I wonder if you know that the idea of being raped comes, etymologically, from a sense of being under the influence of spiritual ecstasy. To be enraptured is to be carried away by this same kind of violence. This same kind of ecstasy. Some call it spiritual, others – prophetic. Perhaps, this is the most perfect kind of violence. The kind of violence you find Joy in.
There is no prescription for love. This finicky four letter word is the prescription, in and of itself. As terrifying as this may feel, it is truth – even before the boil, in the infant stages of love simmering, bubbling.
Shhh… you are skeptical when your chest has been opened, no?
I challenge you to walk away from the perfect girl, with the perfect skirt, the bloody peach shirt and the perfect eyes – that one who has intoxicated you and driven you to sweaty beliefs of how your life can look; and you will understand this truth – that she is love. That, this – and everything she says – is the provenance of love. That, you shouldn’t be afraid of saying this out-loud – however foolish or crippled you feel. However strange you look in that mirror of your own idealized life is only a minor reflection of how powerful the upside to your falling is at all.
When you walk away from her – the only remedy for your love sickness, the only remedy – is more of her. And you know this all the time she is sitting right there, in front of you.
I also challenge you to understand that, in speed comes power. For however fast this feeling has fallen over you, feel not foolish – for the power is only that much greater. And the responsibility…
Shh, just listen to her chatter. Autumn is coming…
When you can barely breathe, the only thing that will give you more breath at all is her. Her breath. Her words. Her utterance of the life that she wants to give and the force that she can impart. Nay, does impart. Does give.
Shh, just close your eyes. You will feel her shiver…
Begin this process that is, at once, yours and not yours at all – and you, the aetheist; you, the agnostic, will gain the understanding that maybe there is a God. Hallelujah, maybe there is something out there giving you breath, granting you life, affording you one last chance, giving you this crosswalk where the girl in the bloody peach shirt gaits across your lane (and she will only look back once)…
Guised by mystery and the guessing of whether or not you are standing on this ground at all, welcome – says the sign – you are falling in love. Whether or not this is the profound love that you constantly sing about – the tag line reads – is up to the cosmos, the reciprocal articulation of you into her and the courage that you will need to possess, from here on out.
From here, on out – look down and recognize this place you may have never really been – and then look up: this is that place. That crossroads. That place we have talked about so alone and in the dark of night.
From here, on out…
Shh… I know that it is also true that I can continue expounding upon these ideals – when, in fact, all I’m doing is creating nervous conversation – like I did all night long with her. Over dinner. Drinks. Her arm tucked in mine. Her scents wafting in and around us all like a cloak of invisibility along the lights of Broadway.
Tonight, it is true: I could barely breathe. To articulate one long-winded sentence required the might of all my infected body. Sometimes, at dinner, I even stood on my toes beneath the table.
The idea of love, the possibility of true, heartwrenching love may even make you fear lust. I know this only now – only tonight as I am terrified to broach that front: To engage in that glorious cacophonous symphony of finally, holy lord – please, alas: pressing my body into hers. Please. Press. My body. Into. Hers.
For to merely touch her thigh, just above the knee – is more than my body can bear. Tingling seems inappropriate and inexact, when, in fact, it is hilariously about the only sensation that my body has witnessed for over a week entirely, signaling the sure truth that this is more delicate than lust. Alas, love’s fragile arms trump the fiery heat of ravenous lust.
To this end, I have learned something more: Love is the doubling-over of lust on its knees.
Love is this kind of wind, when kicked-up with twice a ferocity.
Love is, Joy.
I have no story to tell. Only vignettes to attempt to articulate. For I am under a spell.
And this is exactly where my fear raises up, takes hold and screams over the shadows of my nighttime bed: here there is a blessing, and a curse.
For where love spins the highs into even higher bellows – up and above the city, spiraling taller than everything you ever interact with; it also drills the lows into those exact nightmares that you have dreamt of, and sometimes, felt….
Still, I am not going to stand there in that song which calls fear to my door. Afterall,
She has come back, from the east. And tonight, she came back to me – where I was doing nothing more than waiting for her. Where she could have gone anywhere and gone to anyone:
She came. Back. To me.
(to see if we were both crazy, or gloriously: not)
This is me: Out loud. On my knees.
This is my toast, glasses-raised – to this process at all.
For it is a certain and true fact that hearts can melt at different temperatures. In different light. For differing reasons and because of invisible broken paths.
In one sentence, the heart can snap. And never return. From the east, or west, or beneath your gaze.
So – the sign says – enjoy this all now. Feel the blessing in the fact that Joy is standing before you at all. That you can feel her. That you are afforded this luxury of enchantment. Of privilege.
Listen close, she has many things to say to you…
Herr Nietzsche said that where words leave off, the music begins. Here, he wrote, is the importance of music at all. And so I urge you, shh…
Nietzsche wrote to his sister that, in defense of his seemingly overuse of the “dash” – he said that this dash is where I can no longer write, or speak, I am indefensible to the sensibilities of nature, laughing at us for all our mindless chatter and overreach of sensibility. After the dash, Nietzsche said, is where the music picks up…
On a related note, perhaps one of the greatest pieces of western music is Herr Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. The chorus to this symphony is possibly one of the greatest love songs ever written – to a girl, an idea; a feeling; a thing – the great, “Ode to Joy”. It is here I begin, and end: