The Birds and The Stone

Does love in the heart define the mind? Or does love in the mind define the heart? If you love a mind with all your heart, can minds alone be lovers too? If you love a heart with all your mind, can you make do without a thought to pursue? Does love require heart and mind to be considered true? What if it can be one or the other, but not the two? What would you do? If you looked inside yourself, what would you find? A love of heart or a love of mind? Does a lovely heart seize your loving mind? Or does a lovely mind seize your loving heart? Would mindful answers tear your love apart? Hearts, do you think love minds?
_____

'Aden, you sure do love me huh baby?'

'Of course I do beautiful.'

'Why?'

'Why?'

'Tell me why.'

'Can I show you instead?'

'No, I'm going to bed. Tell me a story.'

'A story?'

'Yes. I want you to tell me a story. A good one.'

'Nikita I'd love to, but I'm no good at story-telling. I mean I'd really love to. I just doubt it'd be-'

'Aden please?'

'Alright alright. So...there was this troubled man. He was inwardly troubled through and through, and I suppose a little bit outwardly too. This man fell madly in love with a woman who thrived by hiding her troubles from view. His first attempts at courting her received only the response 'You're trouble, aren't you?' Then they fell in love, and both turned blue. See, because...because in a serious relationship, the front of one is the fall of two! And and...the man's troubles collapsed the woman's walls until her vulnerability broke through! For, as a woman is wont to do-'

'-Ok, Aden. You can stop. What a pathetically bad story. Goodnight.'

'Gee, thanks Nikita. Guten nacht. And don't worry, that'll be the last story of mine you have to suffer through.'
_____

I've always believed love to be a crescendo; the love that forever grows is the love no limit knows. Yes! a crescendo forever: from clumsy overtures to ebb and flow waltzes to full-blown symphonies with moonlit sonatas! From dainty divertimentos to roaring rondos! Movements so full of ardor their sound drowns on forever! In eternal climax, a climax that defines forever! Defies! forever this climax; where every sound, every second is filled with passion: passions that turn an urge to kill into a will to survive; that turn a will to die into an urge to thrive! Passions that emanate from lips to hips; from nose to toes; from eyes to thighs; from between the ears to through the years. Oh yes. With this love! eternity is eternally defied the denouement of an infinite little passions.
_____

Aden was sitting in the recliner pretending to read; Nikita was lying in bed actually reading. He was thinking he loved the way she read: her back propped up with pillows and legs covered with blanket so only her bare feet showed. Then every so often she would adjust the pillows and rub her feet together, one over the other, the other over the one, which always ended in her toes clasping together like old friends. Love and its general comfort hung in the air of their small apartment. To Aden, it felt warm and thick, this love, and soft affectionate breezes billowed it about the room. The TV idled in the background (he could hear a subdued voice as it spoke of forty more dead in the Middle East; women and children caught off-guard by a misguided missile, the military too; 'collateral damage'; the holy war rages on in the Gaza Strip; recession looms, sure to doom the penniless and reward the thrifty; and now on to sports...). Everything existing outside of their immediate environment seemed to matter only to the poor souls dwelling there. Outside their love. He'd held the book up to his face at an angle which allowed him to see over its top without her noticing. He was staring at her instead of reaching another 'So it goes' Vonnegut line (he'd settled for the subdued newscaster's words, which were much less humorous but conveyed the same sentiment, and this way he could focus his attention on Nikita). She wore the glasses he loved when she read, the ones with the burgundy frames that did something to accentuate her already sexy features that's hard to pinpoint. Sharpened her mental sexiness, perhaps, like that 'sexy librarian' allusion everyone has when seeing a woman they fancy in glasses. The beautiful mind behind the burgundy frames. He studied her as she lay there lost in a Rick Bass world. The full, luscious lips that froze in a slight pout whenever they weren't smiling. The intensely dark eyes that played the devotion role so well, but which you knew could quickly turn and burn two black holes right through whatever they wanted to. Then she caught his eye. Those pouty lips turned to a smile that instantly melted any apprehension of his bothering her into a swift leap on to the bed. She still had the book clasped in her hands with her elbows on either side of her chest, just out in front of her face. Aden ran his hands up her legs, his lips following behind with back and forth, pointed kisses. Then in a swift move, he grabbed her shoulders and pulled his head up underneath the book. She smiled as his face replaced the pages.

