I'm so in love with this man. And I'm not afraid. I'm not confused. I'm not overwhelmed, I'm not searching, I'm not looking for a way out. I'm just in it, in the thick of it, enjoying the lengthy conversations about music, the games of Scrabble, the sips of whiskey and puffs of smoke, the reading together and sharing favourite sentences, the gazing, the intimate lovemaking, the dinners we each make for the other to enjoy, the silly voices, the mutual love of mounted deer skulls and pelts, the taking in a view over a cup of coffee, the disagreements over Tom Cruise, the agreements over all the right parts of everything that is everything else. What I'm hoping is that eventually, looking back, there is aggregate data of all these things, constituting, canonically, Our Lives Together.
4 comments:
Love, like pain, cannot be articulated, and it is their inarticulateness that makes them the backbone of all artistic endeavors.
It is common to fall into the trap of cliché, or worse, basely state the emotion: "I am happy" or "I am in love" , which is something most people say at some point in their lives, but then, suddenly, there is someone else, someone that that person loves more, and now merely saying "I love him!" no longer seems sufficient, or even accurate.
When Ryan and I fell in love, I fell into a space beyond language, a liminal space through language in which I could soak up all the rays of all the inarticulacies of love itself.
Elaine Scarry talks about pain unmaking the world. How when a torturer smacks you in the head with a refrigerator door that refrigerator door ceases to exist and solely becomes an instrument of torture, thus, unmaking the world (bit by bit, but unmaking nonetheless). I then translated that interpretation of pain into my experience of love. It was as if Ryan had hit me with a refrigerator door and I became aphasic. All things (the things themselves and their signs) took on a duality. Simultaneously, words both rung untethered and were full beyond the capacity they were comfortable. I was too in love, still am, in a way, and language is just too hollow to describe it.
This is why there are artists. It's all about the way in which one describes what one desires to describe
I wrote a poem the other day. Been years now since anything came out of me that feels as perfect as this:
He wears his neurosis on his sleeve,
by an invention of his heart.
With a tug on one,
the other falls apart.
It is not foolproof,
this failsafe he's set;
he's already told me he loves me,
he just hasn't said the words yet.
***
Later that night, he did tell me he loves me. Ah, it all feel so good.
i'm not going to write anything nearly as eloquent as this post or the subsequent comments that have been thus far posted. but i will say this:
andy looks very natural in that environment. also, is he petting the moss?
-kari
ha. He is petting the moss. I petted it first, though.
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