What has Love got to do with it?
Love is a watchman, which turns your mind inside out. Our own little life slips into the journeys of others. It becomes impossible then no o police them. And yet this policing is weird. I is never really meant. It is merely what one finds oneself being. t be a watchman is therefore to devalue ones own life. One might live in a nice secure house and have an amiable pupil. But one only carries for the view fro m the window. In that view, one is a different person one minds transfigures ones nature. one is a wife, being proposed to, a secret held in the invisible ink of a mind or heart.
One watches therefore because in the window love tumbles in.
This love operates in a space of the eel. That is the loved object does not directly own it. They go about there daily business – charging this way or that keeping appointments having secretes looking as they do
To the watchman of love though is normality swells in significance. The thought of the other person and their life is enough. In my thought I share that life. Or better I merge the memory of their life with what I am. Or even better I create a domain of fantasy, power but love where there life, and my life are already blended.
The passion of my love lurches me from worlds to worlds. In the one the lover carries on, in the other I am doing what I do (and these series do not meet), and ye in another they are bought into sharp focus and the refocus. This last is of course the delight of the mind and to e repeated as often as one can.
And yet there is a real penalty paid in this innocent quiet fantasy.
The other one is also doing. The thought soft this doing is my delight.
And yet…
What are they doing?
They are not acting as my series would want them to ye or ever. They are merely straying of God knows where.
My love for them has then a flaw.
I have no right to the thoughts to the silent watching, I making of them. They are mere observation of god knows what and all the rest is fantasy.
What fuels my love also fuels my paranoia (right or wrong).
It makes me suspicious as my fantasy always leads me to where I need not be in the first place.
My fantasy therefore and my paranoia – watching too much, wanting too much, looking or what is not their, bind together both rage in the desire to look at the other and know of them. both feel that this desire somehow allows for or expresses a love, that would otherwise threaten to overwhelm a soul.
In the desire to be a wife, I pull a mind inside out. The fantasy as what supports it (stories of love and stories of rivals) take over what I am or what I could be. rhyme and reasons vanish into…
All I am left with really is a silent pair of eyes; I Can at least watch.
I Turn into then the watchman of love – who silently notices the loved one in order to express that love. The notice is enough to stoke a mind in memories expressive of a passion. And yet that notice is not reality.
This second aspect is utter natural as it expresses the very basic incongruity of loving in this manner. How else can one express a over which is so asymmetric ( I love what I see of you as it tumbles into a me – you see0, save as paranoia?
What else is it? One has no right to such love in the formal world of facts, and one knows it. One is therefore always in a scope of paranoia, always worried ht s the loved one knew the truth the little peep show of desire would be no more.
I am paranoid about me and about you.
Indeed it is this double edged paranoia which is almost the most real accept of the love. Or better it is the aspect of it that holds both of us in its place. Remove or alter the paranoid element and the system collapses or changes or reach climax. To love then in the tower as the watchman is to be taking the signs of another life as one watchwords for love. One builds up a life or a passion within these perceptions and as one does so one loves. And fears.
Love is the hidden fire.
What does love defy? It defies all the careful stoking and order of the mind. One creates a nice little mind in which one deepest and darkest or strongest feeling appear o behave. One creates a mind then that however dark ones heart might be still works and works well. One creates a mind inches well stocked with sense and managed passions.\and on this the affect of love feels. One glances in the eyes of another as sees something… one looks in the eye of the rival and also sees love. One is caught.
A prism is created which takes one beyond ones own nature and into…
All he careful balance suddenly becomes merely the fuel for a secret fire. A fire all the more profound because it has no limit or control.
Or better it turns the limits or controls into the fuel it burns.
Ones on normality suddenly becomes then merely a fuel to fire up a love.
It east into the mind.
It takes over.
There I nothing else left.
One is a lover.
And yet, the problem still is that this love is boded by the rules that created the order mind in the first place.
One strong passions were after all contained, or folded back into a mind for a reasons. The were compressed within it by the weight o social pressure and the power of everyone else .one mind was modelled therefore for a reasons.
To fall in love breaks than modelled reason, and therefore set one up against society.
