Grand Passion

Grand Passion
  
I would like to be loved.

I’m not asking for
GRAND PASSION,
Moonlit romance
Or a knight in shining armour.

I’d just like to hear
Someone else

Breathing

In

The

Darkness
                        Ruth Everson


There’s nothing wrong with passion. When I ease into the wrinkled winter of my life I’ll remember the heat of a slow kiss. The smile on my face won’t be in anticipation of red jelly and custard after a supper of mince and mashed vegetables. It will be the memory of a hand trailing skin-sparks across my back.


We all have a fundamental need to be loved, but passionate love seems to be transitory.  Psychologists claim that we stay in the passionate stage of love for a maximum of two years, after that reality kicks in. The radiance of new love blinds us to the things that The Beloved does that, in a lesser mortal, would drive us to distraction and muttered threats of violence.

Most of us have been kicked in the heart by reality once too often but love is more than passion. Perhaps it’s just a primal need to operate in tribes. Two people get together, like each other, produce a tribe. The tribe grows up, moves out and the original mating pair are left gazing at the pool that they sunk their retirement money into so that the tribe could have fun for four months in the summer. Still, they have each other.

That’s the crux of it – to have each other. Just to know that there is someone else breathing in the darkness is what most of us want. A knight in shining armor is a wonderful, romantic ideal but if Orlando Bloom clanked his way into my bedroom I’m not sure I’d know what to do with him. How does one make a passionate leap at all those shiny metal bits without risking mortal injury? There’s a lot of upkeep that goes with hooking up with a hero. Heroes are high maintenance, all that polishing, curling of long flowing locks and sharpening of lances would soon wear down the most willing of damsels. If you want Orlando or Colin Farrell you can have them, give me Shrek any day.

Shrek is the true 21st Century man who women secretly desire. So what if he’s green? A lot of men are when they stagger home on a Friday night. His eating habits might not make him welcome at a Des and Dawn soiree, but remember you’ve got two years to get used to this in the first rush of love. Shrek wouldn’t abandon you for a few wild moments with a svelte secretary in the stock room. He wouldn’t spend more quality time with his iPhone than with you. There’d be no more trouble with the pool; you don’t need chemicals in a swamp. But above all else, your heart would be safe. The Shreks of the world know how to love ‘till death us do part’.

I wish I had known about Shrek when I was sixteen. I would have spent less time longing for my best friend’s handsome brother and more time looking at the pimply boys who I scorned so easily. I wish I could find Harold now and tell him that he is magnificent. Harold was the Shrek of my primary school days and we tormented him endlessly because his hair looked funny and his clothes were scruffy. I’ve forgotten most of the other boys, but I remember him. He took our taunts and simply turned away. He was more gracious than any of the ‘A’ list kids and probably still is.

I loathe that song that promotes the idea: ‘If you want to be happy for the rest of your life, never make a pretty woman your wife’, but perhaps there is some truth in this. It opens up a lot of new opportunities for those of us who are cosmetically challenged. I can see a whole new reality T.V. series on the horizon – Extreme Makeover – Become Ugly in Six Weeks. Move aside Hugh Jackman, it’s time for Shrek to rule the passions of my heart.

I know that love doesn’t have to be blind, if you fall in love with the heart and soul, ugly becomes beautiful. I do want to hear someone else breathing in the darkness and if they choose to be there, they won’t have any problem hearing me. I snore like a troll.

Oh, and for a twist in the tale, thank you, Julia, for choosing to be there in my darkness. (Passes the earplugs.)

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Now is the Time for Courage

Image
A new year beckons. Before you know it we will be challenged by another 1st of January.  It's time to effect the change for which we yearn. Along come all the hopeful resolutions that briefly see the light of day before dying their usual death. Don't make resolutions - again I spoke to a group of people recently and asked them if they had made resolutions for 2020, many of them had. Most were horrified when I told them to ditch their grand plans as they would cause more stress than they were worth. The 1 st of January is like some magical line in the sand – there is a vague hope that we can step across the line and suddenly be all the things that we haven’t been for the last X number of years. The right inspirational moment Things that need to get done, get done. If you amputate a finger while cunningly carving a radish to decorate a salad, you don’t sit on the couch waiting for the right inspirational moment to go to the closest casualty room. You put your finge
Read more

Have The Conversation

On Thursday, I was invited to discuss my poem Black and White with 90 Grade 7s. The poem is about my second mother, Johanna Rapule. At the end of the talk, the girls asked a number of questions about the poem but there is one that has haunted me ever since. ‘What would you say to Johanna if you could speak to her again?’ The easy answer would be to tell her that I loved her. The real answer would be the deep regret that, although she knew my hopes and my dreams, I never knew hers. Growing up in apartheid South Africa, it seemed normal to have Johanna living in the tiny khaya at the bottom of the garden. It was normal to have her cook and clean and iron. I was five; my world was shaped by adults. As I grew up, visionary teachers, like Maureen O’ Gara, awakened me to the injustice that kept Johanna in her place. As a student, I protested and waved placards. We ran from the police down the streets of Benoni. We wrote angry poems, smoked furiously and drank too much wine.
Read more

Tear Ducts, Onions and Chillies

Image
I’ve had a blocked tear duct for at least two weeks. It looks a little like I’m keeping a giant Easter Egg under my eye. I’ve checked, there’s no Lindt or Geldhof surprise waiting for me, which is a pity. I refuse to visit the doctor for something as puny as an eye duct. When I go, I like to tick off things like back ops, neck fusions, foot reconstructions or the odd skin graft on the troublesome head. Eye will not admit defeat to something the size on a pin prick. I have tried various methods to unblock the duct. Using my powers of deduction (see what I did there?) and Google, I set about finding a solution. Dr Google suggested a hot compress. I heated up a face cloth and reclined on the couch in a tragic pose, calling faintly for tea. The compress did nothing. I’m still hoping for the tea. The next was to try an eye solution. I poured drops into my eye. Nothing helped. Julia did mention that the drops were so past their expiry date that Noah may have dropped them of
Read more