wave of love comes along. Humans could learn a lot from feral cats.
I will leave you now with one last silly thought, at the very end of this diatribe, but before this, I shall close off this discussion with the erudite words of Friedrich Nietzsche, "There is always some madness in love. But there is always some reason in madness."
Ask Elizabeth Taylor, were she still with us, what she thinks of love. She'd probably tell you that passion has been her greatest downfall... that and Richard Burton, given that she re-married him twice. And we all know that this late great British actor, who died in 1984, had a voice that could launch a thousand ships, and a schlong as long as an elephant's trunk. Well... now that's something worth loving, don't ya think?
