February e’lynn, hot off the press.

Check out the latest e’lynn. Published by my sister in-law.

From e’lynn: “Love, n: Senses relating to affection and attachment.”

Gustav Klimt - "Hygeia"

My piece on love from the latest issue of e’lynn magazine:

Love, n: Senses relating to affection and attachment. Love, the dictionary definition, the Oxford English Dictionary’s definition, if you must know: there you have it. My work is done. That’s all you need to know about love, isn’t it? That about sums it all up? Our most personal, intimate feeling and emotion can be encapsulated so simply and plainly. Something so deeply human is  purposefully vague to the point of banality.

It’s no guarded secret that the nature, truth, the very ethos of love is illusory. It’s a concept so embedded, hackneyed, confounded and distorted—donning a plurality of meanings so vast—it is exhausting to stake a claim to knowledge of it. Musing over it, I myself worry there is little to be said of love that hasn’t been said already. Exposing it as a clichéd concept is, itself, a tired cliché. What, then, is left to say about love?

There are twelve definitions of love, as a noun—just a noun mind you, within the Oxford English Dictionary, and within each definition, subcategories of clarification and exposition. And that very breadth of scope is what so frustrating about saying anything meaningful or valuable about love. One, singular definition rarely does any concept justice but it at least acts as an apt summary of the abstract underpinnings; with love, this is apparently not the case. A square dozen summaries are required to hash-out what love means, and depressingly, as I said, only as a noun.

Without giving into despair, I believe there’s an elegance in the simplicity of the initial, primary definition, however. The fineness lies within its ability to mean nothing and everything about love all at once. Is this a satisfying definition? Yes—but paradoxically, no.

Senses are an innate human faculty; within everyone, lies the ability to experience the world through the capacity of sensory perception and expression. Within this definition’s framework, love is an intersection of the senses that are awoken and excited by affection or attachment. Everyone has the capabilities to experience love as a simple or profound feeling of affection or attachment to someone or something.

Humans are compassionate beings, capable of feeling immense connection to concepts, ideas, places, objects and each other. Abstractly, love is vast and indiscriminate, sometimes chosen, often unavoidable.

Tracing the etymology of the word love into old English, it surfaced as a filial oath and expression of reverence or caring towards lord—both God and King; and inversely, as a concept of gratitude and compassion towards the lord’s subjects. Love, through this lens, represents an acknowledgment of respect and duty, the necessity of care and esteem from two parties in a relationship.

This same reverence fostered concepts of admiration towards nation and nature, as kings went out of favor. Nations nourished love of the land they encapsulated and while the budding romantics of the 19th century rejected loving the nations, they were obsessed with the beauty and symbiosis within humanity, nature and love.

Romantic love wasn’t an idea that has existed forever, lust and temptation were not celebrated ideas. Marriage was an almost entirely economic agreement up until the modern era. Feelings of passion, a burning desire, the inability to remain composed around a certain person—what we now allude to as love—was something to experience with a mistress but certainly not a wife. The list of love’s incarnations goes on and exists in a perpetually evolving and expanding discourse. What love means to someone today will not always be the same tomorrow, love can be eternal and momentary. Today’s love may foster a connection and reverence for a lifetime even when that which is loved ceases to exist within our life.

This, to a large extent, is why no mention of love between two people is made within this definition, it is made subtext in favor of a more inclusive definition. Person-to-person love is always somewhat trivialized by the breath of experience that the word love covers; important, human and necessary though it may be, it is a form of love too individual to universalize.

Love between family members is different than love between friends, and our lovers experience a form of love that may be no less or more profound than the love we hold towards nature or beauty. The form that love takes varies; the way in which we experience love differs. How deep we choose to love is inconsistent and tumultuous. The feelings we associate with love may not be experienced in the way we think across cultural boundaries. What constitutes love is wholly unique to our own person. But that is why we should continue to love, it should always be fresh and exciting. We have the ability to self-determine what love means and act on those feelings of reverence, compassion and fealty. It’s innate, human, unavoidable, intense and inexplicable.

Don’t take my word for it, Valentine’s Day may be for lovers but we have to capacity to go out out and love everyday.

From e’lynn: “Bittersweet Trifles”

Gustav Klimt - "Music II"

My short story from the latest issue of e’lynn magazine:

Music. Terrible music, what is this? Is he trying to woo me? Some sort of bizarre, new age jazz muzak—I hear it trickle out the cracks of the door and into the hall way. It’s saccharine, pouring like sweet, jagged crystals into my ears. A cacophony of boring. What’s like tooth decay, except for a brain? Is that even a thing? Doubtful. Whatever it is, that’s what’s happening right now. If it keeps up, the inside of my head will be one gaping cavity by the end of the night, slowly rotted away by this Sweet-and-Low music—not even remotely the best of metaphors but it’ll do. Christ, I’m still standing here…why am I still standing here?