'Aden, if men love like I think you love me, why do you make this world such a dark place to live?'

'Umm, well, first I'll assume all men love like I do, Nikita. Second, I'll assume men are the only problem. Which they aren't, in my humble opinion, but I guess-'

'What do you mean they aren't? Are you really implying that women have a hand in your madness? Perpetual war? Senseless violence? The utter destruction of most living, breathing beings? These are manly things. Macho things.'

'Well, let me finish. If I had to make a sweeping accusation, baby, I'd say guys stumbling around as drunk on love as I am tend to become violent after one particular cocktail: jealousy. I mean, look around! It's in me. You can see it in our peers. Peer at the news (he points to the TV). It's there too! It's the Molotov cocktail hurled time and again at the feet of humanity. Jealousy is an explosion of primal fears and crocodile tears! And jealousy has many offspring. First it breeds fear. Next it breeds ignorance. Then it breeds violence. Finally it breeds with you. Back to square one. And jealousy is perpetual want of something more, it leads to take take take. It's-"

'Haha! So you're saying the fault of a woman is breeding with a man? Right now, that doesn't bode too well for you!'

'Time out! Time out! I meant women choose to breed with men prone to inane jealousy!'

'And you included yourself in that group!'

'But, but you know I...but I qualified my statements by saying if men loved like I did, which-'

'Oh so now your love is special? A man's love can't hold a candle to a woman's, Aden!'

'Oh yeah?!'

'Yeah!'

'I'll show you!'

'Show me then!'

'...'

'...'

'I love you darlin'.'

'Und du, Aden. And I love you. I'll always love you.'
_____

But lo! woe be to the soul that lives to see love's curtain fall! To be alive when the crescendo crashes is deafening. In silence. Insolence! The somber waltz to denouement is definitely maddening. Definitively see!-Saw! this passionate love close a mind and open a heart; now insolent silence opens that mind to a closed heart. The moon's always overhead, but the sonata is dead! The love that knew no limit has been chained to a wall. And with it comes a prisoner: the steadfast optimist crumples into a knee-jerk pessimist; the manic warrior deteriorates into a placid captive. Oh lo how low! the devastating depression of love's denouement can go! Love's end subjugates even the most idealistic zealot, leaves a nihilistic void in place of his heart and head. The passionate teacher becomes a spiteful preacher; the social magnet becomes a lonely vagrant. The knife is flush against its pulsing vein! The gun is tickling the back of its throat! The noose is itchy around its neck! EVERYONE! everyone is asking when? When will romance be dead?
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Inbox (1)

Cainley, Nikita.....(No Subject).....6:05am

Hey -

Aden, I'm freaking out. So confused right now I don't know what to do. In the week I've had to myself in this new environment, with all these new people around and you across the country...well, well I've thought and I've felt. Remember all those times I worried over you? All those times you came home wasted on another binge or another drug? I'm not questioning your love, I know it's so true, but I wonder if there's anything left...anything left that I can do for you. You're so..you're such a dichotomy. For as much as you love, you hurt. For as much fun as you can be, great fun, you can also be the epitome of melancholy. I don't know what it is with you. But I do know that as you bring out the best and worst in yourself, you take me with you. And your highs are wondrous, but your lows Aden, I'm not sure there's a person out there that can deal with your lows. Do you have any idea how upsetting and frustrating it is to feel helpless around a person you love so deeply? That feeling, the one I felt, is worse than you could ever imagine. Not only does it provoke my own demons, which is bad enough, but I inherit yours too. And these people I've met, for as much as you're unique, they're a lot like you without the melancholy. They have passions, their minds have edges, but you...you have to wear it all on your sleeve. I think I need time, give me a week or two, time to think. You..you won't like my new friends. This is a small community of like-minded interests, and...and I don't know where you fit. I mean, yet. I think. I need to think, Aden.

Love,
Nika

'Who's 'they', Nikita? What's HIS name? How could you?! It's only been a week since we moved out there! I'll be back in less than two months!'

'It's not a man, Aden. I just, just don't know. Life changed so fast all of a sudden-'

'Nikita, is it a man?'

'...'

'Nikita?'

'I didn't think I could feel this way about anyone else.'

'Ah, so now it all makes sen-'

'No! Aden, it's not that way. It's so much bigger...so much more than that.'

