The Book of Love (Is Long and Boring)

The book of love is long and boring
And written very long ago
It's full of flowers and heart-shaped boxes
And things we're all too young to know

Due to a series of recent events, I find myself puzzling more and more over the nature of love, or at the very least, relationships. At first, I chose to believe that my sudden inclination towards romantically-minded philosophizing was not related to Valentine's Day. However, I'm willing to accept that some degree of cultural brain-washing has occurred, forcing me to consider these matters on this, the day that celebrates the marriage of love (or at least hormones) and capitalism. So I apologize, dear reader(s?), if this entry seems contrite, but try not to judge it too harshly for it's untimeliness.

The subject of cultural brain-washing (forgive my possibly incorrect punctuation there) is actually at the core of what I have been thinking of late. Specifically, I suppose I am looking for a cultural source to blame for my completely fucked-up views on the matters of love, relationships, babies, marriage, etc, etc. This, of course, is not difficult to find.

The first target of my scapegoating is without a doubt Walt Disney and the mental mind-fuck that is every Disney princess to ever be created (*ruling out any that may have come into existence after I stopped watching Disney movies in the mid-nineties. So, if the Disney company has somehow created a strong feminist role-model for young girls since then, I stand corrected (and shocked)). Here is why:

Point A: These movies teach us that there is such a thing as the perfect guy. There is not. They teach us that there is such a thing as love at first sight. There is not. Both personalities and relationships are flawed and take work-- these things are not instant and they are never perfect. But worst of all, these movies teach that the perfect guy will not only serendipitously appear without you seeking him out through your own endeavors (including bad dates and failed relationships), but he will save you, again and again. Fuck that.

Point B: These women teach that as fucked up a girl as you are, the perfect man will still love you through no effort of your own. Take the Little Mermaid for example. In a blinding show of both co-dependence and stalker-mentality, this girl abandons her family and her home to follow a man she doesn't even know at all. These are not qualities that make you attractive, ladies.

Yes, blaming the Disney Corporation for making you naive is a banal complaint; I am aware of this. In fact, I've been aware of this specific mental mind-fuck since I was a teenager; however, it was this awareness that led to complete rejection of the entire idea of happy ever after--- leading to Cultural Scapegoat #2: Breakfast at Tiffany's.

My complete infatuation and over-identification with this story is undoubtedly the source of much of my scepticism towards romance. I even love the happy ending added to the movie adapation simply because it was the first happy ending that, even at a young age, even before I had read the original story, I absoultey did not believe. Personally, I've always thought this was the intention of the film-- give the 1960s movie audience (hell, any movie audience) the ending they crave, but make it seem as unlikely as possible. Because that is what happy endings are-- as unlikely as possible.

However, the part of Breakfast at Tiffany's that always resonates with me in Holly's conversation with Doc at the bus station when she tells him she cannot leave with him:

Doc Golightly: I love you Lula Mae.
Holly Golightly: I know you do, and that's just the trouble. It's the mistake you always made, Doc, trying to love a wild thing. You were always lugging home wild things. Once it was a hawk with a broken wing... and another time it was a full-grown wildcat with a broken leg. Remember?
Doc Golightly: Lula Mae there's something...
Holly Golightly: You musn't give your heart to a wild thing. The more you do, the stronger they get, until they're strong enough to run into the woods or fly into a tree. And then to a higher tree and then to the sky.

How very true.

There are, of course, plenty of other scapegoats, too many in fact, when in truth none of them really matter. A scapegoat, after all, is nothing but a diversion from the real culprit-- which in this case is of course me.

People often compare love to poker. I think this is one of the silliest analogies ever. Poker is, after all, a game of chance and odds. Love, at least in my opinion, is not a game at all, and it is less about odds than it is about pure hard work and compromise. And while in poker you may be able to take bad cards and bluff your way to a winning hand, you can never take a bad realtionship and bluff your way to a happy ever after. As much as you might like to try.

However, I do relate my one recent love-lesson to poker, specifically to something someone very important to me taught me when he was first teaching me to play poker: Once you fold it, let it go. Don't second-guess yourself; don't even look at the cards because it doesn't matter. While I have mastered this in poker, this lesson applied to love is much harder to learn.

To conclude, I've realized once again what I've known all along: No one understands love more than Stephen Merritt. So I leave you with one of those 69 wonderful love songs. Happy fucking Valentine's Day.