Sunday, February 13, 2011

What Is Love? Baby, Don't Hurt Me No More

So once again folks, it's time for my annual Valentine's rant- no, not quite the right word. Discussion? No. Lecture? Umm, no. How about verbal eruption? That's it! That's perfect. Now that we've got that straight,  let me preface by saying that I have no problem with the underlying idea of the holiday of St. Valentine- expressing your love and admiration for someone  with the purchase of cheap gimmickry, gew gaws and surf and turf. I quite happen to like gas station velvet roses.  But really, what I want to talk about is the kind of love celebrated on this day- romantic love, the perfect love Disney taught us to expect when walking through a forest surrounded by birds,  which some how leads one to, oh pick one: (eat food from strangers causing you to fall into a magical sleep;  pick roses from stranger's gardens resulting in your parents having to sell you into slavery; or my personal favorite, making  a wish that transforms you and leaves you feeling like you're walking on knives) whereupon a handsome stranger alike to a Ken doll arrives to rescue you  from the terrible fate your own decisions brought you to. (And yes, I know that second one was the father's fault, but really, Beauty couldn't have developed some Thatchers and run away? Really?)   And also -wait for it- is it possible that Mattel and Disney are plotting together in some massive conspiracy to control the romantic lives of American women? Huh? Um- you all already knew about that?  (Sigh, always behind the curve.) 
Well, anyway, sometimes I feel like we should celebrate all loves- not just the "pure" ideal of love, but the weird loves- like the recent guy who Facebooked me and wanted to be my friend- who happens to have a foot fetish.  (I think I need to re-do my privacy settings- there were some pretty good feet pictures in one of my albums- I could develop a cult following!) Or how about my own weird love of corsets- and yes, I know there will be two camps telling me; one, corsets are beautiful and sexy ( and I ain't talking about those pieces of Victoria's secret crap); or two, how terrible it is to want to distort my body that way- to which I respond, how long have you been a woman? ( and/or reading this blog!? All I talk about is wanting to change myself.) Or how about that new show on TLC which celebrates weird addictions like- eating soap, or the insides of sofa cushions? There's weird love for you.
Or weird love  classics- like Nabakov's Lolita- a book I read in college which steal squicks  me out to this day- how can you sympathize with a guy who's in the end, a fairly pathetic pedophile? You sympathize because the kid's a b***h who leaves him, if I recall correctly, in a roadside hotel for another man. So, he's morally disgusting- at some point haven't we all been? (And if you start that "at least I never" thing- you will be banned forthwith from the conversation- morally speaking, all sins are equal- it's just that some are worth killing for as punishment and others, your punishment is that you have to live with yourself after. The verdict is still out on who should be the judge. [ I think it should be me!])
In the end, love is just a weird thing.  A combination of chemicals in the brain? Maybe. An eternal soul connection with another? Maybe. An intense appreciation of  a personal standard of beauty-e.g. my feet? Could be. In the end, whether you're chemically imbalanced, or shot by the golden arrow of love, you've got to dance with the one who brung ya and love the one you're with- even if it is inanimate, leather, or cushiony. (Hey, some of my best dates have been with inanimate wooden blocks- nice guys, all :)

We are all a little weird and life's a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love.  ~Author Unknown

*Join the weirdvolution!  And, Happy V-day everyone

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

The Color Purple or DIY: Surving the Animal Farm

Stop me  if you think that you've heard these words before...(Oh, right.  Already did that post?Well, alright then. Moving on.)  Don't know where exactly these thoughts are coming from tonight, except for the fact that the drive to work gives me lots of time to think, although what I think isn't always very rational.  Actually, I do know where tonight's thoughts came from- a discussion about, twitting.  Whatever the appropriate verbiage, tonight I had a conversation with friends about changing technology, and realized that I while I have always talked about "when I was a kid", that my era really is changing and I wondered whether I had the capability of keeping up.  I won't say I'm old, (unless it gives me an advantage in an argument) , but neither have I really thought about my future much because I've never seen myself as aging- not from the vanity of youth, but from just not being able to picture myself that far in the future. I don't want to sound despairing, but I don't know that I've ever been sure I would make it that far.  The arrogance of youth is to believe that we are unchanging, or failing that, that everyone else is changing for the worse, growing old and senile, no longer capable of innovation in spirit or thought.  But doesn't anyone remember that growing old is a luxury?  That once upon a time, old was living to be my age (if you know don't tell!) and not much beyond. In animal terms, I would be the stringy, cantankerous tusked female boar of the herd ( do female boars have tusks? Nevermind- just go with the analogy.)- wily, cunning, (okay- just plain too stubborn) enough not to die.  I don't know what continuing lessons growing older will teach me- I'm imagine it will teach me patience as I can't move as fast as I once did even now- (who knew I would look back on my twenties with such nostalgia ?) both physically and often I feel, mentally- but then again, I was never really the sharpest knife in the drawer.    And life itself is cutting itself into my face- those crows feet are growing longer every year-( it's like those carrion birds are having a Dance-Dance Revolution party on my face while I'm asleep every night.) But every wrinkle and scar is mine, and every laugh line too (need more of those actually.) And I'll wear them honestly, and pray that they keep on coming because after all, the alternative is worse.  And besides, they make good accessories for that purple dress I'm saving to wear when I get old...just because.

Warning:When I Am An Old Woman, I Shall Wear Purple

                 When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

Jenny Joseph

*I'm all for practicing now- any one want to join me? 


Related Posts with Thumbnails

Copyright Statement