'Ok, Nikita. You know what? What a pathetically bad story this...this has all been.'
_____

STOP! lo woe lo whoa! I'm afraid I didn't think this through! All this talk of overtures, of waltzes, of dancing life away engulfed in some sweet sound of love's sonatas - take a fucking curtsy! For to tango it takes two, you see! You do see, don't you? That perhaps it's true, perhaps it's true that love is all we need. But LO! I don't believe, don't believe that when it comes to love romance is all we bleed. Love is so much bigger...so much more than that! As much as love is a battlefield, it's also combat. But if love is the cause! from man to woman; woman to woman; man to man; from church steeples to genuflecting peoples; good christ, what is the war? Hell! who's keeping score? If you truly love, if you truly love more than yourself, then what are you fighting for?
_____

A day in December now,

I don't know where I'm going, because I don't know where I want to be. I've always been able to manage this feeling with a woman by my side. A woman with an indomitable will. A crutch? Sure. Unique? No. I think most folks find it easier to lean than stand alone. But I can't find it; I can't find my purpose here. And as the years pass, as the graves fill, as the people close to me wither or fade to black, I can't help but think: what the fuck do I lack? Why can't I help? I don't care that others tell me I shouldn't think this way - I'd sacrifice my happiness for that of others any old day. Most of the time, it feels I'm setting myself up for exactly the kind of life I don't want to lead: the nuances of routine; the knowing of what tomorrow will bring; the utter inconsequence of everything. Yet, it brings me great pleasure and happiness to affect somebody's day in a positive way. To bring a smile, a sense of being wanted, no, a sense that everything will always be alright. Yet, there is this deeper feeling. It borders on instinct, but I'm at a loss for what it is; what I'm supposed to do with this feeling and its associated thoughts:

It feels like instead of me holding out hope for something, something is holding out hope for me. But the more I can't realize what it is, the more I feel I'm a sinking ship in a calm sea. This drives people away. I mean, who in their right mind wants to anchor a sinking ship? But, but it's like all the decomposing bodies of the world have their decayed faces turned towards me; their rotting eyes pinned on mine. And they're trying to convey a message to me. A message that always seems just out of reach of my understanding. It's like, like: we're dead, Aden, but you can help. Your love can do more. How? It's so frustrating! All I can say, all I've ever been able to say, is: I love you.

The Duality of a Man

Aden and I are sipping some fine French cognac (redundant) tonight. That damn Aden though, he's a connoisseur of the effect rather than its cause. His pallet for palliatives is as indiscriminate as faith is with its minions. He's also shallow enough to believe drinking red wine qualifies him as being culturally refined and bourbon (neat) a gentleman. Now this cognac, a soul of Ugni blanc that spent over 30 years earning its rite of passage trapped in an oak barrel before inhabiting our body, to him may as well have been moldy grapes picked off a dead vine wrapped around a tombstone and distilled in an urn. While I'm on my side (left) of the body conjuring up delectable images of Brie and Camembert cheeses as soft as a woman's breast with each sup, that halfwit is drowning me in gulps and refills with his leg (right) jack-hammering the ground at 100 mph as he romanticizes coup d'états and anarchist revolutions. Two peas of antagonistic varieties stuck in the same pod, he and I. In terms of naming rights, I've decided he should bear our actual given name (for an explanation see the "DNA" sentence further below, I don't feel it would suit me very well to go by just one name). Hence, I will rarely refer to him as 'me' or us as 'we', and forever Aden he will be.

Lo siento mis amigos, let me retreat before the war has even begun, for I seem to have gotten my priorities out of order. I should have jumped into salutations straight away - hello Liebchens, the name's Aden O'Shea. As I'm sure you've gathered already, that is the given name of a, well how should I put it, uh I suppose maybe, perhaps, one could argue...For the love of respectability, Aden, SLOW DOWN! Sorry folks, but this maniac on my right has reached the point where he's gargling the beloved cognac in his mouth like a debonair does with Listerine. My train of thought feels as though it's swishing around our mutual oral cavity suspended in a river of forsaken Ugni blanc. I'd ignore his foolish theatrics if I weren't afraid of him becoming so completely and utterly polluted as to throw me aside and take the reins. Not that you'd have to suffer through his incoherent ramblings or anything. I know him well enough to foresee a simple dropping of the proverbial trou, after which he would commence urinating on the keyboard while screaming some pretentious Latin slogan like, "Vivere disce, cogita mori!" at the top of his lungs, mispronouncing every word. Thankfully, he seems to have placated himself with Iggy Pop's "The Passenger". This is good, and I hope he remains a passenger, because it's not like I can hide the bottle...

