cross-post

...like cross-pollination, which means reproduction, which is associated with (though not necessarily inclusive of) love.

On the subject of love, it feels foolish, almost adolescent to be attempting to philosophize on such a subject, for there are as many kinds of love as there are stars in the sky. The romantic in me beckons, calls out for the freedom of expression, of sunsets and waterfalls and lilies. The philosopher (atop his ivory tower, of course) largely ignores his appeals to the values of Beauty and Truth, leaving him to his Promethean punishment for his only act of Good - that is, in illuminating the tedious and squalid life of the philosopher by bringing the fire of hope and happiness.

Nevertheless, I suppose that some words should be said on the subject, for such a grudging compromise will satisfy both - the poet and philosopher joined together in a harmonious union of wordplay and thought. I will not claim that my words are Truth, in sheer pubescent fashion, but that what I have expressed here rings as truth in the context of my experience. Thus I write.

Then...


What is love?

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

1 Corinthians 13:4

An ineffable force; that which grants us the superhuman, nay, divine capability to transcend our own existences for the good of another.

What is love?

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps from the palate teeth to tap, at three, on the the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.

She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita.

Did she have a precursor? She did, indeed she did. In point of fact, there might have been no Lolita at all had I not loved, one summer, a certain initial girl-child. In a princedom by the sea. Oh when? About as many years before Lolita was born as my age was that summer. You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns.

Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov

A platitudinous word that serves only to mask our perverse obsession with the Other, and how only It can satisfy the Self.

What is love?

The house rose from its ashes and I sailed on my love of Delgadina with an intensity and happiness I had never known in my former life. Thanks to her I confronted my inner self for the first time as my ninetieth year went by. I discovered that my obsession for having each thing in the right place, each subject at the right time, each word in the right style, was not the well-deserved reward of an ordered mind but just the opposite: a complete system of pretense invented by me to hide the disorder of my nature. I discovered that I am not disciplined out of virtue but as a reaction to my negligence, that I appear generous in order to conceal my meanness, that I pass myself off as prudent because I am evil-minded, that I am conciliatory in order not to succumb to my repressed rage, that I am punctual only to hide how little I care about other people's time. I learned, in short, that love is not a condition of the spirit but a sign of the zodiac.

I became another man. I tried to reread the classics that had guided me in adolescence, and I could not bear them. I buried myself in the romantic writings I had repudiated when my mother tried to impose them on me with a heavy hand, and in them I became aware that the invincible power that has moved the world is unrequited, not happy, love.

Memories of My Melancholy Whores, Gabriel García Márquez

A simple reflection of the state of our condition; that which embraces the dialectical play between I-and-Thou - always immanent, but ever transcendent; always between but never entirely encompassed; always now, but also then and forever.

What is love?

baby don't hurt me
don't hurt me
no more

The shallow illusion crafted by a fickle trickster, and nothing more.

an unnaming ceremony

It is strange to be writing again, to an imaginary audience. I forget, and I remember - the careful and delicate pain I have learned from in producing an public window into my own private thoughts, and so whatever kind of writing this will turn out to be, it will likely be the same as my previous attempts (despite whatever attempts at variation I have tried in the past). That matters little to me - what is of utmost significance, though, is that I provide an honest representation of myself here, as if I were telling a story to someone I know (casually at the very least). There will always be secrets that are mine to not disclose; such is the consequence of living an "interesting life." The issue, of course, remains that it is up to me to endeavor towards experiencing such an existence and to ecstatically, emphatically, and enigmaticly engage everyone in the telling of such a tale. I, of course, will likely butcher the English language along the way in my pretension to elegant prose, hopefully yielding some enthralling, though perhaps erratic entertainment. Thus shall be our contract.

As the reader may note above, this post has been entitled "an unnaming ceremony" - in which I explain the simple, subtle tensions of which plague me before starting any sort of project. I have noted, on occasion, that small problems, such as the correct color of pen, have had the capability to infinitely delay my progress of the rumored-to-be-difficult first-step of any large-scale project, to the point where days, perhaps even weeks, pass by before I even begin to take steps towards rectifying the situation. So it is with pens and their colors; so it is with language and flourish (the impulse to insert a u to into 'colors,' for example - merely, of course, for colorful effect - whilst writing in this voice is locked into eternal struggle with that abominable red underline of a misspelled word); and so it is with names and naming.

Alas, I return to mystery and vagaries. The title, as you see above, is currently "Three Liters of Water" - a far cry from the serious, dramatic undertones of my previous titles. The title is not circumspect; it is not a reference to the aesthetics of the universe; nor is it a grand, empty, meaningless-striving-to-be-meaningful title (yet). It is merely an observation drawn from the environment which I have found myself in - three liters of water.

Again, mystery and vagaries... and the beauty of human interpretation, leave the title's meaning much to interpretation, and as such, with much-to-be-desired in the fields of Truth and Purpose. It is, of course, subject to change, dictated by the flux of whatever emotion seems to be passing through my consciousness at the current moment in time. Presently, the it will do.

Now that we have been acquainted so laboriously with the title, perhaps it is such a time to introduce myself, the author. The signature below marks an "F. T. Reynard" - an obvious moniker - for a man who has aspirations to delusion, who seeks the nobility of insanity, a man cut-and-dried to hang, like a savory ham, only remembered for its posthumous qualities. Is the prose sweet, tender? Or is it hard and rough, difficult to digest?

I tire of this metaphor; for I will not attempt to try too hard to convince you of my own neurosis with such paltry, transparent euphemisms. Let my actions speak more clearly. In the end, I think you will be quite satisfied.