Tuning

The other night you and I broached a delicate issue: The degree to which we should want to change a person we claim to love. I've deliberately imbued that last sentence with a searing and pessimistic tone because I think it encompasses all of our fears:

Do we really love anybody for who they are, or do we fall in love with who they might become? If we claim to love someone, why do we struggle to change them? And, if we engage in that struggle, is it to help them flourish, and become what you've called, with slight irony, a 'fully actualized person'? Or is it merely to mould them, as Pygmalion did, into incarnations of our own suspect fantasies?

The answers, if there are any, are both slippery and unsatisfying.

At some level, it seems only sensible to love your partner for who they are - to accept them completely, and to eschew any urge, as you've described it, to 'fix' or 'repair' them. After all, if you really love a person – and if that love is genuine and can withstand the most withering scrutiny – then shouldn't you find that person perfect, just as they are? And by entering into a relationship with an agenda for changing them, aren't you exposing the speciousness of your putative 'love'? Aren't you proving that this is not someone you can love completely, but merely someone who meets a few of your criteria for love, and then ultimately falls short...unless of course, they concede to the renovation of their character?

Perhaps.

But, consider this: What makes you fall in love with someone is not just the congregation of their attributes; it is also their hopes and aspirations. And, since love is empathy, then to love someone is to share their dreams. It is also to share in their agonies and frustrations. So, by this measure, it makes sense that you would want to participate in their efforts to grow, change and succeed - to break with old, destructive habits and to build new, productive ones. After all, if we didn't need help to eliminate our unwanted and recalcitrant behaviours, then we'd do it for ourselves. Isn't a relationship about helping one another become better people?

Maybe. Or maybe that's what therapy is for. After all, love is about building and reinforcing self-esteem, not about highlighting weaknesses, problems and failings. And, at some point, help and encouragement become extended exercises in negativity and character assassination. So where's the line? What's the correct balance? How to tell when you've gone too far - from supportive spouse to badgering nag?

It's a pretty hard call because, as much as it sounds like common sense to love your partner for who they are, it also seems like a recipe for failure. Why? Because we all change, and it's probably a good survival strategy to adore your lover's current 'self' while, at the same time, preparing for their subsequent incarnations. That means understanding and, I suppose, participating in their struggle to become fully actualized.

A safe guideline would seem to be: Wait for them to solicit your help, and regularly seek assurance that your help is still wanted and needed. But even that simple dictum gets muddy and vague. Take our situation, for instance.

You’ve said, “I feel all anxious in my tummy when I think of the serious personal responsibilities that I’ve been avoiding" and you've seemed to ask for help in ending that avoidance. I say seemed because, admittedly, some of your signals were pretty cryptic and liable to misinterpretation - like opening your course calendar while we were bowling, and then suggesting that it was a significant that you’d let me peruse it with you. I would have preferred a more direct request - something along the lines of, "Darling, would you help me choose my courses? I'm really procrastinating and I need your companionship and support." But, I'm used to divining your intention from the most tangential of statements and actions. And so, we made plans to fulfill both your responsibilities and mine, and to settle your anxious tummy.

But you dodged those plans all week. And yet, after each subsequent dodge, I sought your reassurance that you still wanted my help, pressure, or encouragement. You claimed that you did. And yet, each time I offered it, you rejected it by dropping out of contact.

And so I am caught in a terrible dilemma. I'd like to see you. And, if you really want to continue avoiding things - and can abide the consequences for your tummy - then I'll steer clear of serious issues. We can just have fun. On the other hand, you have plenty of playmates with whom you can do that already - and fewer with whom you can face your responsibilities and, more importantly, take steps to achieve your desired goals. So, as someone who loves you deeply, how am I to proceed?

I don't want to dampen the joy and whimsy of our relationship. Nor do I want to contribute to a pattern that has so clearly made you anxious and unhappy in the past – and continues to do so. For obvious reasons, I don't want you to have to turn to other boys for amusement. I'd like our relationship to have broad reach and resonance beyond the mere confrontation of difficult issues - but it would be a tragedy if that weren't part of it too. Is there any way for us to reconcile these desires? Can we not work on our responsibilities and go camping, be silly, and play? Might not play be even sweeter if your tummy were calmer?

