Tuesday, February 14, 2012

can you create the perfect lover?

                                                          valentine's day 2012

o my, how i've tried! in the first grade we made a zillion valentine cards and sent them to whomever we could. in the fourth grade i began getting crushes, sneaking into the coat-room and putting anonymous presents in the pockets of the girl i loved. where the devil did this romantic impulse come from? religion, politics, and self-deception dominate american culture. the movies, is that the source of the virus? 

the irony, whenever a girl demonstrated a passion for me, i desired someone else, usually a plain jane. maybe that made it easier to project my fantasies. i've always liked tennyson's the lady of shallot, the story of a woman who loves the images in her mirror. alas, the shining knight, sir lancelot, rides by the house and catches her eye through the window. inflamed, her heart wishes for the 'real' man. and when she runs out the front door and pursues him, she falls into a river and drowns.  the poor lady couldn't cope with visions turned to flesh, any more than most of us can, now living in virtual reality.

yes, a man ahead of my time, i wrote valentine's to ladies i never dared approach, much less touch. this had enormous benefits for self-preservation. i couldn't be disappointed or disillusioned, worshiping perfection from afar, falling for actresses and dancers, artists and illusionists. european women, especially, seem to know how to project a constantly changing face, very much in the tradition of cleopatra. two german girls led me a merry chase, both proving to be mentally unstable. i constantly tried to rescue young maidens in distress!

st. george, superman, the shadow, they fattened my fantasies. and here i am, on the far side of valentine's day, facing myself on the screen. taking wellbutrin, the extra dopamine stimulates my searching. in the end i'll be satisfied with zombies, love beyond the grave. 

take a look as the androids search for enlightenment:          http://www.pbase.com/wwp/enli      those boxes of letters in old ladies' attics will certainly come back to haunt me.