There are two things I miss after surviving a life accident.
1) My poor brain.
2) Being in love.
The brain seems to be recovering somewhat, but one is not in love, even if a formely beloved has come down to give you cuddle and the promise of more visits. You are not in love.
How magical, how nice to be in love, the beloved seemingly winged and out of the sky, divine airline stewardess/steward
come to rescue you from this world of dross and limbo, where you know every day is the same, and unlike Murray McLachlin, you are not "washed by the whisperin' rain."
Poetic Murray McLachlin:
I will stare like a gypsy
Into the sky
And the moonlight will search into my eyes
'Til the strangest sound is my own name
All inside me is the whispering rain
All the songs that sigh among the trees
All the time that brings you to your knees
People helpless when love came
Lost in the whispering rain
In spring, an old man's fancy turns to thoughts of revenge.
You know the therapist's mantra: If you love something, let it go. If it loves you it will come back to you; if it doesn't, it was not yours in the first place.
The biker's response: If you love something, let it go. If it loves you, it will come back to you.
If it doesn't, hunt it down and kill it.
Well, being a hunter-gatherer these past thirty years, I have seen love come and go, mostly go, but it's when you lose seriously at love that the biker's way seems most attractive.
Some gorgeous blonde made a fool of me. Got married to this guy right under my nose; under the nose of her poor husband too, that poor fool so busy outfitting and servicing his mistress.
I hounded that poor couple until they were both half-mad and finally separated. Now that she is in the clear, I don't want her; don't trust her.
Back into the more distant past, I caught my wife with a lover (myself being no saint) and once I had him on the floor, proceeded to dust his timepiece...Good thing he was a little guy like me, otherwise it would have been me with the bruises.
My mother used to say: "Look at those two fools. The woman stands by, demure, while they try to kill each other."
All that gorilla chest-thumping aside, it is truly wonderful to be in love.
The universe suddenly makes sense.
Love lifts us up where we belong
Where the eagles cry
On a mountain high
....Come to think of it, there is something gorilla-like in Joe Cocker's movements.
Yet, to be in love.
One is whimsical and a little shy. You walk on a rainbow of happiness. Inexplainably, you might burst into tears.
What if the beloved were to ever leave you? What if Lucy should be dead? What if you unexpectedly get a Dear John?
Make me an angel
That flies from Montgomery
Make me a poster
Of an old rodeo
Just give me one thing
That I can hold onto
To believe in this livin'
Is such a hard way to go
Make me an angel out of that sheet of paper.
Make me a cut-out doll.
But for god's sake, don't make it a Dear John.
"The woman is a dustmop," friends say. "What do you see in her?"
But that is my dirty dustmop. That is my chunk of s..t. That is what I want.
A man will chase a woman for twenty years, without hardly getting anything from her.
Then she becomes available.
And like Flaubert with his Louise Collette, the man will run away.
Ah, echoes of Flaubert and Dostoevsky. Dostoevsky you can belive, because he had been married twice.
I do believe old Fyodor's first wife was thrown off by his trembling lips and chin and tendency to take fits.
I think my own poor wife was thrown off by my nuttiness.
Ah, but there is still in us the fuse that drives the flower.
There is always hope.
Even though you have been bad news for women for such a long time.
Ah, like that Mandala song.