What a Fool Believes.

So since beginning this blog with my homie Sleazy CZ, I've had love on my mind a lot... Not because I want kiwi-homo-leftwing love from CZ, but because this is a loveblog, and it sorta comes with the loveblogger hat.

With all these thoughts of love and relationships washing in, old love's memories pop up like coffins after a monsoon. I don't have to open them to know what's inside. It's decroded corpses.

I mean... It's always been very clear to me who the BIG ONE was in my life.
When I break up with a girl, about a week later there will come a day when, like someone quickly running through the alphabet to remember a particular sequence of letters, I will just freak out and call every other girl I've ever dated. All except one. P, Q, R...

S_____... I call her Curve. She was not like any girl I had dated before. Previous to her, I dated girls who were into all the same things as me... My relationships with them were generally highly-referential, "You like Band XYZ? You're so cool!"

Curve was the first I could have taken to a desert island with me and been happy. I didn't need to reference the Transformers with her, because I wasn't nostalgic for the past, but rather prenostalgic for the future: specifically, the future of me putting sweet babies up in that piece.

She made me feel like I was high on some kind of very benevolent acid-cocaine-heroin combo. I could physically feel the love-power shooting from my eyes and teeth, from my crotch shone a carebear stare of pure joy. I heard things and saw things while having sex with her that I know for a fact were hallucinations. I once actually used a DAT recorder to make a field recording of the inside of my brain's audio processing centers during our one of our time-bending freak sessions.

Which makes me wonder how much of it was really love, and how much of it was sexual. Though, how much of this kind of love is sexual anyway? How much of it should be sexual? I tend to the opinion that quite a bit of it should be: if you're picking someone to have children with, it's nice if you enjoy the work. But beyond that, there's a moon's orbit difference between simply having relationship with good sex and being in love with the girl you're having sex with. If you've been in love before, you know what I am talking about. If you haven't, well, go have sex while high on acid, cocaine, and heroin, then come talk to me.

All the reasons for our separation will have to wait until a later post, but it was more bad-timing and adverse-situations than it was that we didn't get along or anything of that nature. Because there were never any "I hate you!" type fights, there are really no bad memories that can be directly attributed to her.

That makes it all the more difficult.

I still often dream about her. I still compare others to her. I think I need to douche out the part of my brain that stores her memories, but where is that¹?

If Proust were me, he would have said:

~At one time she was there, two feet in front of me, but, as time passes and that moment recedes into the distance, her memory, instead of receding in proportion, yet remains the same, until she appears to me as a mountain seen on the horizon: looming, impossibly. I know, this is an optical trick, and I am amused by this trick because I know it is unreal and that there is no way that she, as a human being, is anything like the towering She of my imagination, yet I am pressed still by the weight of this vista. In this way she feels as permanent as anything can be, as relatively permanent as the Himalayas, but even this permanency I know is amusing, given the brevity of the actual relationship, or more important, given the brevity of a human life. In all, it is like thinking that Mt. Everest isn't simply named after some man called Everest, but is in fact that man.

Pretty Prousty, yeah?

I've considered calling her to try to recreate the past, but then I would be like that guy in that one song by the Doobie Brothers².

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¹I have heard that using brain-douche too often can result in brain-yeast-infection.

²China Grove.