|
(For Eros, Aphrodite and Venus)
I profess to love you but I guess I love your splendor, seductive charm, your intelligence that hides in shadows. If agape is the traction of the heart, then does it move because I enwrap you or release you? Do I worship your absolute singularity or the way you are? Is philia, eros, or xenia the first damp seduction of life and dies when the other does not merit love? Is love located in the imaginary order of language?
It is always good to sort out whether Eros is reasonable or unreasonable. The unreasonable Eros seeks beauty in different guises—physical possessions, gratifying fantasies, reverie and ‘being in love with the idea of being in love.’ The reasonable Eros attracts the mind and then you can see the pure Eros in pure beauty. Is love generic, divine, erotic or platonic? Does love lack a subject?
The exclusive dominates the world even if it is weird or creepy. Prejudice is not repulsed by the exclusivity—‘I must see you 24 hours for 12 months.’ Then you calibrate time and force the calendar women to prowl ineffectually suggesting the erotic, some whirling assailment, movement in camisoles, heels and transparent undergarments. Time lapses and memory recuperates it.
When you get into the shower scene, the rhetoric sermon of good life, erotic urban interiors, the intercalary month, can keep in step with desire. In a textual lubrication of opaque vocabularies you touch the form of love through its content. It is the hidden template of love, truth as pleasure that speaks through serpentine sentences. The itching of time gets resurrected in recall and brief missives.
I confess to understand your verbs as nouns that designate the events of my love. But every event presumes time. The verbs of your essence will come into being when they cease to refer to you or me. When Eros seeks essences, looks for temporal meanings verbs are born. But when I separate my Being from your entity I enter temporal metaphors not escape time.
I have not found love in confessions or perversions. There are only repressions, hysteria, clinical symptoms that resist pleasure. Must I look for love in allusions, ambiguity, rhetoric, figurative language, alliteration or the caesura? Is it after all a system of signs doubling up as love, as relationships, as shadowy beings? Should I take it easy—muri shinai de? |
|