You often turn the tables on me, accusing me of hypocrisy because, like you, I have so many issues of my own to address. That's true, but there's a difference. If you were to block off a day to work with me on my issues, I'd turn up...willingly. I'd love your help, and I've requested it repeatedly. I know you want my help too – in your own way - but each time you get close to accepting it, you baulk. Although, I'm also fearful that your efforts to help me with my stuff might mutate into yet another way for you to avoid your own agenda. That's why I prefer to link them together in mutual action plans! Not that this has been successful.

So, Beauty, I need your help. I need you to show me how we can be good for each other - how we can do, for one another, what no one else can do. That's the real substance of the question that I asked you long ago: Is there something that you hunger to feel – or a part of you that you yearn to express - that none of your current relationships make space for, encourage, permit, or facilitate. I know that 'effortlessness' is part of your answer - and that struggling to confront your challenges and realize your ambitions must seem like the antithesis of that. But consider this: What if all the extended metaphors around self-actualization are flawed? Maybe, by using language like 'problems', 'fixing', 'repairing', and 'changing', we are obscuring the best of what loving relationships can do.

Maybe it's better to think of tuning a precious and delicate instrument. When the instrument is out of tune, it doesn't lack integrity or value. It doesn't need to be fixed. Or repaired. Or renovated. Nor does it need one single thing beyond what it already has...except, perhaps, the dedicated, skilled and gentle hand of someone intimate with its nature, design, and potential. Because, even with the most perfect shape, resonant wood, and finest strings, an instrument can still find itself discordant and out of tune. What's needed is not repair, but a restoration of balance - more tension on some stings, more slack on others, a realignment of pressure - until the instrument begins to express its harmonious nature... and hits its grace notes with ease and with effortlessness.

You've done this for me, Beauty. Can I do it for you too?

Time

It's not very often that someone makes you think of something in a genuinely new way. But it happened just the other day. A good friend was musing about his place in the universe. He was distressed by the idea that humans are so infinitesimally small in the face of cosmic scale, and that their lives are so ephemeral. Then something occurred to him.

Amongst the earth's population of roughly 6,377,641,642 souls, the average age is about 26.5 years. That means that our collective "life experience" is something like 169 billion years. The universe, by contrast, is a mere 11.2 billion to 20 billion years old.

My friend thought it significant that, relative to the cosmos, humans occupy so little physical space, but that we hold, within our collective experience, such an overwhelming amount of time.

I thought you should know.

Raw

God, I hardly know where to begin. I hope you can handle a long post.

This is chance to tell you, in a more coherent form, some of the things I tried to tell you last night. I'm not sure they bear repeating, especially because the most grievous sin in your catalogue is to be boring and repetitive - yet here I go again. Why? Because last night our beer-fueled conversation took a slightly familiar, and unsatisfying shape. Here's a broad sketch:

You ask a serious question, but in a rather off-hand way. I try to answer seriously but you express, or possibly feign, amusement and ironic distance. I become terribly self-conscious because I am taking the conversation so seriously. And even though the foundation of both my business and personal identity is exactly this kind of passion and seriousness, it suddenly strikes me as foolish. Consequently, I lose focus and start to drift. You seem diffident, but not enough to abandon the conversation entirely. Caught in a demimonde of partial and ambiguous interest, I compensate by babbling - and the conversation becomes a monologue. That would probably be fine if the monologue were tightly and comprehensively argued but, because I am unable to assess the full degree of your sincerity and interest, my logorrhea remains half-hearted.

It's weird that this should happen to us. After all, at root, I think both of us care about our ideas in a completely straightforward and un-ironic way. And both of us prize comprehensive, intelligent, and eloquent expression. So what happens? Well, I think it's an unfortunate confluence of our respective Achilles Heels.

First, me. I am a smart, passionate, committed fellow and could probably achieve anything I desired, both personally and professionally. And, on the surface, I don't really lack either cojones or confidence. I mean, I don't hesitate to talk over people, hold to the supremacy of my ideas, give unwanted advice, or launch into monologues. But, of course, I am deeply insecure about my most cherished ideas and ideals. Consequently, I function best when I feel utterly secure: Amongst my oldest, most reliable and most loving friends; with trusting employers who repeatedly articulate and reaffirm their confidence in both my creativity and my judgment. On the other hand, in the face of stony silence, bemused irony, detachment, or disdain, I tend to fall apart. I know it's a terrible weakness, Beauty, but I can't pretend it's not mine.

