Pack Creek Ranch, San Juan County, Utah
The third week in February 2024
VALENTINE’S DAY REFLECTIONS RECONSIDERED
Some aspects of existence are best considered at a distance from the emotional zenith connected with them. It’s hard to talk sensibly about love on or even near Valentine’s Day. So, I’ve waited before posting a new journal. Meanwhile, I reviewed my writing about Cupid’s Day and found that my thinking hasn’t changed all that much.
Here’s a slightly edited essay written years ago: memories that last.
As an unofficial inspector of the postings on classroom windows of the elementary school across the street, I noted that recent skills acquired in cutting out snowflakes from paper were applied to making symmetrical hearts for St. Valentine’s Day.
Apparently, the students had been let in on the great secret that heart shapes can be made by simply folding the paper in half first before cutting.
Fold the red paper once.
Cut once – using blunt safety scissors.
Unfold.
Shazam!
A heart.
How will they feel when they find out the truth that real hearts are not smoothly symmetrical?
When they find out that real love is not symmetrical, either?
Or real life.
That cutting out something with lumpy, raggedy, asymmetrical sides is more realistic. That real love looks more like the snowflakes they cut out a month before – no two alike.
Will they feel disappointed?
Or just relieved?
* * * * *
One afternoon during the week before Valentine’s Day I passed by the school during recess. Several little girls were skipping back and forth across the playground shrieking at full capacity.
Shrieking is the special talent of little girls.
Not yelling.
Not shouting.
Not Screaming.
Shrieking.
And it’s not so easy to skip and shriek at the same time.
Try it.
Several little boys were standing watching the little girls.
Nonplussed about what they were seeing.
Uncertain as to how to respond.
Though they don’t consciously recognize it, this behavior is an early stage of foreplay in the long run-up to Romantic Love.
Skipping, shrieking, staring . . . and wondering.
This is a practice mating dance the rookies do.
Someday, when the girls are grown up and shriek late at night while having a drink at a bar, the young men around them will not just stand and stare and wonder.
They will not be confused about what’s going on.
They will finally know the code and know what to do next.
Shrieking is nothing to be afraid of.
Unless, of course, you think love and romance can be dangerous . . .
* * * * *
Love is volatile. That’s for sure.
Besides shrieking, love causes people to laugh, sing, shout, scream, and call upon the deity: Oh my god, oh my god . . . !
It’s been a long time since I screamed out of sheer exuberance.
Where could I safely try that out one more time?
Could I safely skip and scream at the same time?
Would it attract women?
Would my neighbor call the police?
I tried screaming alone in my basement.
And then went outside and skipped around my house.
Results:
I have lost the ability – and desire – to shriek.
I am no longer competent at skipping.
And also no longer afraid of love and romance.
At least – not as much as I used to be.
*****
On the Friday before Valentine’s Day, a passerby would have seen a senior geezer plumped down in the front throne of the local nail salon.
He was getting a pedicure.
He was very happy.
I know. He was me.
Also present: two Vietnamese pedicurists, and three young women in for the full treatment in advance of some Valentine’s Day event – getting their toes and nails painted, and their legs waxed.
Some men may think a nail salon is not a place for a guy to go.
Wrong.
Being in a room with lovely young women working on being beautiful is a very educational experience.
You don’t even have to buy them drinks.
Less stress than going to yoga class or a gym or a bar.
While getting my claws clipped and filed, and my feet rubbed, I also get to sit in an electric chair that massages my back.
Meanwhile, the sweet young things in the shop make a fuss over me.
Yes. A nail salon is a great place for an old guy to be.
As a general proposition, I’ve been consciously trying to continue to do things for the first time. Trying, in small, unspectacular ways, to keep my mind open and loose – as an exercise in vitality. Take a little chance when I can. While watching the young ladies choose colors for their nails it occurred to me that I had never had my toenails painted. I wondered what it would feel like.
So….
A cute young thing in the chair next to mine pipes up when my polish goes on: “Wow! Like, Wow! That’s a little kinky, don’t you think.”
“Yes. But I’m in favor of kinky. I’m just not good at it.”
“Wow! Like, that’s a great shade of red. Is it to surprise someone?”
“Yes. Me.
I hardly remember what I did yesterday anymore, so tomorrow morning when I get out of bed to go to the bathroom, I’ll look down, see my red toenails, and be really surprised.”
Wow! Like, Wow!”
So, I went around all day with a foolish smile on my face.
Sometimes I laughed when people asked me “What’s new?”
