On Love

On Love

I had a dream the other night that I fell madly in love (and it was the good reciprocal kind of love) with some foolish geeky boy in a popular band.

I don’t know what band it was, or what kind of band. It wasn’t a real band or referencing a real band. The boy wasn’t anyone I know, nor have I ever seen. He was a purely invented dream character. He wasn’t that attractive or anything, but for some reason he was crazy about me, and I was crazy about him.

It was doomed from the start. The first time I saw him in the dream he was asleep in a bed with a 15 year old girl. He went on tours and had groupies and all that shit. I knew this. I didn’t care. And it wasn’t the “not caring” of the blind denial and defiance variety (i.e. this is fucked but maybe, maybe, maybe he’ll change and/or it’ll work out this time insanity) but the not caring of full awareness, acceptance, and a two-fisted embrace of the Moment. I knew it was only gonna last for a little while, and that was okay.

In the dream, I knew we had two weeks. And this was good enough. It was worth it. I wasn’t concerned with tomorrow or the future or what it means and will we get married and how will it work. When he showed up in the dream, I was overjoyed and it was fun and wonderful. When he went away, the dream went on in other directions. I wasn’t forlorn and lonely and scared and suspicious and fearful… I was simply doing whatever I was doing.

It was a good dream.

Permission was granted to be in love for a while last night, in my sleep. It was one of the greatest dreams I’ve had in a long time. Simple. The magical thing about it was the feeling. It was so good.

I got to have that feeling you get when you’re just crazy about somebody, and you know they’re crazy about you, and you’re not sweating the future of what it means or what it will be. You’re just filled with light, and letting the love out with total abandon and there’s a feeling of so much joy you think you’ll burst. The feeling was so fragile and vulnerable, but in a playful way. Like a shining wet bubble, it had a short but glorious life span, and the whole thing just passed by like the sound of a distant giggle on the breeze. A most glorious dream.

I’ve been working a lot on cultivating fearlessness when it comes to matters of the heart. I’m sick and tired of feeling shame, shame, shame. All the time, for no reason, or for good reason. Whatever the reason, I’m done.

I asked a chatbot what love was… and this is what that AI wise arse had to say:

“Sometimes I think love is just a biological urge. Other times it seems like a spiritual quality. Love, unlike energy or matter, seems limitless.”

I love this world… however…

I am reaching a wall, a serious roadblock, in my ability to communicate and my fear of intimacy with the world at large. I hide. I have been having strong desires to place my head in a door jam and slam the door on my head until it is a bloody mess. I’m not kidding. I am hungry for the real and am doubting everything in my mind… I have got to get through this fear. Fear of being an idiot, fear of having nothing to say, fear of opening my mouth and having nothing to offer but puke and farting noises. It must be okay. Fail better, more, with joy. Fail. Shamelessly.

My physicist friend says that I lack faith. Faith that there is something for me here, now… in this dimension.

Belief in Transcendence is an insult to what is.

I am a big phony and I hide behind revolutionary and dangerous SOUNDING ideas that I am very comfortable with… just as I became a master of self-derogatory humor to pull off the seeming appearance of Radical Honesty without having to get to close to my true self. I have built walls around my thoughts and feelings and I am working on busting ’em up. I need help. I need correspondence. And I need to stop having any desire to impress others in any way, so I will admit, up front, that I am a fool. And I’m not saying that to be cool. I am a selfish ass. I know this.

I also suffer from profound spiritual hunger. But I am too much of a coward to sacrifice myself completely to the immolating flames of humility. The smashing of ego is the most painful prospect ever… August Strindberg described it as “spiritual suicide.”

What was it you said that was so gall-darn brilliant?

I’d give anything to remember how you put it so beautifully!

I just can’t seem to remember any of the wonderful

things you say! gee, that’s funny!

You have the most interesting way of seeing things!

Imagine! Approaching the whole world like a cold toilet!

I can’t remember exactly how you worded it at the time,

but I have the distinct impression of paying close

attention. like a child does…

there is no pain greater than your pain there is no

laughter greater than your laughter there is no reason

to believe that what you are doing is not the greatest

act there is no person I’d rather fumble about with

these are only some of the things in discovering in


how is it when I see you coming I am not struck down

dead trampled on killed a hundred times by my own purple

meanness baseness eaten and my flesh pecked off by birds?

Why is that? I think you told me once.

(Gordy Amede)

The poetic version is that what was once a beautiful and organic process of two lives existing in relation to each other and two people moving along a common path solidified and became an inorganic struture of obligation and rules and regulations, and I revolted.

The truth is, things got fucked up. I hated what I became. I hated what I was doing. It’s a long story.

The short version, I suppose, is that he became more of my friend than my lover, and I didn’t ever want to see the look in his eyes when the shit hit the fan. So I left.

More truth is, the relationship was heavily codependent; we lived together for 7 years, from the time I was 17 to 24. In a lot of ways I never grew up. Then one day I wanted to find out who I was. The day I left, I moved up to my grad school campus and sat in the woods that night, crying and shrieking. The realization of how alone and unknown I was, to my very own self was disturbing. I didn’t know what kind of food I liked. I didn’t know what I liked to do. I didn’t know anything. I was a stranger to myself. The handful of mushrooms I had eaten didn’t help any. Or, perhaps they helped a whole lot.

So, I’ve been spending the last few years trying to figure out who I am, when I am not the dancing monkey, entertaining for peanuts and personal validation.

Ooohh ahhh… dramatic.

The lame version: things got ugly and I split. We’re still friends. He thinks I’m way too hard on myself. He still loves me, I still love him. He wishes I wouldn’t be so hard on myself. I wish him only the best.

So… after all that:

Love is?



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