Tuesday, December 14, 2004
Anything less than mad, passionate, extraordinary love is a waste of your time.
Have you seen that movie? Dream for an Insomniac. I fucking love it. And I love that line. I think those words are words to live by, I really do.
If you didn't know this already, and I don't know why you wouldn't, I'm a hopeless romantic. I've had many romantic moments with many people in fact. And I love reflecting on them. They are not bittersweet. They are just there. They are pieces of time when you are more than glad to be alive.
Once, and only once, when I was dating Trevor, he told me he loved me. And it was a total accident. We were arguing about something stupid. Really, most of our arguments were just cute, shooting points back and forth about music. But anyway, this one night, we were drinking together and hanging out at my apartment.
It may have been the beer that let it slip, but we were having one of those arguments, something to do with music theory. He was drunkenly trying to play my keyboard. And he was cussing while he was talking. And then all the sudden, he stopped, and he was like, "I'm sorry. I don't want to talk to you like that. I don't want to use that language toward you."
He'd said that to me before a time or two, and I, just like in the other times, insisted it was OK.
"It's not OK," he said. "I love you."
With these words he leaned back and lied on my living room floor. I climbed over him, and looked into his eyes. "You what?" I said.
But his lips were sealed. I knew that. Trevor took those words very seriously. He'd only said them to one person ever before, and according to him, she said it to him for months before he would even say it back.
But it didn't matter, because I heard it. I got to hear it once. And to be honest, I really don't know if he did, but I'll always remember that moment.
That's not all. I swear I have a point. And it's not about Trevor, or anyone else. Trevor was all wrong for me. It tore me up when he went to Canada, though I already had a ticket to Seattle booked. But we knew, we both knew, that the escape was the best for both of us because we could have a few romantic months without having to worry about the fact that we would never work long term. We could enjoy each other without having to get too serious. We were counting on that, and that's what made the time we spent together so valuable.
Remember that dream I had? I swear I thought it was about boys. I felt like a real-life, female, walking Rob Gordon when I arrived in Seattle. So many relationships tangled up together while I tried to just separate them and unravel them and pick them apart and dissect them. Ugh. But I was reading my old blog the other night, and I found a new interpretation for the dream. I had written it out in my own words after some time had passed for me to think about it even, and still missed it.
Humor me for a moment.
"I couldn't see like I used to," I wrote. "I didn't look like I used to. I missed everything ... that I had never even noticed affected my life."
It was about being able to see what's important. To be able to see the things we take for granted. To read between the lines.
Anything less than mad, passionate, extraordinary love is a waste of your time. I think about all the mad, passionate, romantic loves I've had, and some that never were, and some that faded, and some that were dry comedies where the actors tried to write in a couple romantic parts but they just didn't have any chemistry on-screen and the film flopped. And I've had more.
And I think about them and I remember. I think about them, and I smile. And I hope. Because if you could have this much fun with the person you're not supposed to be with, then what's in store for you when your soul finally finds its mate.
I don't know if I believe in soul mates, to tell the truth. But god if I don't believe in love and romance. I just do.
Have you seen that movie? Dream for an Insomniac. I fucking love it. And I love that line. I think those words are words to live by, I really do.
If you didn't know this already, and I don't know why you wouldn't, I'm a hopeless romantic. I've had many romantic moments with many people in fact. And I love reflecting on them. They are not bittersweet. They are just there. They are pieces of time when you are more than glad to be alive.
Once, and only once, when I was dating Trevor, he told me he loved me. And it was a total accident. We were arguing about something stupid. Really, most of our arguments were just cute, shooting points back and forth about music. But anyway, this one night, we were drinking together and hanging out at my apartment.
It may have been the beer that let it slip, but we were having one of those arguments, something to do with music theory. He was drunkenly trying to play my keyboard. And he was cussing while he was talking. And then all the sudden, he stopped, and he was like, "I'm sorry. I don't want to talk to you like that. I don't want to use that language toward you."
He'd said that to me before a time or two, and I, just like in the other times, insisted it was OK.
"It's not OK," he said. "I love you."
With these words he leaned back and lied on my living room floor. I climbed over him, and looked into his eyes. "You what?" I said.
But his lips were sealed. I knew that. Trevor took those words very seriously. He'd only said them to one person ever before, and according to him, she said it to him for months before he would even say it back.
But it didn't matter, because I heard it. I got to hear it once. And to be honest, I really don't know if he did, but I'll always remember that moment.
That's not all. I swear I have a point. And it's not about Trevor, or anyone else. Trevor was all wrong for me. It tore me up when he went to Canada, though I already had a ticket to Seattle booked. But we knew, we both knew, that the escape was the best for both of us because we could have a few romantic months without having to worry about the fact that we would never work long term. We could enjoy each other without having to get too serious. We were counting on that, and that's what made the time we spent together so valuable.
Remember that dream I had? I swear I thought it was about boys. I felt like a real-life, female, walking Rob Gordon when I arrived in Seattle. So many relationships tangled up together while I tried to just separate them and unravel them and pick them apart and dissect them. Ugh. But I was reading my old blog the other night, and I found a new interpretation for the dream. I had written it out in my own words after some time had passed for me to think about it even, and still missed it.
Humor me for a moment.
"I couldn't see like I used to," I wrote. "I didn't look like I used to. I missed everything ... that I had never even noticed affected my life."
It was about being able to see what's important. To be able to see the things we take for granted. To read between the lines.
Anything less than mad, passionate, extraordinary love is a waste of your time. I think about all the mad, passionate, romantic loves I've had, and some that never were, and some that faded, and some that were dry comedies where the actors tried to write in a couple romantic parts but they just didn't have any chemistry on-screen and the film flopped. And I've had more.
And I think about them and I remember. I think about them, and I smile. And I hope. Because if you could have this much fun with the person you're not supposed to be with, then what's in store for you when your soul finally finds its mate.
I don't know if I believe in soul mates, to tell the truth. But god if I don't believe in love and romance. I just do.
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