I guess that maybe I should be grateful. At least it isn’t 70’s R&B—it’s not Marvin Gaye. Blaring “Let’s Get It On” would just smack of desperation—this displays a totally different intentionality. The muzak is lazy, maybe even a little pathetic, but at least it’s not desperate, really.

Is it desperate? Could this be his plea for intimacy, for something more? It’s the second date, I’m no strumpet. I’m not some cheap floozy. I know it’s Valentine’s and all but that doesn’t just void the social contract of date-intimacy progression. He’s got to work up to it and judging by his choice of music, he’s either trying too hard or not at all.

Well, I’m being a little unfair, maybe a tad harsh; he never seemed disingenuous. But then again, I base that all off of one date. People put on a good face on the first date. The little Thai restaurant by his place, cute and delicious as it may have been, may be the only card that he has up his sleeve. That’s where he takes all his first dates. And then he has second dates and the magic stops because the good show he put on initially is over and they come to find out that he’s a one-idea kind of guy. On the second date, he drags them to a hot-wings place where the waitresses wear tube socks and daisy-dukes and rub his thigh while asking him what he’d like to drink. Then he orders a beer that you can buy a 6-pack of at the corner market for $5 and gabs about hockey for the rest of the night. Tacky—that’s the type of guy that plays this type of music on valentine’s day.

Super tacky.

Knocking. I gently tap on the door jam. Why? Jeeze, I don’t know; that was weird; it just happened. I guess I was tired of standing here, listening to this awful music. Might as well dive right in and make a night out of it. No use being alone on Valentine’s—or as the corpulent bus driver joked—“singles awareness day”. I’ve heard that joke plenty of times but I liked it best when the bus driver said it. Most things sound better out of the mouth of a bus driver. “Good morning, there’s going to be a 20 minute delay in service” Yes, that’s it, keep singing, my little lark, you make disappointment sounds like angelic poetry.

Anyway, no use being alone on Valentine’s and the door’s already knocked—it’s too late for excuses, he’d catch the tail glimpse of my calf as I dart down the stairway and that just wouldn’t suffice.

Footsteps. My grip tightens on my bottle of wine; I’m not planning to drown out the terrible at the bottom of several glasses of this cheap Merlot or anything. No sir. Sobriety might be my best friend tonight. But something tells me that it will at least fortify my resolve to not make a desperate run for the nearest window.

What did he say we were eating tonight? Italian food—pasta? Nice try, buckarooni. I’ve been played in this game of charades before. The cook, eh? How many dates until you abdicate that role? Besides, I’m no fool, I know what cooking Italian means, you bum. I’ve had the pre-made frozen shrimp scampi, I make it too. It’s pretty damn good. Toss it all into the fry-pan and ditch the evidence in the waste bin—one authentic meal coming up! —courtesy of your grocer’s freezer isle! Tacky, as I said

Rattling. There’s the doorknob, that means that the night’s about to start. Big smile; check. I have to look happy to be here. I hope I look ok. I did my darnedest, the rain was unexpected, I should have brought an umbrella. Could have, should have, would have—as they say. It’s too late to fret, I’ve frittered away my last-minute primp time.

Inhale. It’s going to be fine; anxieties aside, I’m not at home watching re-runs of the wild-and-wacky rom-com-thon with my friends Ben and Jerry. And that alone is cause for celebration.

Exhale. The door’s open. Look at his toothy grin, there’s no faking that. Beaming, affectionate glances, a pleasant invitation inside, punctuated by constant flashes of those big, pearly teeth; he’s happy to see me.

Cute. He’s wearing a tie. Not too shabby, mister. He even did his hair. He looks, well…not tacky—I’d venture to say that he may even look a bit classy. I’m hit with the smell of dinner, it smells good: rich, delicate, buttery  it’s a smell that is too transcendent to be pre-packaged. I can see the baked brie over his shoulder. This is a labor of love. Someone’s smitten and honestly, after tonight, I may be too.

I step inside. I can excuse his taste in music for the time being.

Obsession: Gustav Klimt

Klimt exudes a rich, opulent beauty. Elegant and refined, Klimt’s women display exquisitely bold femininity that is overt, powerful and magnetic. Decadent and indulgent–I can’t help but be engrossed into each piece.

Gustav Klimt – “The Kiss II”

Gustav Klimt – “Serpents II”

Gustav Klimt – “Music II”

Gustav Klimt – “Mada”

Gustav Klimt – “Serpents I”

Gustav Klimt – “Judith I”

Gustav Klimt – “Hygeia”

Gustav Klimt – “Expectation”

Gustav Klimt – “Danae”

Gustav Klimt – “Athena”

Gustav Klimt – “Adele”

Gustav Klimt – “The Kiss”