September 21st, 2008
Love is a Jonestown cocktail crafted by self-conscious scientists in preparation for a wild spring break. Love is a childhood sweetness that gets thoroughly and delightfully dirty. Love is an anarchy of plumbing, tipped vats of fluid roaming the ocean-spanning interstates of arteries and barreling around the hallways of themselves to form episodic, ever chaotic, microcosmic tides, eddies, pointless, hallucinogenic maelstroms, a surf’s up around the legendary monuments of the body—smell the brain that bore the charge, hear the heart that sped it, taste the organs that thrust it home, and touch the soul that bled it—coasting on waves crashing down aortal sluices and vena cava corridors, then to feed the intricate capillaries which appear in the interstices of the flesh like forests of figure eights, invasions of tiny eels, dazzling floods of infinity symbols, to reemerge no less the potent, the colony of silly blood cells set to dance the endless jig of being, which is the spirit of that original jubilant mosh pit, populated in old by the newborn and joyous stars, the first condensate of the cosmic spittle.
Love, life’s MacGuffin, dribbled down the rim of grails, washed ashore on unmanned isles, smoothed by centuries. Love, the historiographic infection, killed its every traitor. Love seasons stories and when we dare to be so gauche as to sterilize the specimen with our spotlights it mutates its every bit, over and over, until it drips with ten thousand teratomatous purses, and even then nothing stops its reinvention until the monstrosity has becomes original again. Love is the working hypothesis of every motive and is shoved into the police lineup no matter its alibi during the night in question.
Love is Ivesian, a syncopation at its finest and a static crackle at its most common, a cross rhythm of ramming heartbeats and cash register trills, muscular explosions and our words, squeaky with tenderness then rich with hunger, and our worlds, fun with friends and then futuristic with children, who steal the torch, never realizing we purposely left the display case unlocked.
Love dies slow deaths in nursing homes, where the dementia etiolates spouses that have become as familiar as birthmarks and as old as furniture. There love melts in agonizing slowness, evaporating like the water in a forgotten reservoir, exposed to the hot and cancerous sunlight each day until nothing remains but a memory of moist earth.
Love is rationalization par excellence, a pantomime we began at the first arching electric discharge of attraction, where something about her voice or his eyes or her skin or his nose took no prisoners, sparked the gas, carved up the atoms, and started the whole corrugated self-deception apparatus bubbling.
Love is a gamble with the problem of induction, and so those who don’t feel it will say they do and those who do will say they’re not sure. Love’s fruit is sparse and often inedible, but no one seems to care and I don’t see why I should either. And so love sometimes combs the coastline, a majestic beacon that winks forever at the curtains of waves, their shuddering mass striped with the reflection of the moon like a line of scrambled, snow-colored yolk, and so we may conclude that even alone love is proud, locked in a limbo that may be a wait and may be a death sentence and may be nothing more than what it claims to be: a touch of something beautiful, hidden in the heart.
Love is my favorite irrationality.