Max Davine's Blog - Posts Tagged "romance"
An Observation
I just spent a wonderful 50-or-so hours with my nephew, and him being nearly two that means a hell of a lot of Wiggles. In a move I think is brilliant, amongst the new colorful cast is a woman - Emma. Yesterday morning sometime me and my little buddy were watching the skivvy clad ones and Emma was central to the piece, when I heard my nephew whispering something: "Emma pretty" he said. I looked at him to see him staring fixedly at her, and it was so beautiful it actually half-triggered a memory of my own. Watching something, possibly the Wiggles of yesteryear, I remember being hypnotized in much the same way at some woman who was doing a ballet dance and dressed as an angel. Like my mini-buddy, neither of us, in our respective times, had any idea why these creatures captivated us in such a state of awe, thus it is at once utterly innocent and yet a prelude to a kind of magic he will one day reserve for a very special one, after he's mistakenly shared it with countless anonymous others, as I did (now no longer). He'll know who that special one is, because she will walk into the room and captivate him just like that, breaking through all the immunity and filters his life between now and then will (hopefully) put around him. He will be a grown man, but for a moment he'll be reduced back to that state that Emma had him in, and she'll be the only thing there and the rest of the world will be just a void. Like it was yesterday, it will be entirely innocent, because won't know what to say or do, he won't know what he wants. She'll be as much an enigma as had been that pretty lady on the television. It will be entirely new and special because he won't remember the days when lights and sound could have such an effect on him. It will be entirely different, because it will be love, and I'm taking what I've seen as evidence that love isn't the 83 three million megaton nuclear force we make it out to be. It's a whisper from childhood, a subtle, small feeling that tells you that you've traveled across time and distance and yet, with this person, you are home. I hope he knows it, this first encounter, this inconsequential prelude, this tiny non-crush, with a beautiful woman will echo through his life and gently touch him one day in the future to tell him he's arrived. He's home.
My Old Friend Sadness
I used to have this friend. By friend I mean friend, people made their assumptions but really it was a platonic relationship built on our mutual loneliness at the time, but having never actually been in a romantic relationship myself, I have drawn on what we shared over the years to flesh out ideas and step into the vagueness of real love. Looking back at it from that angle, though, I don't like what I see.
She had this problem. It used to upset both of us. She'd spew endless reams of issues over me, typical teenage stuff; her mum's mean to her, her dad is a cunt (her words), she can't find a boyfriend, or, when circumstances were providing, her boyfriend is immature and doesn't understand her (she had an affliction with really sweet natured, but really stupid boys...and by Christ do I ever mean stupid). In return I'd share some of my problems; mostly the repercussions of my excessive drinking at the time, some fight I feel bad about, some horrible thing I said or did to, or with, some woman, and on occasion my family issues.
But my problems were trivial to me. I had deeper things, locked in my heart, that I didn't understand, and I'd find an outlet in writing. At the time, nobody could get me out of the malaise that would take over, and it would be many years before I trusted anyone to really see what's going on below. Still, however, sometimes I just need to be sad. Sadness has been a constant in my life, feeling it is like holding an old teddy or blanket, it has no cause, no destination, it's just a dull, distant ache that comes to tell me I'm not alone, that my sadness is here to be with me. Yes, it is sadness, but it's mine. I've grown to love it.
That used to drive her batshit crazy. She'd say she's open and honest with me, and gives me all her problems (I didn't want them, thanks) and I give her nothing. Not fair of her to say; I gave her my problems, just problems that were, as I perceived, of equal importance to the problems she gave me. That is; not terribly pressing. The deeper things, the ghosts with no form, I couldn't explain them. I just had to have them. Even if I wanted to give her everything, I couldn't. More to the point; there will never be anyone I can, nomatter how much I love them. They have no words. They're just things, and they come and take form when I write, thus I am a writer.
I can't help but to wonder; why did she feel a need to pester me? If I'd have let her in, I would have done so on my own time. But why did she want in? Why did she want to possess me so? If she was secretly in love with me, wouldn't she have just accepted the way I am and let to me sadness, when I needed it? I'd have done the same, if I'd loved her, I'd have wanted to see her fly free, as often as she could, and been happy to have the emotional, and physical space to myself. It's not something I could give up. It's not something I want anyone to give up for me.
I guess the question I'm posing here is; if you love the bird that flies, why would you want to put it in a cage? Just tell it you love it, and let it perch upon your shoulder when it needs to, and when you need it to and it needs to be needed. If you get lonely on the ground, maybe try to fly yourself? You've a better chance of finding each other in sky, don't you?
She had this problem. It used to upset both of us. She'd spew endless reams of issues over me, typical teenage stuff; her mum's mean to her, her dad is a cunt (her words), she can't find a boyfriend, or, when circumstances were providing, her boyfriend is immature and doesn't understand her (she had an affliction with really sweet natured, but really stupid boys...and by Christ do I ever mean stupid). In return I'd share some of my problems; mostly the repercussions of my excessive drinking at the time, some fight I feel bad about, some horrible thing I said or did to, or with, some woman, and on occasion my family issues.
But my problems were trivial to me. I had deeper things, locked in my heart, that I didn't understand, and I'd find an outlet in writing. At the time, nobody could get me out of the malaise that would take over, and it would be many years before I trusted anyone to really see what's going on below. Still, however, sometimes I just need to be sad. Sadness has been a constant in my life, feeling it is like holding an old teddy or blanket, it has no cause, no destination, it's just a dull, distant ache that comes to tell me I'm not alone, that my sadness is here to be with me. Yes, it is sadness, but it's mine. I've grown to love it.
That used to drive her batshit crazy. She'd say she's open and honest with me, and gives me all her problems (I didn't want them, thanks) and I give her nothing. Not fair of her to say; I gave her my problems, just problems that were, as I perceived, of equal importance to the problems she gave me. That is; not terribly pressing. The deeper things, the ghosts with no form, I couldn't explain them. I just had to have them. Even if I wanted to give her everything, I couldn't. More to the point; there will never be anyone I can, nomatter how much I love them. They have no words. They're just things, and they come and take form when I write, thus I am a writer.
I can't help but to wonder; why did she feel a need to pester me? If I'd have let her in, I would have done so on my own time. But why did she want in? Why did she want to possess me so? If she was secretly in love with me, wouldn't she have just accepted the way I am and let to me sadness, when I needed it? I'd have done the same, if I'd loved her, I'd have wanted to see her fly free, as often as she could, and been happy to have the emotional, and physical space to myself. It's not something I could give up. It's not something I want anyone to give up for me.
I guess the question I'm posing here is; if you love the bird that flies, why would you want to put it in a cage? Just tell it you love it, and let it perch upon your shoulder when it needs to, and when you need it to and it needs to be needed. If you get lonely on the ground, maybe try to fly yourself? You've a better chance of finding each other in sky, don't you?
