love

As one can see from the timestamp here, I haven't been to sleep yet, 'cos there's no way in hell I'd be up at this hour any other way. Yeah.

So I got to perusing some long-dead sites made by people different then than they are now, and I started thinking about love. In an evolutionary sense, it's kind of strange. Many species in order to be successful use the tactic of spreading their seed as far and as often as possible, in order to get some kind of genetic variety out there or something. It's odd to think that we often saddle oursevles with someone in complete defiance of this tactic. I'm really too tired to be thinking about this, as I can come up with a lot of counterarguments to my hypothesis right off the top of my head. And I'm using an excess of ten-dollar words to think about it. See? Tired.

What I was really thinking of, was that love---you know, honest, real love---never goes away. Meaning that love and hate can coexist in a person with regard to anyone or anything. And maybe that's some kind of survival technique for people in groups, for people who are afraid of being alone. When things get weird, that stays. Funny.

I miss making things. All I really have are the old things I've made, the ones that make me think about things that don't exist anymore, and never will again. Those wild nights with drunken women singing and dancing until 3 a.m. or until the cops came too many times, rocking in an orchard of apple or antique oak; smoky french pubs where men flattered you because you were young and because you made music; nights spent in the woods under a crystalline sky; making giant bowls of mac and cheese at four in the afternoon and laughing at the fact that this was breakfast, luch, and dinner, and not caring; painting and rolling in paint; the silence in a backstage room with the sun peeking through cracks in black plastic; the joy of feathers and bubbles. Thinking back to some time when I wasn't nearly as jaded as I thought I was and the only thing in the world to worry about was your own impending demise and even that didn't worry you too much. It all goes, and it all remains.

I guess I just kind of get wistful sometimes and indulge myself, not out of a sense of regret, but out of a partial "what if" and a complete fullness, sense of knowing where I've been and what it meant at the time and now. Where can you indulge in selfish reflection if not in an online journal? Intarwub's full of 'em.

This is an appropriate song:

I never thought it would be like this
a stranger you should have missed
never thought it would be this way
so get down on your knees and pray

Gey down on your knees and pray
pray that these angels will go away
looking for something you'll never find
never bring you that peace of mind

Things were changing a moment ago
sometimes it's fast & sometimes it's slow
you never thought it would be like this
maybe that stranger you could have missed

You never thought it would be this way
better get down on your knees and pray
pray
pray
pray
oh-oh, get down on your knees and pray

A thousand strangers you should have kissed
a thousand places you would have missed
a thousand angels will go away
better get down on your knees and pray

- dreamed up on a Scottie's placemat a long time ago with someone else, later sung a capella and with musical accompaniment to middle-aged women and crazy Germans and Spaniards, respectively.

First light is up. I'd better quit before I come up with more things that make no sense to anyone but me really, and before I start contemplating the grammar of everything I've just said. None of l'esprit de escalier: it's off to bed. Or something. Maybe just something.