Now, you. I know you are equally smart, passionate, creative and determined - possibly more so. And, on the surface, you don't seem to lack a confident sense of yourself. You walk into rooms like you own them. And you demonstrate a highly developed sense of your own charm, attraction and sexuality. You broadcast broadly and strongly - you know it and you like it. But, too often, you use that power to create distance between yourself and your companions. With a deadly combination of piercing wit and ironic detachment, you puncture their confidence, undercut their authority, and make them both awkward and self-conscious. And, oddly, the ideas that you approach with the most irony (the targets of your most consistent and withering scorn) are precisely those ideas that - I believe - you cherish most deeply: Love, Romance, Honesty, Commitment, Consistency, Devotion.

How else could one possibly explain your speech at the wedding - a sisterly gift of of grace, empathy and remarkable intuition. And why do weddings, in general, make you cry? Or, for that matter, The Notebook? And why do yearn for a ring-bearer who understands both your aesthetics and your imagination?

You hate dishonest people, avoiders, poseurs (pronounce it as you will), liars, and fair-weather friends. And yet you look at their opposite with such wry and condescending pity. I makes me want to whack you upside the head. Remember how, at camp, you hung with the punks? Everyone figured you were part of both their gang and their groove. But you thought they were idiots and I don't believe you cherished a single one of their values. So what were you doing on their side of the ethical divide?

So, last night, there we were - you and I - playing pool and drinking beer. And you asked me a serious question about love and devotion, but then undercut your own seriousness with a quiver of the usual affects. And, predictably, each of those arrows found their mark in my own Achilles Heel. I felt insecure and incredibly foolish defending the only thing I believe in - love - to the only person with whom I'd like to share it. Ouch.

I felt the same way as you scampered off last night. You made me feel as though my determination to please you, to satisfy you, to know your own heart and to have you know mine, were laughable, not laudable, goals. Please don't get me wrong, Beauty. How could I fail to be comforted by the blizzard of tender kisses, the delicate intrusion of your tongue, and your sudden and disarming embraces. And, most spectacularly, your startling willingness to ask, and to beg, for what you want and need. You were utterly magnificent. Let me repeat: utterly fucking magnificent.

But I am a sappy, romantic idiot. And I felt so foolish for wanting to keep you with me, for wanting to maintain the moment, for wanting to be sure - and for needing you to say what didn't need to be said. But, alas, I do need you to say it. I need you to tell me when I please you, and when I make you happy. I feel exposed, raw, and vulnerable -- and I need you to both protect me and reassure me. I always have.

Please don't be awkward with me. Don't retreat. Don't hide behind your beautiful hands. I become egregiously, excruciatingly, and embarrassingly awkward in response. Try treat me as though I were less foolish than I am, and our circumstances less absurd.

Be honest with me. Tell me where I stand. Teach me to be sufficient. Hold me to account. Insist that I satisfy you. Compel me to comply. Ask, beg, demand.

Last night you asked me, although not in so many exact words, why I wanted a relationship, and why I believed in both monogamy and romance. As I've explained above, last night's answers were partial, hesitant, halting and misguided. Here's a better attempt:

Completion
Because a brilliant relationship adds missing elements to my life, expanding my scope and understanding, adding surprise and grace, teaching be things I didn't even know I needed.

Support
Because it's so nice to have someone reliably and genuinely in my corner - someone who has faith in me and loves me for both who I am and what I do.

Companionship
Because, if every time I want to do something, I want to do it with the same person - and if everything is better with them - why would I spend time with someone else?

Empathy
Because if I feel their hurt and celebrate their successes as deeply as my own, then it's only smart to inspire and protect them.

Reciprocity
Because, if I want care and attention, it's only fair to provide it.

Rarity
Because I've found it very hard to find people who can, alternately, make me laugh, cry, sigh, remain still, teach me, chastise me, keep me honest, inspire me, caution me, speed me, please me, interest me, thrill me, disarm me, protect me, acknowledge me, care for me, and christen me with wonder. And when one person combines all that, I want to grapple them unto my soul with hoops of steel.

Death
Because once they're gone, I will have no recourse. Only remorse. And because, ask anyone - in the end, love is the only thing left.

Sufficiency
Because, despite how it sounds, I am comforted by the notion of finding things and people, happily, sufficient. Because I want to appreciate what I have, and know when I've found something special.

Contentment
Because this is the happiest state of all.

Joy
Because this is better than contentment.

