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3 posts categorized "emotions"

April 21, 2008

On Love

Love is a dangerous quantity. It is more unpredictable than yellow phosphorus and it can land people in jail. It can also bankrupt, torture and transform people into Mr/Miss Hyde. The power of love is no lie, and I only realized the strength of love, or what one’s idea of love is, the day I gave birth. Prior to that I coasted along. Me, kill for love? No fucking way. There was no relationship worth dying for, until I had my child that is.

When I cradled my son for the very first time the maternal instinct kicked in, as though on cue. Those hormones beat Viagra hands down, and another form of love kicked in. To me, the parent-child bond is indescribable, and perhaps purer than the love that arrives from online sites like Craigslist, porn, or social expectations. The ‘love’ that arises from the latter is conditional:

“You haven’t chipped in with the housework all month.” = you don’t get a blowjob/sex.
“You forgot our anniversary.” = no cuddling or sex.
“You spend more time with the kids/at work/working to make a living.” = I’m going to have an affair, online or real, it doesn’t matter.

Partners can be dispensable and the spark of romantic love or sexual attraction wanes over time, and if one is stuck with a partner with little imagination or a low concentration span, then that relationship is doomed. Sexual attraction - on its own - isn’t meant to be a lifelong thing. It’s there for procreation. Why I say that? The statistics (divorce, separation and infidelity) indicate that people lose their spark after a certain period of time, or after they procreate and spend the first post baby year smelling of eau de baby vomit.

I’d like to think that I’ve fallen in love numerous times over my short time on this planet, but it has never evoked groundbreaking  passion. I’ve never felt the urge to annihilate a romantic competitor. Romantic/sexual jealousy is infantile to me, perhaps one of my biggest pet hates. And no, I’m not romantic in the ‘together forever or I’ll die,’ kind of way.

The only type of love that can move me to kill would be the love I have for my child. It was when he was born that I thought, ‘right, anyone does anything to him, I’ll kill them.’ There was no guilt or ethical ambivalence accompanying this thought. It was scary, but it was what it was. Even today I have similar thoughts. I read about heinous crimes committed against children, and I thank everything - from a blade of grass to God - that it isn’t me, because if it was me, I wouldn’t wait around for the bureaucrats to ‘take care of it.’

For others, romantic love is the love that makes them crazy. People kill or solicit people to kill romantic rivals. Others abandon their livelihoods for romance or sex. Some find that their lives come to a complete stop because of romance or sexual attraction - and I don’t get it. The reason for me not understanding the sexual-romantic urge is related to adults. Adults make their own choices. Adults are old enough to confront their own flaws. Children don’t have these mechanisms in place, and require parents to show them the way. I’m not one to toot the horn of parenthood, because it isn’t an easy ride, but I will say that parenthood does wonders for the adult ego. It interrupts it in such a way that it forces an adult to realize perspective or the difference between theory and reality. It’s the only time in life that an adult has to work like a donkey for someone/something else, and that someone else not being their boss or a Prada handbag  - but their child.

September 16, 2007

Protocol

Today gave me pause for thought. The morning started off as usual; Sunday paper, coffee and stretching to get those joints in working order after a late night. I planned on assessing which area of the house I’d tackle first for the massive spring clean, and took my time, flicking through the newspaper (digging out the weekend magazine lift-out to read my Jonathon Cainer zodiac prediction for the week, and so on). Deep thought was not on the agenda.

It changed when housemate decided to make Sunday furniture shopping day. I tried to unravel all the skills I kept under my sleeve; taking Sydney public transport on a Sunday isn’t a big thrill for me.

“We can shop on Wednesday morning.”

“We have to get it delivered before the weekend,” his anxiety rose with his voice. I didn’t fancy making a two-hour trek, taking two buses to arrive at the mega furniture complex in Kensington, and gave him a brief run through, and the conversation reached flashpoint for various reasons, namely the reasons why I had to alter my plans this week.

“I planned this week for two months and I have to fucking alter it just to please whomever!” As far as I could see, it was always about someone else. I have to rearrange the entire house, at a time I didn’t anticipate, nor plan and told him this, well I told him this in my own tetchy way:

“I’m fucking tired of putting myself second, and no I’m not going to fucking Kensington!” The use of the f word correlates with my irritation, and man was I irritated. I looked at the time, thinking that I hadn’t been out of bed an hour, and already he was busting my chops. Then he went to town.

“I’m moving out!” he yelled.

“Whatever,” I replied, scoping my online bank account to see if the Taxation Department deposited money that they owed me (which they haven’t; typical effing bureaucrats), and checking out the furniture company’s website to see if they had other, closer, outlets. I decided to call one up to ask about their delivery frequency, but housemate began banging doors and slamming drawers, so I told the nice person on the other side that I’d call again, apologizing for the background noise, hung up and went ballistic; “What the hell are you doing?”

Continue reading "Protocol" »

August 21, 2007

Brimstone & Buses

Today, I thought, could be classified as an angry sex day; the type of intimacy that depends on the ebullient well filled with brimstone, the type that demands nothing less than fiery intensity, which results in a few bruises and bites. Coupled to the fury, was its polar opposite, resourcefulness. It kicked in to balance the fury, the fervent bubble of irritation and incredulity that accompanies the most absurd, or pseudo thickheaded maneuvers that can come one’s way.

I’d like to think that I’ve grown up enough to appreciate simple errors, but I can’t fathom people who cannot accept their capacity for human error, who try to cover their fear with spite, shoveling shit your way, simply to annoy you, thinking that they’re the supreme sadist when they need an Oxford Dictionary to define the word.Ang

And so it was. I managed to distract myself by being acutely resourceful, so resourceful that I annoyed myself as each hour ticked by. I sat at my desk thinking anything but ‘there but for the grace of God go I.’ A portion of my mind plunged into darkness; the other managed to sail the wave of diligence. A smile? There were none. The other, he cowered into an invisible corner, keeping out of the way; discomfort, a slathering of fear and uncertainty hovered about him; he averted my gaze a few times. Fear of the unknown; will I blow? Of course, I didn’t blow up or manage a squeak, but the sulfurous river flowed through my veins throughout, creating a piquant atmosphere of trepidation; that’s sadism, but not the theatrical kind that’s accompanied by absurdly embellished forms of address. No Sirs, or Masters, more like flowing with the tune of nature, or DNA; an inner knowledge that defies artificial controls, costumery and bullshit. You teeter on the edge, walk the razor, looking down at a red glowing furnace and almost feel the heat fanning your cheeks; flash point.

Nothing made me laugh earlier in the day; a few people prattling on about APEC (like its Cirque du Soleil) during my break didn't really amuse me, 'yeah, everything goes out of whack because of one idiot,' I said. "And freedom is beautiful and, uh, you know, it'll take time to restore chaos and order, uh, order out of chaos, but we will." I never thought I'd live to see the day a city 'locked down' because of one moron 'visiting' ("a fucking tourist" - as housemate says), at a multi-million dollar cost; I'm working so my small portion of taxed dollars (4 million dollars in total; 'donated' by every worker in the state) fund bullet proof vehicles for el Presidente (security for the 2000 Olympics cost less than the entire APEC security fund, and wouldn't it be funny, after all that security, for him to bite the dust on a toilet, in the middle of dropping the 'Big One'?), and I wouldn't mind if he didn't make so many verbal gaffs, but he can't get one phrase right, and it's not like he's a millennial sage or prophet; doomsayer, perhaps. So, it all added up in a piecemeal fashion, forming a blue flamed torch to propel me through the rest of the day.

Continue reading "Brimstone & Buses" »

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