A over is partially a criminal- burning the rights and duties that society forced them to take up and use to make a mind.
Ones passions therefore rage, the fire runs around and around.
They might burn up a mind and yet as long a s social rules sill impress them they are not free!
They run and he run, burning up a life in the process, and looking for a crack – a least point in the armour of the social to escape a life from.
Maybe they will lot find it, and the fires burn the mind dry/
Maybe the power of society will then reassert itself and the love contained? Maybe the crack will be found and the love transfigure or squirt a mind into something else, something different.
Maybe it will fragment a little of society in it emollition?
Maybe….maybe.
The point of secret fires is that what they burn is clear- they destroy a life, but where they burn and whether they explode is always a different matter.
Love is being under the yes of Mrs T.
To love is to be pulled inside out. One comes caught up in an external world which is certainly no longer oneself and yet not the other either. Ones passions become then al odds with ones mind or rather with every notion of bastion of the self in that mind. One is the held either in the grip of a paranoia or the rigid framework of society which dos not allow ones love to go where it might choose to run.
One is still then held in –but not b anything that one oneself owns or cares for.
And yet it is in this holding one needs to define to others what ones passion is.
If then one reaches towards a love one cannot state the case – or passion. To it is not that one is dishonest but rather that here really are not worlds enough. What one is expressing is beyond measure is the weirdness of burring up a life in a pointless passion is a madness. How can one admit then that new is ma as it is normal understood?
A fragment of self dignity lingers long after the self is snuffed out.
One does not like to say that one is as mad as all that. Society and social normal then becomes point of invention.
I have feeling I reach to you, and yet if I confess these feelings, if I muscle them into your life their very weirdness there very power will destroy their power. it will make then otherwise.
That is a passion is not an affect.
Affects create exchanges which include their dysfunction within them. They take it up and use it.
A passion by contrast is something owns in ones own mind.
It is therefore something which one cannot straight forwardly share. Or something that s one does share it needs to change.
Love the affect is open to change. However love the passion is a secrete fire a private feeling which cannot directly express itself in the world (it I this much of an affect), but cannot risk stating its case as cannot risk becoming a full affect.
I exists then as a reserve of interest. An extra tap of service r use which constantly drips passionate use and desire.
A tap which drips inappropriate actions or expression or even better over burdens certain actions and expression which too much significance.
A drip drip drip of lack of perspective and fantasy.
The passion therefore needs to mind expression where it can. I looks to a world but cannot risk itself in becoming a full affect. It therefore jumps out like a crab under a some and crabs what morsels of love pass it by.
I jumps onto the nice little bits of normality it has at I disposal, and uses them as it sees fit to pattern a love within.
Or to put is another way the passion of love is caught in an odd place. It is not which me (as it turns a me inside out) but it is not yet in a you as that would make it an affect a point of exchange and change the nature of the love in the expression (it would be and affect). S a passion therefore is a querying of a me into my own perceptions of you. These become to significant. Even more tricky the things I do for you become themselves too great in their meaning for me.
To say hello or to other to teach you becomes a driving passion in a me.
Normality is then warped into passion as hear felt power.
The problem is then to account for ones feelings about a normality which real does not reflect them.
Te normality wants simply to be normal – to carry on and hum and drum. The lover is caught in that normal and yet wants, cries ,rages, more.
It is in this light children or the everyday world of Mrs T (a doll) becomes then the witness.
That is from their other life their strangeness they witness the oddness of the passion and know it what it is. they look one, and one feels one needs to account for…
One owns then up to Mrs T.
One attempts a confession of ones passions – even I that attempt cannot be bought to a head.
Love is a brother, and a rival
How can I tell you I love you?
How can I and remains within a passion – that is which something that some part of me is owning? I have f course long ago sacrificed my dignity. I cannot therefore formally state the case and throw myself upon the ebb of flow of the affect. That is to risk far too much. That is to risk the power of the passion itself, a and I am in its grip. I cannot therefore open fully to you.
There is something all it my love for you, tat un between us and that cannot be directly spoken as such.
There is a secret then.
How can I escape that secret or better how can I build or while a discrete little affect into it such that I can communicate o you a love, without ever having to risk the feeling. How can then show you my passion?