Desire
Because, too many times in my life, whatever I've desired , once acquired, lost its appeal. Now, I look for proven, deep, respectful, and lasting, desire.

Fetish
Because love is the hardest thing to find, and the weirdest.

Heart
Because I know what it's like to feel my heart break, and it's still worth the risk.

Fuck(1)
Because what the fuck else could be more important that loving someone forever.

Fuck(2)
Because I'm a romantic, not a monk.

Whimsy
Because this is easy with romance and imossible without.

Odds
Because the odds are against it and I've always loved an underdog.

Better
Because it makes me a better person.

Intimacy
Because I find emotional, intellectual, spiritual, and physical intimacy much sexier than novelty.

Because
Just because I do.

You
Because I feel all of these things about you.

Possible

God, I hardly know where to begin. I hope you can handle a long post.

This is chance to tell you, in a more coherent form, some of the things I tried to tell you last night. I'm not sure they bear repeating, especially because the most grievous sin in your catalogue is to be boring and repetitive - yet here I go again. Why? Because last night our beer-fueled conversation took a slightly familiar, and unsatisfying shape. Here's a broad sketch:

You ask a serious question, but in a rather off-hand way. I try to answer seriously but you express, or possibly feign, amusement and ironic distance. I become terribly self-conscious because I am taking the conversation so seriously. And even though the foundation of both my business and personal identity is exactly this kind of passion and seriousness, it suddenly strikes me as foolish. Consequently, I lose focus and start to drift. You seem diffident, but not enough to abandon the conversation entirely. Caught in a demimonde of partial and ambiguous interest, I compensate by babbling - and the conversation becomes a monologue. That would probably be fine if the monologue were tightly and comprehensively argued but, because I am unable to assess the full degree of your sincerity and interest, my logorrhea remains half-hearted.

It's weird that this should happen to us. After all, at root, I think both of us care about our ideas in a completely straightforward and un-ironic way. And both of us prize comprehensive, intelligent, and eloquent expression. So what happens? Well, I think it's an unfortunate confluence of our respective Achilles Heels.

First, me. I am a smart, passionate, committed fellow and could probably achieve anything I desired, both personally and professionally. And, on the surface, I don't really lack either cojones or confidence. I mean, I don't hesitate to talk over people, hold to the supremacy of my ideas, give unwanted advice, or launch into monologues. But, of course, I am deeply insecure about my most cherished ideas and ideals. Consequently, I function best when I feel utterly secure: Amongst my oldest, most reliable and most loving friends; with trusting employers who repeatedly articulate and reaffirm their confidence in both my creativity and my judgment. On the other hand, in the face of stony silence, bemused irony, detachment, or disdain, I tend to fall apart. I know it's a terrible weakness, Beauty, but I can't pretend it's not mine.

Now, you. I know you are equally smart, passionate, creative and determined - possibly more so. And, on the surface, you don't seem to lack a confident sense of yourself. You walk into rooms like you own them. And you demonstrate a highly developed sense of your own charm, attraction and sexuality. You broadcast broadly and strongly - you know it and you like it. But, too often, you use that power to create distance between yourself and your companions. With a deadly combination of piercing wit and ironic detachment, you puncture their confidence, undercut their authority, and make them both awkward and self-conscious. And, oddly, the ideas that you approach with the most irony (the targets of your most consistent and withering scorn) are precisely those ideas that - I believe - you cherish most deeply: Love, Romance, Honesty, Commitment, Consistency, Devotion.

How else could one possibly explain your speech at the wedding - a sisterly gift of of grace, empathy and remarkable intuition. And why do weddings, in general, make you cry? Or, for that matter, The Notebook? And why do yearn for a ring-bearer who understands both your aesthetics and your imagination?

You hate dishonest people, avoiders, poseurs (pronounce it as you will), liars, and fair-weather friends. And yet you look at their opposite with such wry and condescending pity. I makes me want to whack you upside the head. Remember how, at camp, you hung with the punks? Everyone figured you were part of both their gang and their groove. But you thought they were idiots and I don't believe you cherished a single one of their values. So what were you doing on their side of the ethical divide?

So, last night, there we were - you and I - playing pool and drinking beer. And you asked me a serious question about love and devotion, but then undercut your own seriousness with a quiver of the usual affects. And, predictably, each of those arrows found their mark in my own Achilles Heel. I felt insecure and incredibly foolish defending the only thing I believe in - love - to the only person with whom I'd like to share it. Ouch.

