It's not an issue of trust, history, or relatability -- I open up to you if you are a good listener. Usually, I'll try you out once, and if you it turns out you aren't so great of a listener, I retreat.
Retreat.
2009/07/14
2009/07/12
Art of Love
It's a feeling. Art, music, dance - there lives in these a burning feeling which must be expressed and received. It's a feeling that lives in all of us regardless of age, experience, harbored pains, or erupting rare instances of joy.
It's a yearning. Performers, painters, poets - they sit before their audience so that both may share in this insatiable longing.
I listened to the music rise and fall, swell and throb not with a demanding pulse, but rather with a beat seeking for permission from what felt like my wide open chest.
I wanted to die from its beauty. I wanted to pass this world filled with boundaries, realities, and limitations to instead enter a world where I could open myself and take in this beauty in floods.
To say that such a feeling is ethereal and orgasmic would rob the music of its purity, adulterate the art, and turn the experience into a lowly, humanistic, "tangible" feeling.
My heart is beating so deeply now. I do not know if it is working any faster or slower than before I lowered myself into my place before the performers, the music, the poetry, but I am suddenly made aware of my heart's existence.
Perhaps, for my heart, art and love are intertwined in this way. One must exist for the other, to give the other meaning. One also is the other; the two become interchangeable and limitless. Each takes being only with the permission of the other.
And suddenly, before I know it, I'm breathless yet full of life; motionless yet throbbing with desire; completely enraptured by the love of art.
It's a yearning. Performers, painters, poets - they sit before their audience so that both may share in this insatiable longing.
I listened to the music rise and fall, swell and throb not with a demanding pulse, but rather with a beat seeking for permission from what felt like my wide open chest.
I wanted to die from its beauty. I wanted to pass this world filled with boundaries, realities, and limitations to instead enter a world where I could open myself and take in this beauty in floods.
To say that such a feeling is ethereal and orgasmic would rob the music of its purity, adulterate the art, and turn the experience into a lowly, humanistic, "tangible" feeling.
My heart is beating so deeply now. I do not know if it is working any faster or slower than before I lowered myself into my place before the performers, the music, the poetry, but I am suddenly made aware of my heart's existence.
Perhaps, for my heart, art and love are intertwined in this way. One must exist for the other, to give the other meaning. One also is the other; the two become interchangeable and limitless. Each takes being only with the permission of the other.
And suddenly, before I know it, I'm breathless yet full of life; motionless yet throbbing with desire; completely enraptured by the love of art.
2009/07/08
Human Love
This is a response to a good friend of mine, to whom I'd like to respectfully disagree that love is not a label nor is it a conglomerate of feelings. Love is an action. When "I love you", it's something I do. How I feel for you carries no weight until I've done something about it, like called to see that you've made it home alright, or until I've asked about your morning, your day, your late afternoon, and your evening all over a late homemade dinner. Conversely, if I make you happy, excited, curious, nervous, proud, elated, then it is what it is, but you aren't loving me until you've done it. One can love romantically, filially, and friendlily.Love exists, but it's like a good jump shot: it begins with the follow-through.
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