On love

I am in a New Orleans backyard. There is a giant cactus hanging out with me. You can take the girl outta the Southwest… I wonder if it’s a San Pedro. I’m still very sad that the San Pedro that John K. gave me died. I took care of it a good two years before it finally wilted. 

Last week I had a few moments of serendipitous, “I live in New Orleans now.” The feeling of elation was demonstrated by a small smile growing into a full-fledged beam. There was also lightness in chest, unwinding in shoulder tension and restful, through the night sleep. 

For those of you that know my necklace charm habit—I purchased a small silver fleur de lis. For those of you that don’t-- let me explain. Through most high school I wore a small silver ankh—perhaps because of my goth phase, or because Sean liked ankhs or because I’d read the Sandman religiously (which might fold back into the goth thing). Whatever the exact case was, it started a habit of mine.

Small silver sigils (which might fold back into the Sandman thing).

There has almost always been one. After the ankh was an enamel black heart with wings (which I still have, and until recently had been wearing again). Someone mentioned the heart resembled a Sufi symbol. I had no knowledge of that when I purchased the charm. Then a kanji symbol for strength. I ripped that off my neck after a particularly aggravating confrontation with someone. After that was my goddess symbol, which was unfortunately lost in the great Aztec Tan party of 2010 (if I was going to ever lose her at least I know I lost her in a sea of loving friends and support… and wine). 

I seem to turn to these things when times are especially rough. After my most recent break up I turned back to the heart with wings. I viewed it as a symbol of an 18 year old version of myself, who was deeply in love with her first love… a failing love. It was sort of like a survival symbol. No one ever thinks they’ll survive the failure of their first love. As adolescents, we build ourselves up…. No… we press ourselves into corners thinking that love is entirely singular and all consuming. We tell ourselves that love is stationary and extraordinary in that it only ever happens to those who are lucky. Ha. Lucky.

The very idea of having more than one love! First loves are the freshest and maybe the most tiring for our young hearts.  Luck shifts, dumping us (without any ounce of romantic ceremony) onto our asses where we stand…. Stood… a place we thought was the most stable of grounds. Through the salvage process we earn our jaded badges of courage. And nothing is truly bitter-sweet until so many years later. 

I’ve had loves since then. Upon reflection, they weren’t true loves. And they certainly were NOT good loves. They were half-hearted, destructive and abusive. One could plainly argue they were not loves at all, rather fits of passion, fascination and a pre-occupation with what love was supposed to BE.

You grow up a little. Then a lot. And after a time of trial and error you eventually do find good and true love again. You find it and treat it with caution and the greatest care because, ah ha! You know better this time and you’re not going to let it happen to you. No. Not again. You’re old and wise, damn it. 

Damn it. 

There isn’t any way around it—it takes two and no matter how hard you try, or how good you feel you’ve been, or how much you think the universe just fucking OWES you a little emotional shelter after the storms you’ve tempered… there is that second person, your love, who is an agent, an element that you cannot predict or read. 

But you’re older and wiser and you’ve learned a little grace. Not that an ounce of grace resembles anything in the wake of heartache. 

Love is simply the least dignified event in the human cycle. Death? Pfft. A logical expectation for all life forms. But love? Love deviates from every and all expectations. 

…..

In any case. It was time to put the heart aside, stop wearing the past around my neck and try giving my new home a symbol of commitment. 

I am here to stay, because I have fallen in love with this town. It won’t be dignified. I’m sure this town will eventually have me on my knees. There will be storms and the sound of shotguns and shattered glass. But there is going to be a lot of saxophone and eventually sex again. There is going to be the humiliation of 100% humidity, but also so many celebrations in the streets. The city will have to see me through many a bi-polar pendulum swing. And I’ll just have to trust that things aren’t as bad as CNN is making it out to be. I can trust the city that much.

Everything is fine. 

I’m really into Malbec wines right now.