Love (/Throw Baby!)

Lately I’ve found myself to be pondering love. Perhaps it has something to do with the books I’ve been reading (A Severe Mercy, Romeo and Juliet, The Four Loves etc.).

Due to the modern disgrace of the word via “love songs” or “love stories” which generally show very minimal content of altruism (that still turns out to be only a shell that harbors all sorts of narcissistic perversions of self sacrifice- i.e. see Romeo and Juliet!), I’ve discovered that I’ve come to “throw out the baby with the bath water” as it were. I am only recently coming to see that real Love is quite other than what is portrayed by some of the Narcissistic Perverts themselves that we call “Hollywood”.

A novel concept has just hit me: instead of joining the feminine version of “Club G.R.O.S.S” (revision: Get Rid Of Slimy guyS…pardon the Calvin and Hobbs :~p), why not simply recognize that Hollywood wouldn’t know a real baby if it slapped them in the face! Why throw out real Love with the garbage (or bath water) when they really don’t know anything about it? Anyway, to continue…

“A Sever Mercy” is probably one of the best and most difficult books I’ve ever read.
I’ve found my vision (not only of love, but also of beauty) to be altered.
The grass is greener; the sky is bluer; cold wind tastes sweeter and the sensation of its temperature is fresher on my skin.
To have a “God of Love” takes on a very new meaning when “Love” is properly defined.
Indeed, this Love is greater than hope; greater even than faith.

In step with beauty and love is the medium by which it is perceived: time. As such, I have been unavoidably engaged in a time warp of sorts; which, of course, compels me to quote T.S. Eliot:

“Desire itself is movement
Not in itself desirable;
Love is itself unmoving,
Only the cause and end of movement,
Timeless, and undesiring
Except in the aspect of time
Caught in the form of limitation
Between un-being and being.
Sudden in a shaft of sunlight
Even while the dust moves
There rises the hidden laughter
Of children in the foliage
Quick now, here, now, always-
Ridiculous the waste sad time
Stretching before and after.”

-T.S. Eliot (taken from “Burnt Norton” –“The Four Quartets”)

"Love is itself unmoving, only the cause and end of movement" "at the still point of the turning world" "and do not call it fixity" "there the dance is", "and there is only the dance"...