Love and Pornography

 “The only kind of love is stone-blind love” Tom Waits

My last Muse turned Mephistopheles on me. But foolishly, I surmise, I kept her around long after she gave me inspiration; I suppose to remember something I never want to forget. But since you’re all nice people; if I gave you her story you’d want to dive like a submarine away from the bad vibes, and Saturday night is not the time to be sharing my nightmare. Like Dylan said “if they could see my minds dream they’d probably put my head in a guillotine. It’s all right Ma, I’m only bleeding”. So, the good news is; as a reward for my gifts or in pity for my sins, not sure which one, the literary gods have sent me another.

In our current zeitgeist of industrial strength cynicism and over the top inequality save only the sentiments of the Occupy folk; a wingless angel, my current Muse, sends me dispatches from her celestial perch. She writes. “Be present to the Beauty all around. Open your gaze and let yourself be amazed at the infinite ways Love is expressed in the world. Know this is simply a reflection of the Beauty you are, and will always BE” 

And yet again she guides me into her alternative universe in good god existential moments worthy of a Ram DassBe Here Now” reality; she gifts my inbox with pure light energy. “Drawing inward, we feel the Great-Full-Ness of Life. Releasing outward, we flow our unique essence into the world. Each breath is a prayer of Gratitude, carrying our radiance, brilliance and intentions upward and outward into the World.” Getting carpel tunnel from deleting the 90 or so meaningless dribble that lands on my screen daily; knowing one person truly cares about you makes all the others so much easier to bear.

The first part of her last epistle is surely fierce and correct; all six billion of us take our first breathe “in” the moment we leave the womb. It is a prayer for life and for love. But our last breath, one we may take 100 years from the first one “in”, is for all six billion of us; “out”. Our breath in is personal, for us, while our breath out is for the community of man and that’s where it gets dicey. 

Another believer tells me that the word conspiracy derives from the Latin meaning to “breathe together”. So while we conspire; all breathing the very same air in and hoping for the very same outcome, the outward breathe we grace the world with often has neither radiance nor brilliance. Why is that? What alchemy occurs in that magic moment of nuclear bombardment that transmutes everyone’s breath into something very different?  

As I read the obscenity of Arab news where the words axe and children find synergy in the same sentence; it seems clear the Socratic Method for many of us has been abandoned, in an age of zero gravity magnets and quantum mechanics, by the jaundiced backwater philosophy of god. My lazy math tells me ½ the murders and various atrocities we face mornings in our own daily news results from this predilection. If our celebrated visionary Frederick Nietzsche was correct we should have long ago jettisoned this spurious notion; one that gives birth to our dis-ease; our mass hysteria.

Freddie’s idea is stated succinctly in his classical work “The Madman” as follows: “God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him”. Would it were so maybe we could make some real progress. If we could only kill that selfish, maniacal, fake delusion and replace its specious influence we could all breathe out with the same hope for agape love we breathe in with and breathe with a glorious sigh of relief.

I heard the backhanded question today, unspoken, “how do we know when we are in love”? That’s like asking how I know I was just struck by a freight train going sixty. They say love can grow and I suppose so but true love is not, if not at first sight; when our very DNA changes and our molecular structures is forever altered when together and our breath is more labored when apart. True love is like pornography. It can’t be described, only felt; we know it when we see it and more importantly when we feel it.

Hit by the Thunderbolt

H.L. Mencken said that love,
was the triumph of imagination,
over intelligence.
I suppose he was just about right,
right up until the time you’re in it,
heart-deep in the magic zone,
where the scent of her breath
intoxicate you like heavenly heroin
and sweet cocaine,
and you surrender.
And the mere fact
that this bizarre sight
is even possible
in the midst of all this madness,
truly is a triumph,
and you don’t care
what kind.

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About circusinpurgatory
Nick Masesso Jr’s fictionalized short stories, poetry and prose have been published in the Starry Night Review, Elegant Thorn Review, Language and Culture.net and Vagabond Press; the Battered Suitcase. His latest book “Armor of Innocence” and first book “Walking the Midway in Purgatory, a Journal” are available on-line and through bookstores.

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