I felt the same way as you scampered off last night. You made me feel as though my determination to please you, to satisfy you, to know your own heart and to have you know mine, were laughable, not laudable, goals. Please don't get me wrong, Beauty. How could I fail to be comforted by the blizzard of tender kisses, the delicate intrusion of your tongue, and your sudden and disarming embraces. And, most spectacularly, your startling willingness to ask, and to beg, for what you want and need. You were utterly magnificent. Let me repeat: utterly fucking magnificent.

But I am a sappy, romantic idiot. And I felt so foolish for wanting to keep you with me, for wanting to maintain the moment, for wanting to be sure - and for needing you to say what didn't need to be said. But, alas, I do need you to say it. I need you to tell me when I please you, and when I make you happy. I feel exposed, raw, and vulnerable -- and I need you to both protect me and reassure me. I always have.

Please don't be awkward with me. Don't retreat. Don't hide behind your beautiful hands. I become egregiously, excruciatingly, and embarrassingly awkward in response. Try treat me as though I were less foolish than I am, and our circumstances less absurd.

Be honest with me. Tell me where I stand. Teach me to be sufficient. Hold me to account. Insist that I satisfy you. Compel me to comply. Ask, beg, demand.

Last night you asked me, although not in so many exact words, why I wanted a relationship, and why I believed in both monogamy and romance. As I've explained above, last night's answers were partial, hesitant, halting and misguided. Here's a better attempt:

Completion
Because a brilliant relationship adds missing elements to my life, expanding my scope and understanding, adding surprise and grace, teaching be things I didn't even know I needed.

Support
Because it's so nice to have someone reliably and genuinely in my corner - someone who has faith in me and loves me for both who I am and what I do.

Companionship
Because, if every time I want to do something, I want to do it with the same person - and if everything is better with them - why would I spend time with someone else?

Empathy
Because if I feel their hurt and celebrate their successes as deeply as my own, then it's only smart to inspire and protect them.

Reciprocity
Because, if I want care and attention, it's only fair to provide it.

Rarity
Because I've found it very hard to find people who can, alternately, make me laugh, cry, sigh, remain still, teach me, chastise me, keep me honest, inspire me, caution me, speed me, please me, interest me, thrill me, disarm me, protect me, acknowledge me, care for me, and christen me with wonder. And when one person combines all that, I want to grapple them unto my soul with hoops of steel.

Death
Because once they're gone, I will have no recourse. Only remorse. And because, ask anyone - in the end, love is the only thing left.

Sufficiency
Because, despite how it sounds, I am comforted by the notion of finding things and people, happily, sufficient. Because I want to appreciate what I have, and know when I've found something special.

Contentment
Because this is the happiest state of all.

Joy
Because this is better than contentment.

Desire
Because, too many times in my life, whatever I've desired , once acquired, lost its appeal. Now, I look for proven, deep, respectful, and lasting, desire.

Fetish
Because love is the hardest thing to find, and the weirdest.

Heart
Because I know what it's like to feel my heart break, and it's still worth the risk.

Fuck(1)
Because what the fuck else could be more important that loving someone forever.

Fuck(2)
Because I'm a romantic, not a monk.

Whimsy
Because this is easy with romance and imossible without.

Odds
Because the odds are against it and I've always loved an underdog.

Better
Because it makes me a better person.

Intimacy
Because I find emotional, intellectual, spiritual, and physical intimacy much sexier than novelty.

Because
Just because I do.

You
Because I feel all of these things about you.

Effortlessness

This has been my couples week. Over the last seven days, I've spent time with five different couples - some long-term friends, some mere acquaintances.

As you know, I don't do this very often. Partly because I feel like a third wheel. Mostly because I squirm at the way some couples treat one another. I can't abide the cutting comments, the subtle silences and, especially, the bizarre coded cruelties. It's why I avoid dinner parties.

Of course, not every couple's like this. Amongst my friends are a few sterling examples of respectful, loving couplehood - but they are not the majority. Nor can I claim the moral high-ground; I know that I'm capable of the same egregious offenses: relentless teasing, barbed innuendo, conversational usurpation, the public settling of old scores, and a wounding abruptness, Regardless, I've become overtly allergic to these inter-spousal misbehaviours, and I resent being forced to witness them.