I didn’t say I just had my toenails painted red.
I didn’t do it for them.
But for me.
And so, it came to pass.
On Valentine’s Day morning, when I got out of bed – Like Wow!
And this morning, too.
As I write this, the polish is still on my toes.
And I’m still smiling.
Sooner or later, I’ll go back to the Nail Salon again, have the polish removed, and tell how it worked out to have red toenails.
It’s nice to have something to look forward to.
“Well, then, how about leg waxing?” you may ask.
You mean have hot wax poured on my legs, then wait for it to cool, and then have it ripped off by a leg technician?
No. I don’t think so.
That could lead to shrieking and skipping around.
*****
Five blocks away from where I live is a classic two-story, shingled house. The dining room is in the front of the house on the street side. Reliably around six o’clock every evening, an older gentleman can be seen carefully setting the table as if guests were expected for dinner: Table cloth, silverware, glasses, flowers in a vase, wine in a bottle, and a candlestick. The usual setup for company.
He lights the candles, and from the kitchen, his white-haired wife brings plates of food. In a courtly manner, he pulls back her chair to seat her before sitting down himself. They don’t say a blessing, but they do hold hands briefly just before eating. While eating they talk and sometimes laugh.
I have been a guest at their table several times.
But they don’t know that.
Because I’m not in their dining room with them.
I’m pausing across the street on my evening walk. Watching them in the warm yellow interior light of their house… through two windows… him in one … her in another… an animated painting by Edward Hopper.
I can’t hear their conversation.
Perhaps there is also music playing. I hope so. Mozart, maybe.
The silent pantomime of their ongoing dinner ritual reminds me that love can be constant, can be content, can last.
Why would I think that?
Last Friday, a week ago, the evening before Valentine’s Day, the man tied two red heart-shaped helium balloons on the back of her chair before she came to dinner.
She came out of the kitchen as usual, carrying two plates, saw the balloons, stopped, smiled, and laughed. When they sat down to eat, they held hands a little longer than usual.
Tonight, several days after Valentine’s Day, as I passed by around six, I saw them once again at dinner.
The two heart-shaped balloons are still tied to the back of her chair.
*****
So we have this annual holiday represented by a naked, winged boy armed with a bow and arrow, unreliable judgment, and a vindictive nature. Odd, when you think about it. It is a tribute to human hopefulness that we continue to have such high and affirmative expectations of the activities of good old Cupid.
While traveling I searched a used bookshop for something to read, and came across a volume of the love poetry of Rumi. This was a used book – underlined and annotated by several previous readers. The book was therefore deeply discounted in price. But getting an insight into the views of others makes a book more valuable and interesting to me. And I had never read Rumi before.
Knowing he is one of the most respected writers on the subject ever, I spent a month slowly working my way through pages extolling the mysteries of ecstatic love, romantic love, and soul-fulfilling love. Heavily underlined. Many exclamation points. For example:
“I open and fill with love, and what is not love evaporates.” ! ! ! !
To tell you the truth it was like eating my way through a magnum-sized box of cream-filled chocolates. Dyspeptic. Too much of a good thing. And then I came to the end pages, where someone had added some thoughts as antidotes to indigestion caused by WONDROUS love.
“The truth is that Eros now carries a sharp switchblade knife, and knows how to use it. You never see it coming. And it hurts so good when you bleed. Click.”
“Leonard Cohen is what became of Cupid when he grew old.”
“Love is an incurable disease. It’s an epidemic.”
And someone else had added a page drawn up to look like a wanted poster. There was a drawing of the head of a young man. And underneath those comments, this advertisement:
“LOST – MY TRUE LOVE
A beautiful young man. Brown curly hair, green eyes, freckles.
Tall, slender, athletic, talented, independent. Drives a yellow Ducati motorcycle and wears a leopard-skin jacket.
If you see him, tell him Anna misses him and is still looking for him.
When he smiles in memory of me, kick him in the groin as hard as you can. Tell him that’s from Anna.”
Finally this:
On the sidewalk in front of a bus stop this morning I saw this message written in blue chalk: Lucy Loves Bradley.
On my way back from my walk this evening I noticed that the message had been altered.
Bradley had been crossed out.
A new name was added.
Now the message reads: Lucy Loves Joshua.
Love is not always constant, content, or lasting.
Everything that has forward motion and is alive is subject to hazard and consequences. It’s best to stay a little vague and foolish and loose when addressing the subject of love, don’t you think?