Love opens that abysmal portal to the Inneffable on one side which, when glimpsed, is seen to be the source emanating the whole of manifest reality on the, seemingly, other side.
How terrifying, how wonderful Love is.
And yet, the heart is still cracked open, and it hurts, it aches so much. Which is the reason why I write so gently, so sweetly about these matters. I write to invite and coax till from the silence I can hear a crack, then dip my words in balm and dab them on the open wound. It has to be done. Not for any other reason, but to usher in the beauty we deserve and want and need. This is the way of Eros, which is the way of humans, which is what we find ourselves to be, right at this moment. Humanity, however, is an art, which one can practice and become more masterly at. The delicate balance of desire, and delicious succumbing to sensation can, when understood and consciously enjoyed, yield marvelous results.
Well, now you know my real agenda, now you know why I spin and weave the beauty from the spider that’s my soul; like Spanish moss it hangs on every word I think and write and utter. I promised I would not betray the dazzling grace my grandmothers bequeathed me. Like tall Meditterranean Cypress trees, all dressed in black with headscarves sheltering their foreheads from the blistering sun, they stood among their orchards, Queens and Mothers. The intoxicating smell of rotting pears and apples never left me, despite their disappearance, fruit and women both, into the Mystery of time and geographic distance.
And why reveal the inner workings of my little heart-vignettes? Why peel back the skin for you to peer behind? For me it doesn’t make a difference, this is my mission, which is not so much a mission as a cartwheel, as a song on the harmonica on a Sunday afternoon, as a black and white movie coming to life, tap-dancing and whistling in the living room.
I know it works because I feel it as you feel it so the words don’t really matter, as long as your own tender, special visions blink their eyes and take a newborn breath inside your chest. I can’t explain what crushed fermented grapes smell like or what they mean to me – like a little drunken bee I fly from memory to memory picking my favorite ones. What brings you back to Childhood, what innocence, what freshness can you share with me?
Eros is the wildest horse in the pack. It hurts the most, because it takes infinity and stuffs it in a box of bones covered in flesh (as if!) and throws it to the wolves.
It’s silly, yearning for itself outside of itself.
It’s the sun, warming itself in front of a dumpster fire.
It’s the moon, crying over a text message.
It’s the grief of believing in Death, even as you defy it.
It’s a gravitational force. Natural, choiceless, gargantuan, it summons, orders and arranges bodies in space; limb entangled with limb, lips closing in like tidal waves on nipple, neck and thigh.
Eros is absurd: with a rose behind his ear he rides on a dolphin, playing the flute. He is an inconvenient god, but where would we be, and how would we know, without him?