Remember Thanksgiving dinner at your parents' place? Remember their friends from the coast? I think you barely noticed the tension rippling beneath the surface, but I was white-knuckled by the supper's end. I was probably being overly sensitive, but their banter seemed more like open sparring, despite its smiling surface and seeming humour. My own friends can be just as bad. So can I. And, I know it's naive to expect my growing aversion to, in some way, enlighten or inoculate me. Still, it would it be nice if this were the case. After all, there's plenty to be learned just through observation, and I think that being single makes that observation easier.Actually, it's a pretty good time to take a look around, relatively unencumbered, and figure out what makes some couples' relationships seem so toxic, and others seem so...effortless.

I've been rereading Rilke lately, and what keeps coming to mind is that unlikely evocation of Love from Letter 7 of Letters To A Young Poet:

"Love consists in this, that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other."

In a way, everything I've learned about love - from my parents, my friends, and from my own experience - is somehow bound within that single sentence...
The first lesson is the hardest to achieve, I suppose, and may have as much to do with temperament and genetics as it does with love or romance. The happiest relationships seem to be between people who at least have a slight disposition to sunny optimism. Those who are easily plunged into despair or depression seem to want to drag their spouses with them. Too often, what seems to be a 'couples' issue is actually one partner's angst injected indiscriminately into any available exchange. In a way, the security of coupledom seems to encourage partners nursing lifelong grievances to externalize their problems, projecting them onto their better half. They behave as though their spouse were the source of the worlds problems, not a soothing antidote. Part of the problem, I think, is an inability to see their partner as a 'solitude', as something legitimately separate from themselves.

I know Rilke sounds cold when he talks about 'solitude', but if you read the quote in context, or if you read his Dragon Princess, you'll see that Rilke sees solitude as the necessary state of affairs for all individuals. More importantly, he sees it as something to be embraced, not feared. By 'two solitudes', I think he means two sovereign, strong, and independent souls. But, yes, he is also suggesting the more difficult idea that, within each of us, lie vast unknown and unknowable territories. Some of these regions remain unexplored, not only by others, but often by own own hearts and minds. Surely Rilke isn't wrong here.

Think of how and when intimacy is first initiated, either sexually, emotionally, or both. Affairs, encounters, friendships, romances, engagements and marriages - even the most cautious and sensible ones - are launched on the flimsiest of pretexts, with a bare minimum of knowledge and experience. Most of our understanding evolves over time and flows out of long experience.

Go Figure

After watching The Station Agent, Bad Santa, and Austin Powers, and writing about them in Dwarves, I brought home the DVD of Big Fish, a film with a real giant, Matthew McGrory.

And, remember what I was saying about Scarlett Johansson's eyes? That they are a little offset, one straying wider than the other, and that I thought this might be the key to her captivating gaze? You can see it clearly in this pic, and in this one.

Well, I was watching Amelie again. Check out Audrey Tautou's eyes in these four pics: 1, 2, 3, 4. Go figure.

Alas

Last night, the strangest thing happened. A bunch of friends and I were having an extended dinner on the local patio (the one where, last week, they refused to serve you - and, yes, I gave the manager an earful). We'd been there for over six hours. As we were leaving, we wriggled by a table of three girls who were chatting with the owner. One of the girls, a cute little thing about five feet tall, caught my eye.

"Hey", she said, tapping my arm, "Can I ask you a question?"
"Sure," I said. I stopped abruptly and simultaneously prevented the egress of our party .
"Tell me," she said, leaning forward, "If I asked you to grab my hair, and then kiss me, would you do it?"
She had terrific hair - long, dark and silky. Perfect, really, for grabbing. Fetching lips too. Caught in the headlights of her question, I froze. Her friends giggled.
"Um, sure," I muttered. "Sure I would...yeah, of course I would. I mean, why not?"
In the ensuing and awkward silence, she flashed a knowing glance at her pals. I turned to my friends for clarification and support. And the owner watched on, expressionless.

I think the appropriate thing would've been to have bent over - or even better, to have pulled her to her feet and possibly, beyond - grabbed her lovely locks and kissed her roughly on the mouth. After all, that did seem to be the suggestion lingering in the air. But since my friend knew the owner, so did my his housemate, so did I, and since the owner clearly knew the girl...well, a bold grabbing-and-kissing gesture seemed a bit risky. So, instead of ravishing her, I sat down and settled for an extended, flirtatious talk. My friends went home. I stayed.

