Why I loved her (not in any way comprehensive)

I loved E because she was pretty. She was like a funny bird. I don't mean that she could whistle the tune of the Archers (which my neighbour's bird used to do until our cat, Percy, frightened it to death one warm afternoon by springing through the air from a table -- the bird, fearing death at the paws of the flying cat, promptly expired); I mean that it was as though someone had taught her every way to be engaging to me, which she was. She also had big tits, but I don't want you to think that is a prerequisite; it is perfectly possible to be engaging without them. I loved her utterly and it took me years to get over her, even though we were only together for a few months. I grieved when she dumped me. She went back to Australia and did not love me enough to want to come back, nor to encourage me to go there. We were in contact, intermittently, until recently, but I find it quite painful to read about her life, having kids, that kind of thing, and have to pretend that I am happy that it is not me she had them with.

I loved Mrs Z because she was nice. She would strike you that way if you met her. She would probably come across as a little colourless, because she is shy of new people, but you would think she is nice. I stopped loving her when she stopped being nice. That happened around the time she became pregnant with Zenella. Her focus turned inwards and she came increasingly to view the world in terms of entitlement, what she should receive as a mother, as a wife, as a person, and not at all on how she should go about getting it. This is a frustrating sort of person to deal with because their belief is that the world -- and you -- should change but they have no need to. I can be a bad person, and for sure there are things I should change, but you cannot resurrect love by demanding it. You have to be in some way loveable.

I loved S because she felt like a beacon in the wilderness of my life. It sounds dramatic, but it's true. She is a suggestion of a world I (and she) could have been living in; in that sense, an indictment of what I have made of my life and an inspiration to change it. I don't think I could have loved anyone "real" in the same way (not that she isn't real, although I have from time to time wondered whether the illusion that I have of her isn't realler than the real S -- but that is probably true for all of us: I daresay the women who have loved me have loved the illusion until they have realised who I really am). Of course, she has qualities that lit the fuse for me: smartness, funniness, skill at writing and unconventionality. I don't mind people who aren't smart. None of the other women I've loved have been anything like as smart as S, but it hasn't bothered me. Ignorance bothers me. The wilful belief that being unsmart is a virtue. I don't mind that you do not know Aristotle or cannot write in French, but I do mind that you think those are good things about you. Funniness is a huge plus. Some people just are. Some just aren't. I can live with both, so long as they are aware which they are. There is nothing worse than someone who is not funny but is convinced they are (English readers will remember the Fast Show parody of the type, which was painfully funny in itself). S is almost the opposite. She is funny but doesn't realise it, with a beautiful, dry sense of humour. Skill at writing is a plus for me because a good writer can weave interesting prose, which, given my day job, is a relief. I get a feeling like someone is grinding my brain on one of those things they use to make metal smooth when I read accountancy textbooks. Unconventionality is best of all, even if it borders in outright eccentricity. A willingness to not be the same is a good thing (although a desire to be different for the sake of it is not; it's not even close to the same thing). S is not the same. You could not confuse her for run of the mill. The way she thinks is not always healthy, but it's original. I never tire of her. When we were hot hot, she would write all the time. I loved it. I wish I could have as much of her now as I did then. It wasn't entirely good for me but neither are most things that intoxicate you. Sadly, when Mrs Z found out, S panicked and I suffered from the reverse side of the same eccentric way of looking at things. She could not believe that I was trying to do the right thing by her. I couldn't explain without upsetting her (sigh: it will probably upset her that I say now that I couldn't explain because I thought her way of looking at things was just too off kilter, wrong in almost every way, creating shadows where there were not bodies in the way of the light, but that I needed space because I was drunk on S and couldn't hide it from my wife, as though being with her left her perfume, something Mrs Zen has a nose for, once her nose had been alerted to it).

I loved L because nobody else loved her. I found things to love and she responded to that. I have always believed that if you reach into someone and find something to love about them, they will respond. L did. She was a meanhearted kid, battered by life, suspicious and sometimes unpleasant (we were very young, maybe eight, nine). But not with me. With me she could let herself be sweet and vulnerable and take delight in another. I do not know where L is today (probably still in my home town) and her maiden name gives a blank on Google (how many people could that be true of?). I guess you could say she was my first love. Except for my mum, of course, my oldest and truest love of all.

posted by Dr Zen @ 2:38 pm