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?
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'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.
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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.'
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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.'
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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?
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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.