Love is splendory enough to make you risk the splinters

This one is for ‘Primo’. He’s a prince of a guy whose romance abounds and whose lessons always bum me for a metaphorical smoke to which I’m always happy to oblige. He is a modern romantic to which I can attest, since he roots for the Kansas City Royals every single year despite the fact George Brett stopped trying on account of age. And he’s in love- of the kind with dates and places set to fancy stone.

Being happily single should never be confused with being unromantic.

I’m a romantic with every fiber of my otherwise cynical self. Lord knows I have laughed out loud to the Importance of Being Earnest. I have jammed out to Mozart, crept through Poe with eyes wide shut, shouted bloody murder when the blood rival Red Sox lost a World Series game between Bill Buckner’s legs in ’86, snuck an uninvited touch of the Rosetta Stone inside the British Museum, daydreamed under Van Gogh’s Starry Night masterpiece at the Met, problem solved in between bits and pieces of Emerson and cried showers to The Way We Were.

I’m no misogynist vagabond, despite the tilted place mats I throw across this blog in the immediate afterthought of some less elegant box-score. I believe wholly in that place where eyes meet and knees buckle and fireworks live an infinite set of days. Most definitely, I do.

Should my little girl ever have a time to ask what being in love is all about? Well, I have no prescriptioned response to what being in love is all about. I have no predicate at the ready for such a postulate as this. Cause, if you is, then you most certainly is, and that’s all there is to it.

Being in love is the heart’s way of saying you are flying solo on dreams and abandonment bundled up into history’s one. It flows from Adam’s Scant to Adam Ant to whatever tremors of incredulous effect may come next.  With less warning than a twister inside the witching hours.

I was in love as a shy young man and it served me well enough to know that you try it on for size, despite its cranky fits. As an older, wiser being . .  I got stuck in the purchase of the same thing I bought when I was all of sixteen. And I did so again, without question. The lack of warranty did not sway my thinking in the least.

And I lost. Badly.

No matter. I think I would have regretted not trying the mad cap on for size. Because it’s always better to learn a hurt than to have never known what it was you were supposed to look out for in the first place.

Being in love is a risk worth taking, evermore.

So take that and live well and happily and forever with that dreamy little girl of yours. Find that happiness and by all means, keep the change.


3 thoughts on “Love is splendory enough to make you risk the splinters

  1. Absolutely Love it. The crying showers to The Way We Were, ooooh boy. Babs opens her mouth and it’s heart stoppingly hypnotic. Like Stevie Nicks doing ‘Sara’ live. Hail to romance, and kudos to you.

  2. Carmen, you should talk. You Bohemian Rhapsodist you. Well, you understand us romantics gotta stick together.

    J Cafe. Yanno, if you and I ever had a movie night? Babs would be going strong from beginning to end. And the Kleenex too. Yeah, I’m man enough to admit I cry. What I say when I’m crying? . . . I’m not quite ready to admit that much just yet. And JD? You would have to keep that on the QT? Coo?

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