The magic of first love is our ignorance that it can never end.
Benjamin Disraeli

Captured: October 18, 2008. on the Star Ferry, Victoria Harbor, Hong Kong.

Average Jane is a misnomer. The prose posted on her blog are not average. If work of her caliber could be labeled as average I would be delighted: We would have an incredibly literate planet.

Her recent post, A list of never-to-do things, as well as a first-love remembrance by amuirin, got me to thinking. That is dangerous. I don’t like looking back. I fear with only a glance over my shoulder I may experience a fate similar to Lot’s wife or Orpheus,. If I turn to salt you are welcome to use my remains as seasoning.

During the summer of 1990 I fell hard. Off a motorcycle, but that was later. I am referring to one of those once-in-a-lifetime thunderclaps of love. Yes, the L-word. My life was akin to a bad Hollywood screenplay, a DVD by Touchstone Pictures that Blockbuster would happily stock. One moment I was me, the next a slobbering, moody, love-crazed 19-year-old.

We had known each other three years, co-workers at a summer camp. There had always been something between us, a chemistry that we both silently acknowledged but never acted upon. We were both involved, or were whenever the other was free. It was just beyond consciousness.

At the start of that fateful summer she and a friend, and a friend and I played a nightly game of cards. The loosing team, split along gender lines, gave the winners a massage. Yes, you can see where this is going. While something intimate and secret develops between a masseuse and patient this was only partially the case. We traded massages a time or two. Hands upon shoulders became lips against lips. Read the full story

Captured: Bangkok, Thailand, January 24, 2008.

At the time of this post it is just past midnight, EST, in North America. November 20th is my sister’s birthday. It’s not a big birthday this year, that will arrive in 2008.

Here’s to you, sis. We may not be close geographically, but you are close to our hearts. Have a good day. We miss you.

Mates for life. We could learn from fowl. Shenzhen, PRC, October 17, 2007.

There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.
Friedrich Nietzsche

A blog friend dislikes people who use song lyrics. They are unoriginal. I’ve been called worse, so…

Have you ever loved someone so much you give your arm for? (sic)
Not the expression, no, literally give an arm for.
When they know they’re your heart,
And you know you are their armor,
And you will destroy anyone that will try to harm her.

Eminem, When I’m Gone

Have you loved that much, reached that point where another life is more important that your own? I remember a friend once explained how much he loved his significant other.

I’d kill for her,” he told me.

“Would you die for her?” I asked.

“What?”

“Would you give your life to save hers? Do you love her that much?”

There was no answer to my question. A man in his early twenties rarely thinks such thoughts. I was different; a silly, romantic fool with misguided ideals of honor and sacrifice. That has been my personal litmus test. I love if I know her life is more important than my own.

Question again: Have you loved that much?

Question: How do you prove that?

Words are impotent. Affectionate expressions and pillow-talk promises are mere sounds. Without actions they are as fleeting as the wind. An, I love you, while beautiful to hear, means little without something behind it.

Yes, I would die for her, a foolish, Victorian gesture. In an unthinkable situation I wouldn’t have to pause. Her life holds more potential than that of my battered, bitter soul. Her laughter can be heard by the deaf, her smile seen by the blind. The possibilities of that outweigh the meagerness of my own. The chances of me making that sacrifice are dim. I doubt the situation will ever arise that puts my love to the test.

Question, again: How do you prove that?

There is big love and small love, I have been told. I look at the big picture and how my actions affect it. My life is a perpetual five-year plan, hoping actions now will lead to a desirable future. Sixty, 70, 80 hours a week, exhaustion, and a pay cheque, late nights and missed dinner, Saturdays at the office: Big love.

Breakfast in bed, holding hands, washing her clothes, making the bed, an unannounced kiss on the cheek, walks in the rain, holding her umbrella: Small love. I should look into free romantic couples games . That would be small love.

Maybe it’s time to put away the fictional notions of sacrifice. I’m no Sydney Carton. There are no explanations for the depth of my emotion. How can a grand sacrifice be vocalized and comprehended? Yes, it time to put them away, to cast them to a corner of my mind, the instinctive corral that will auto-pilot me should that moment ever arrive. It’s the little things I need to worry about.

Yes, I’d give my arm for her. I can’t, so I’ll use that arm to hug, hold, caress, and cook.