Love may be my greatest downfall.
That is not to say that love will be the thing that brings me down; my Achilles’ Heel; the thorn in my side.
For Love – I believe – will redeem me. Finally. And thoroughly. I believe it is with Love, and through Love that I will achieve my greatest deeds. Write the best poetry, the most exciting novels. Discover the most hidden truths, sharing them with my loved ones, and perhaps the world, if it decides to be nice to me. Love will help me to realize myself, and my true potential. And Love will give me the missing pieces, to help me complete the tasks I have yet to accomplish; like turning cheap flatware into silver medallions, and finally mixing my never ending potion of eternal life.
Love is the downfall IN me. Wait. Love is…if there is something … well yeah ok, I guess Love is my Achilles’ Heel. Fine. I was trying to read my “book of the month” club book. And I don’t often do this…in fact, I can’t remember when I’ve ever done this, but I read a fair amount, so I imagine I must have done it before. I flipped ahead! I flipped through pages and pages of the story, looking to see if they got together or not! This was not as easy a task as it could have been; this isn’t a romance we’re reading. This is an ensemble piece, story upon story of lives intertwining and lacing together like an ice skater’s boot. And people come and go and change, and the story doesn’t stop, just waits in the wings for a while, until the other players get the hell of stage finally, so the lovers can get back to canoodling or looking longingly at each other for two minutes before the next tragedy whisks them off stage again. And really, there hasn’t been canoodling. Or much long looking.
And maybe that’s what has me riveted, and cheating the author by skipping the other lives that exist in this novel, just to get to the lovers. But that’s the thing…he’s done it so well. He’s created the angst of love, and the anticipation so accurately.
It’s not a romance like out of the Harelequin novels…there’s no talk of pulsing neck veins, or throbbing…headaches, or voluptuous damsels. There aren’t wise cracking heroes or muscular main men that save the day or slay the dragon. Yes, there is talk of castles. A few of the characters happen to be Irish, and there are two love stories unfolding here. But these stories are REAL sounding. Two people falling in love, who are nobodies, and trying to live their lives, and afraid of committing to this love, but afraid of not committing. A love that is so intense it is palpable, and vibrates in the room, making others uncomfortably aware that something in the world is frenzied, and heated, and stifling…is it the weather? Longing that is so frustrating it makes your chest squeeze as you read about it, and makes your brow furrow as you nervously bite your nails, wondering if he will finally screw up his courage and stay with her in her life.
The whole book isn’t about this love, it maybe isn’t about love at all. Love is maybe just part of what happens, PART of life.
And that’s my problem, I guess.
I’m a romantic. When the story is unfolding around me, I want to see where the love is. When the movie is dancing across the screen, I look for the lovers.
It’s not like I think love is the only thing there is. But I seem to buy into that old Beatles tune, Love is all you need. Yes there is work, and politics. Yes there is school, and art, and self expression and writing until you aren’t sure what words mean anymore. There is food and wine, football and foosball (thank the gods) and all the things that make life beautiful and worth while. But love is in ALL of that. And without love, none of that would matter to me. I mean, I am able to enjoy all of these things whether single or happily involved. But love is what makes my heart get a beat on.
And so, I suppose, Love will be the end of me.