Secondly battling with words

dimanche, le 04 octobre 2009

Now in my room

Oh my Love
I found You again
I went out
for a pack of cigarettes
and there You were
I bowed to everyone
and they rejoiced with me
I lost myself
in the eyes of a dog
who loved You
The heat lifted me up
The traffic bounced me
naked into bed
with a book about You
and a bottle of cold water
~Leonard Cohen

Recently I started battling a bit with the word ’love’. Not quite the same way as the long, ongoing battle I have had with the words ’honour’ and ’respect’. It has been a more subtle battle.

When I tell L’homme that I love him, I know what I am saying and I understand the meaning of the word. I know, I understand the meaning of loving The Princess and all her many furry friends. I love good food, I love beautiful art, I love burying my nose in a good read, I love listening to music that touches my soul, I love Paris and I love France. In each of these instances I know what love means. I know what it feels like, what it tastes like, what it smells like.

But often on these pages I have lamented that, from L’homme, all I asked was love. All I wanted was for him to love me. As I would say this, a thought would scurry across my mind quickly, wondering what exactly I meant by that but not finding the time to linger or ponder. I wasn’t certain beyond reasonable doubt how this love would feel, would taste, would smell. I had this niggling sense that it sounded somewhat corny.

So I started battling with the love I so desperately wanted from L’homme. Recently it struck me that the love I was looking for would feel, would taste, would smell intimate. The more I mulled it over, the more I became certain that I wanted L’homme to love me intimately. Not only in the sexual sense of the word, but also in the familiar sense, the private, personal sense, the thorough sense, the close sense, the essential, intrinsic sense, in the sense found only in very close, very special relationships.

In that special way in which your eyes would momentarily lock across a crowded room and tell a fleeting heartfelt tale of love, of commitment, of involvement, of presence. In which a touch would convey the warmth of love, of commitment, of involvement, of presence. In which body language would bubble over excitedly with stories of love, of commitment, of involvement, of presence. In which a hug would enfold the intensity of love, of commitment, of involvement, of presence. What I wanted, was for L’homme to be intimate with me, in every sense of the word, also in the sexual sense of the word.

But L’homme could not do this. L’homme fears intimacy as much as he fears love, fears commitment, fears involvement, fears being present. Above all, he fears fear itself. To make it easier, he pours another glass of wine, lights another cigarette, searches for another girl on the porn site that promises uncomplicated sex.

L’homme would kiss me with his eyes searching past mine for what was happening behind me, he would mostly make love to me in a way that he couldn’t see my face, he would talk to me with his body turned away. I would feel saddened, I would feel hurt. I now understand why. His absent presence was not intimate.

Driving with The Princess for her walk today, I hear a local artist’s rendition of Pink Martini’s fabulous song ’Sympathique’. I bought the CD at a concert held on Mother’s Day. L’homme stood in the queue with me to have it autographed.

Long ago I knew the smell of love,
a million roses didn’t smell as sweet.
Now a single flower in my way makes me sick.

I don’t want to work,
I don’t want to lunch
I only want to forget and so I smoke.
~Pink Martini : Sympathique

I simply adore this ditsy little tune. Whenever it played in the shop, L’homme would merrily sing along and translate it for me. Occasionally he would take me in his arms and dance with me. I now understand those were occasional intimate moments, as intimate as L’homme was capable of being. From now on, when I say all I wanted was for L’homme to love me, I will mean that all I wanted from him was intimacy.

(L’homme and I are both Leonard Cohen fans. The inscription in front of the book reminds me that I bought it for us as holiday reading just before our trip abroad in 2007. In the beginning of last year, The Poet was between accommodations. He stayed with us for a few weeks. My and The Poet’s friendship got off to a rocky start many years ago, but over time we have settled our differences. Today I enjoy The Poet’s company. Here The Poet is reading the book. The Princess is comfortably snuggled up next to him, reading stories of her own through his glasses.)