sǝuoſ ǝuıɥsunS | notebook, journal, inter-web log

My landlord was snuggled up nicely on my couch while we talked over the terms and conditions of my lease. He’s sweet, and quite handsome, but he’s all business and I can see that. I agreed that I am one tenant, and my rent is scaled accordingly. He seemed to like that a lot, but as my pen brushed the surface of the paper, I had a thought.

“What if I fall in love?”

“I’m sorry?” My landlord asked, looking a little confused.

“What if I fall in love with someone and can’t be more than three feet away from them at any given time?” [color=#999999]I’m known to do that, and love my own space so much that I often sabotage myself by inviting everyone into it all the time.[/color]

The light went on in his eyes and he said, “Oh, yes, of course. That’s fine, but your rent will go up to $1,600 a month.” His eyes darted around a little bit as if he knew that was somewhat unreasonable. I thought about the prospect of falling in love and grinned at him.

“I guess it’s no more lost waifs for me?”

He burned a horny little hole into my forehead and smiled calmly. “Hmm…”

My pen scratched over the surface of the paper as I signed.

Lately there’s been so much talk of love. It seems to me that I am being haunted by the lessons of my young adulthood all over again. Friends who have coveted me, who yearn and seem to burn for me. [color=#999999]I’ll save the subject of my response to that (eeew!) for another essay, ok?[/color] They appear like ants from under the cupboards. Don’t be mad at me, please. And don’t think for a moment that I am ungrateful, or that I’m complaining about love living a life apart from me, all around me, and introducing itself to me all the time. Please.

I have investigated this love. It is not for me. It would be just like me to say something silly like “I can’t afford the rent increase” and move on to another topic, but in this case I think it’s prudent to elaborate a little more eloquently than that.

As a young man, in my early 20’s I went out dancing all the time. I was in disarray. I painted, took photographs, listened to records, sang and wrote songs, and dreamed of love and intimacy from the third platform of my fire escape. I sat out there all night sometimes [color=#999999]this is what we old folks did before the inter-web[/color] and sang, and moaned, and longed for her. I’d felt this way all my life, but I was finally living somewhere and had some place to sit and feel this way. It made all the difference.

My social experience in those days was frustrating. While I longed, indeed, for this love to come my way, to wander out of a crowd, to look up from a table and smile, to pass me on the street, intoxicating me with her smell so that I had no choice but to run, full bolt after her, I was still a part of the world. I read poetry in cafes with friends, painted and photographed people, and tried to put bands together which did not “rock,” rather, I wanted a band which could execute something finer, more elegant, without appearing to be false, or camp. It was impossible to do, and I never actually did it. But I did meet, and befriend a lot of people in the process. Many of these people felt what they called love for me. I slept with them, sometimes, and I talked with them (always,) and wanted so much to be friends. But sooner or later the burning feelings inside of them would walk into the room and turn sweet friendship, kinship, intimacy, closeness, and trust into anger and bitterness and the friendship would have to die. I would plead, beg, explain, demonstrate, and promise, but friendship took the last few steps to the head of the gallows with resentment in her eyes, slipped the noose about her neck, and leapt from the platform.

Lucky for me, I am, at heart, an optimist, so I hold only kind images of these ghosts. There is no dangling garden of corpses in my memory. Only love, bright eyes, and friendships past. It’s all a bit melodramatic, but I could never understand why I was good enough to be the love of your life but decidedly not good enough to be your dear, and treasured friend. Why I didn’t understand that is perhaps the luxury of my not having been in love with them. I have, since that period in my life, come to know several people who I have loved dearly that wanted to be friends after our affairs were over. That was always a great idea at the time, but it never held up. Something about continued intimacy, trust, and closeness after the cord of connection and sex has been severed seemed like some sort of pantomime, ripe for complications, hurt feelings, and jealous new lovers, husbands and wives. Messy business.

Here, in my early 40’s, I find this phenomena has returned to me. Love blooms in the form of friendship. I am grateful and welcome this into my heart. And then the creepy letters start rolling in… the bitter stares, the frustrated evenings on couches, the regrettable text messages, and aim conversations. Argh…

To be honest, I wanted to have a little casual sex after I got divorced. I did. I don’t think that’s unreasonable. I wanted to feel close to someone, and who better than someone I love [color=#999999]as a friend, mind you[/color]? I tried, really I did. But I couldn’t do it. This is actually really embarrassing to admit, but I realized in this process that my heart is already occupied. Thus, finding myself in the throes of lovemaking, which was lovely and romantic, only seemed to conjure up the image of my love. This abruptly ceases my interest in lovemaking. It feels totally dishonest, and wrong to me. But being me, I needed to be sure… so I tried again. Here I was mid-act, and found that all I could see was the face of my love. She stared into my eyes and smiled. this was actually nice at first, for a moment it was as if I were making love to the object of my dearest affection, one of my heart’s truest and most persistent desires. Naturally, I had to come to grips with the fact that I most certainly was not making love with the host of my heart and soul, rather, this person beside me was an actual human being, with a name, and an apartment, and everything. [color=#999999]Before you call the doctor for me, hear me out, ok?[/color] In that moment I realized something. I can not give anyone my heart, however casually, because my heart is already taken. So I stopped what I was doing, and tried to explain. I did not say that the face of the fires in my heart appeared, rather, I said something more like, “Um… I’m sorry. This isn’t right. Do you mind if we stop?” plus a few dozen more apologies. I felt like an idiot. I am free, and available to do what I like. But I am not.

I have tried, before this moment, to deny my heart’s contents. I have tried and tried, and tried with all of my will power and rational thought to explain away the love I feel, this space I am holding, the devotion to a being in the world, my true love. I have, at times, felt that it was under control. But it isn’t.

Friends who I have shared the truth with have responded in various ways. Some urgently encourage me to go into counseling. They think this is self-destructive, and I need help. I don’t disagree, but I haven’t called anyone yet. Others think I need a nice, solid, carnal relationship with a man to take my mind off of silly things like love. Other friends have simply put their arms around me and sighed hopelessly with me, understanding precisely what I mean… Sometimes we cry together. [color=#999999]’cause love just sucks sometimes doesn’t it?[/color]

Rather than face further humiliation, or feel that I am being unfaithful to this undeniable truth about myself, I am putting this all to rest. I am going to sit with this love, and allow her to radiate outward. I am going to accept it, and seek no further. Granted, I am present in my life, and my heart neither speaks to me of love, nor lives within a thousand miles of me, and so the world exists, and unfolds in the here and now, before my very eyes. I am not pining away like some miserable pooh bear-eyore hybrid, that’s silly. But I am brave, and I am strong, and so I will simply stop pretending. I will stop rationalizing. I will end this million-yard-dash to escape the truth in my heart. I will simply be here, and now, and let love shine in my heart. My best efforts will be to hope that I may be content with this, and ask nothing in return, of anyone.

So if you love me, be my friend. Talk with me. But don’t ask me for anything. I can ride you on the back of my vespa, I will take you to caf?�s which remind us of Paris, we can stay up all night talking about philosophy, culture and values, recovery, spirituality, or just watch Family Guy if you like, but I can’t give you my heart.

My heart is already taken.