Now where were we? (I love the word devolution in that phrase, so pleasing to the eye). Ah yes, Aden O'Shea is the given name of a mental duality. If you ever find yourself being led on a sled by a wild pack of dogs along the longitudinal fissure of our brain, gee will take you to Aden and haw to me. For the most part, this duality is really a discordant dichotomy. He and I share very few things in common, aside from every physical aspect of the body. Despite his previously alluded to ideological stance, Aden is very much a realist. His will is easily trod upon by the morose, seemingly backward banalities of humanity - war as negative reinforcement of charity; money as positive reinforcement of greed; politicians as scapegoats for people who deemed them necessary evils in the first place; people in suits carrying locked briefcases that one assumes are full of court writs (redundant) for tax evasion but actually contain at least six pairs of women's panties, a gyrating dildo, and the December issue of "The Economist"; people masquerading around as social 'butterflies' when the correct organisms would be 'chameleons'; people frothing at the mouth re the merits of wedlock and multiple babies (artificial insemination no longer implies a vet elbow deep in a heifer's vajayjay); people in general. In other words, he's a typical man - all phallic fears and fickle feelings. Oh indeed, downtrodden is Aden. I, on the other hemisphere, run freely with the infinite motivation of elusive goals provided by idealism. You see, it's impossible to trod on a vagueness, an essence. Ideals can be these things, like faint music in the soundtrack of life or light that always manages to seep through the bars of a prison cell no matter the state of time, respectively. I don't put much weight on having 'values', so to speak, as their worth seems to fluctuate, ebb and flow, with the tides of the global economy. No, I prefer to live by one mantra, and let me tell you, it is a mantra of melancholia to be sure - Always champion love, never succumb to hate. Why the melancholia, you ask? Well, like I stated above, ideals are elusive. And love is an ideal. Hate is just another passion, a weakness of the mind. Hate will hold your hand. Love, in its truest form, will always be relegated to the sparks that fly between outstretched fingertips that can't quite grasp each other. If you could ask this here cognac about true love, it'd be quick to quip, "Vrai amour? Pour moi, elle n' existe pas." I happen to disagree with this cognac, I think she, true love, does exist. Alas, if you asked me her name at the moment, the best answer I could provide would be "Mom". Yes, the mantra of melancholia is love.

Spiritual folk, mainly pagan women past the age of 40, would deem me an 'old soul'. I am not of that opinion. I prefer to think myself as being the mental manifestation of the knowledge accumulated by thousands of successive generations of DNA. What of Aden, then? I suppose he's the freshest pairing of genes, the here and now. He's so...so mortal when compared to me. If we were this bottle of cognac, I'd be the substance and he the dregs. I've stressed our differences enough for now, though. There does exist an aberration in our dichotomy. For as much as I'd like to call my one mantra my own, I'd be ignorant of the facts if I said Aden didn't live by the same policy. I must admit that while I'm never ignorant of the facts, I am often naive to the situation. It is for this reason Aden can be quite a valuable asset to have along for the ride, but I digress, I'll elaborate this point at a later time. Anyway, Aden is also a lover of love. Indeed, speaking of lovers, we were both madly enamored with this alluring woman, bella dama!, named Nikita. The breadth of my lives (thousands of successive generations) have been spent trying to court women like Nikita; same can be said for the dearth of Aden's (dregs) with specific regard to her. Her type almost evades description, but I'll do my best to tap into my effeminate side, as things are always best understood when viewing the world through their eyes. What follows comes solely from my perspective, as Aden is incapable (phallic fears, fickle feelings) of discussing Nikita without...Oh Aden! Aden, no, don't cry. Stop it! I just finished telling these kind people not ten minutes ago how your bouts of drunken behavior tend to involve destruction, and not the kind of the self. Yes, I knew better. It was your reputation at stake, on the stake. Fine, be a maudlin. Here's a violin, go pluck your sapstrings then. Hey, where are you taking us?! Aw Aden, come now, you know I was only giving you a hard time! ADEN! Damnit. We'll continue this later, my friends. It seems we're leaving...