WHAT IS LOVE?

I’m an almost 60yr old woman watching certain dramas because I like to look at men. Not just any old men; there has to be a hook, and I have to find the worm tasty. Now, when I think about it, it’s mostly got a lot to do with the eyes and the voice, but I don’t think I fall for the actual actor – I think I fall in love with the character. Yes, I must be crossing over to the fantasy side of love, although, I’ve always known of its existence – mostly because of the rainbows and fireworks that never actually appear.

Love is so convoluted that it cannot be described in a nutshell or even an opera house, and I or my opinion could never be measured as normal or average – just brutal and comedic…where’s my hacksaw? I once tried to write a love poem for a competition and produced a couple of women on a roof watching the husband of one and brother of the other falling to his certain death while they dusted off their hands, bidding him farewell.

I don’t remember the anguish of love now that I’m dead. Two dozen evenings in ‘68 ended in a fortnight’s mourning, tracking tears, Motown records dropping one at a time. Was that love? I fly over the past searching for evidence of concrete romance but it escapes me. Is the only witness to love, youth? It’s a kind of madness. We were Cavaliers on the weekend tour keeping eyes peeled for well-heeled men with wallets, in clouded rooms, guessing careers, comparing body parts to heights. The man I got with child in ‘75 made me sick. Is sex love?

The 80s were hotter than July ‘til Frankie said Relax. See single women everywhere, bonking – these enthusiastic meetings of parts are too earthy and sensible for  moral interference from wifely men and women. Married women are garnished with gold, promise to keep the light of love shining in their dignified windows, persuaded in feeble negotiation into Sunday sex, regardless. Is that love? This heaving of the underworld stretches beyond coin, cash, salt. We are all customers consuming what we desire but the business we should be minding is our own. The man I married loved me almost to death. Was that love?

So now that I put brain activity before that of the nether regions, I can see clearly, that clearly, love is a malady and used as an excuse for all sorts of abuse by maniacs…but it is a path through a necessary jungle and I’m glad I made it through alive…to watch the lovely male creatures on the flat screen where they can’t do any harm.

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