The Court and the Spark~

My mom says that there is something in the female brain that chemically affixes itself to a man; a natural means of preserving the will to procreate. I curse this. I also wonder, why is it that this hormonal surge crops up selectively (as if the field wasn’t narrow enough to begin with) and refuses to dissipate without significant struggle.

Other people seem to fall in love and hop into relationships at the drop of a hat. I am not such a person and find that whenever I have tricked myself into thinking that I can do such a thing, I inevitably come to my senses and hurt another person in the process. Maybe my independent nature is to blame and I am destined to live a single and fabulous life littered with amazing and short-lived love affaires that sexually satisfy and do little else. Or perhaps I refuse to settle for anything but Spark- the electric connection forged by locking eyes with another; the feeling incited by the company of a person whose presence causes time to slip away and thoughts to be set on fire.

I find magic in myself on a regular basis and there is no doubt that to find it in the eyes of another has been amazing in the past and will be once again should a willing partner present himself... so long as it is a wait full of my independent enchantment. But I do hope that I am woman enough to trust that it will come and face it when I find it. Funny how something so real can be so complicatedly frightening all at once.

For now, I guess I’ll settle for the love affaires and await the Spark.


Addendum:

...All of this thinking on the nature of loving, courting and sparking brings to mind a fabulous piece of writing by a poet after my own heart:

O Tell Me the Truth About Love

Some say love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go around,
Some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.

Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.

Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic onThe Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned inAccounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled onThe backs of railway guides.

Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love

I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn't over there;
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air. I
don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.

Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races, or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?

Are its stories vulgar but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.

When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.

~W.H. Auden