hopeless romantic (1)
hopeless romantic. it’s a label tagged over and over again for people who are so much into falling in love– no matter who the object of desire is. pathetic little creatures we are. we dwell in our fantasies. we spin splendid scenarios of intimacies clutching our pillows when we’re in bed, talking to ourselves while we take long walks, collecting daydreams, relishing that tingle of pain that scratches our hearts when we recall a sweet memory. it’s a sickness that I catch less and less now. But when I do catch it (yes, it’s like flu), the intensity is much the same.
I’ve known some people who can easily brush this malady aside. Is there a vitamin that somehow strengthens one’s resistance to it? In fact I think we, hopeless romantics are very few in proportion. We are the stuff films and plays and a host of mediocre tv crap are made of. We are the lifeblood of this otherwise drab existence. and yet others who have managed to keep this passion at bay would, I imagine, laugh at us for being idiots.
i have always believed that amorous love– this feeling, this passion is at its most magnificent when it is without dignity. which paradoxically, by virtue of that lack, in fact, gives it a higher form of dignity instead. My example would be victor hugo’s hapless lonely daughter gone insane over a soldier who didn’t love her. adele, immortalized in truffaut’s the story of adele h. plunged into doing undignifying things for the object of a love that she knows will never be hers. and at the film's end, i would be awestruck by how she had destroyed herself almost willfully for love. and this very fantasy fascinates me. and continues to fascinate me. how much can I really do for love (that song in chorus line comes to mind– i told you– it could get divinely profound or awfully cheesy– it doesn’t matter, this is my blog!) ?
how many times have i been in that similar situation, licking the wounds I inflicted upon myself. painfully deciding to set free the object/s of my desire.
my friends roll their eyes. I don’t have their sympathies. they know I love the feeling of being smitten and getting hurt and going through the rigmarole of unrequited affections. it’s an idiotic state I will avidly get into whenever i get the chance. the risks can get very high indeed. i am beginning to believe it’s giving me the lower back pain. and yet I willingly dive into the murky pool, unmindful of consequences to me, especially.
I watched another french movie about four years ago. I forgot the title. (can anyone supply?) I remember the very first scene: a female cat was in terrific heat and she was quivering in awful passionate cringing desire. it was the story of a married woman who falls madly in love with a rather dispassionate NGO volunteer. when the guy leaves her she suffers a breakdown. Unable to function, she goes into a terrible depression (not unlike the cat in the film's opening credits). she chances upon reading about this obscure Greek myth. there was this cliff where the god Apollo throws hopelessly languid mortals into the sea to cure them of their lovesickness. On one occasion, she goes to Greece with a friend and finds this cliff. she plunges into the water. Her friend thinking that she has committed suicide shouts for help. After a long while, we see her resurface, and immediately we know she has just been cured.
that’s almost what it will take for me to relieve me of this awfully painful yet sweet malady, whenever it comes and comes unrequited. now i realize why i take to swimming much too much. back to the pool.
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