As it turned out, earlier that night, she'd been out on a second date with someone her cousin had introduced her to - a classic 'set-up'. Apparently both dates had been uneventful. So, well into the second one, and frustrated by her suitor's lack of response, she'd asked of him what she'd just asked of me.

And he'd demurred. When she'd asked again, a short while later, once again he'd refused. By the end of the date, she'd asked him four times and, in each instance, she'd been rebuffed. Quite honestly, I couldn't imagine it. After all, she was remarkably pretty - a spark-plug of a girl with twinkling eyes, an easy laugh, and a bouncy step.

Sitting next to her, commiserating, I wondered if she were waiting for me to go boldly where he had not. It was a strangely arousing but, nonetheless, nerve-wracking experience. In the end, I took her on a cuddle-bound tour of the van, sitting just beyond both the patio lights and the curious gaze of her friends.

Afterwards, we exchanged business cards and, as she left with her friends, I hugged her long and tenderly. She seemed both happy and grateful, her esteem re-established and her sexiness confirmed. All in all, not a bad night for a boy.

Still, on the way home, all I could think of was you. That's the reason for the sometimes snarky and impassioned post below: (Im)probability. You see, the next morning I woke up with her business card beckoning. Here was a lovely girl: single, available, close to my age (or, at least within a decade and a half), sexy as all get out, and eager to be seduced. But what to do?

You see, I can't imagine anyone quite as cool as you. Yes, I know you're unavailable... but that undeniable and non-negotiable fact doesn't make one thing easier. You are still terrific - and everybody else a bland and pale substitute. Alas.

(Im)probability

I want to write to you tonight, Beauty, but I hardly know where to start. Part of me wants to write to you seriously, creatively and intellectually - about conversations with friends, the articles I've read, films I've seen, the ideas that have insinuated themselves into my imagination. But, every time I begin, I feel dishonest.

Because I miss you. That's all I want to tell you tonight. But I fear this may be the last thing you actually wish to hear.

Why fear? Because it's been a week since we've spoken, and our last conversation seemed oddly abrupt. Yes, I know the circumstances were awkward - but still, I fear, something has changed.

It has been hard with you gone. But at least, for the first few days, I could talk to you by phone, send you a parcel, track its progress, and imagine that, as it got closer, so did I. And with each phone call you laughed so easily - responded so immediately - that I couldn't help but feel close .

But during the last call, I felt the distance growing, your discomfiture manifest. Then a week of silence. Perhaps you've been swept up in a swirl of romance. Or awash in guilt. Or been busy. Or, perhaps, distance has given you an opportunity to reflect and decide. Still, I know that, had you really wanted to, you could have stolen a moment, made a quick call, left me the briefest of messages, or fired off a email. A mere word in the subject field would have been enough.

But you haven't. And so, by not sending me a message, I suppose you are sending me a message. Am I wrong about this?

I wouldn't blame you. The truth is, I've come to count on you far, far too much - on your affection, your ideas, your companionship, your presence, your intimacy, and your sheer provocation. You've gone from being an amusing pastime on the periphery of my imagination, to being something spirited and essential at the centre of my heart.

I'm almost sure you don't want that responsibility - not from me and, maybe, not from anybody. In the past, I've seen how the full-throated devotion of a heartsick boy has made you claustrophobic, scornful and irritable. I'd hate to be part of that legion. Maybe it's too late to avoid that fate.

Or, perhaps there's another reason for your reticence. The giddy idiot within my heart wants to believe that it's something else: That I am - even in your silence - always on your mind; That you dearly wish I were with you; That you have so much to tell me that you can't even bring yourself to begin; That you love me, despite our circumstances and (almost) despite yourself.

I wish I knew. But, to be honest, the 'giddy idiot' version seems the most unlikely. Also the most romantic, don't you think?

I've always felt that love, if it's real, needs to be unlikely. Needs to requires sacrifice and struggle. And that it comes, most often, awkwardly and unbidden. After all, if were too easy, if it were to happen merely as a matter of course, how would we recognize it? How would we feel its power? And how would we know it was love?

This is distinct from your notion of effortlessness...no. That's wrong...not 'distinct from', but 'bound up with'. Relationships that are marked by both effortlessness and improbability. Those are the ones I believe in. Or want to.

That's what I'm thinking about tonight, Beauty: The probability of improbability. Because I miss you terribly, and I hope you miss me too.