The only ways course in the burning desires of normality and the excessive regard or interest in those I think you love, and against my rivals.
That is I can show you a love by entering into your own landscape o love.
You love your brother? Then I am his gent, his helper, as I helped him then…
My helping o another becomes but an echo of my love for you. Your love for him then becomes an expression of an also love or at least a regard for me?
I show an interest in your life in your loves, to become also loved.
And yet of course this interest is unnatural and speculative. I am doing it not because I care - do not care a monkey for your wretched brother (and actually he does not like me much), but the form of caring the miasma of the pretence is enough to pattern a mind. I pretend an interest to capture a love.
But to enter into the landscape o over is a dangerous takes. Your landscape will of course have other beacon of love in it. Put love another – love others. My am therefore dragged across an landscape. Here
Again I face a dilemma. It is possible perhaps that I might turn this landscape into an affect. Your love might become my vale – I might really enter into your life a s apart in my own. I might then value it as something of my own. It might really be as a me.
You and you loves might be enough to enrich a soul.
If I cannot do this though I am caught up in a place of pain.
I wish to colonalise your landscape of lo, and to do so I will need to close down certain paths or occlude the bacons on that landscape that other lovers have made.
I turn then the flat landscape of love into a battle ground.
Hare I am, here with my allies, and their they are, my rivals I cry.
Here I am love me.
ere I am, learn the problems with the others – earn how you loath also them.
Learn and think on that. My love therefore becomes as a passion of a wider landscape an uncouth element a battle cry where perhaps no battle ought ever to be raged.
How could it be different for the lover?
Love is a whirl.
And yet it might be different. To be an uncouth intruder on your loves is one thin, but what turns own into a vortex a point of difficulty or danger is that one cannot really allow that one is the land of another. Ones passionate love cannot change therefore even as it attempt to harkens to another. I have my desires I know that I want and how I want to involve a you and that ought to be enough for both of us. We ought to be content. That has been my battle cry
And yet at this point you offer me a something else another choice.
You offer me the chance to think or re-throw that love. Maybe I could be happy for you.
You might not need me in how I want you to, but maybe I can b happy about this fact?
May you progress itself ought to give me a joy?
Maybe then I can really share in your good fortune?
Maybe I can delight in it for itself.
Maybe I can be a citizen not merely in your mental landscape but rather in a far wider territory which criss crosses many minds and many possible.
Maybe then I could really love you? And not merely serve a passion of love that would attempt o possess another to own itself.
Love therefore exists at a point where perhaps it might be different. It faces here a choice.
Love is the boiler.
It could stick to the boiler – the pent up feeling caught up in itself and through itself waiting- waiting like a bomb The trouble is that his silent ticking bomb waits in a landscape that is not its own to explode. It reacts to the affect to the lack of control therefore is the desire to destroy. The old battle this Après moi le deluge it cries. The question is merely exactly what should be taken out in the explosion?
That is what exactly will be blown sky high as he boiler of love blows
I fires will burn and burn and then suddenly bang, and take whatever is there with it.
The problem is of course that love cannot ever simply ignore the affect. It will lat some point erupt into it. That is love s the passion closest to the soul and yet also to the affect. It is the point I am forced to explode into somewhere – even if I can start well enough in the world of fantasy- I will need to explode into a something or somehow. I will need therefore to directly take the outside.
Given this the problem is merely how one does it. That is how love eventually finds its explosive (affective) power – how it actually reached another after all the byways about being a me.
If it attempt to seal that other within a passion then it is doomed for the start- but the problem is then faced is it powerful enough to carry whatever the affect might have been with it/ Can it destroy the lover in its desire for owned feeling?
A dark and real problem to passions which cannot let things dies (one-way of another), and yet which face a world of death (and face up to it).
Love is the fiery affect.
But what is love as an affect?
A vision in the fire. I burns up what is there I seeing in pitching what is not there – what is between my mind your an others. The prophetess of a future that may or may not include herself – a future in which a she(?) is taken up and transforms another in a fiery exchange – a future where they problems in the world as it is becomes actually point that minds grow from. The affect therefore breeds in this vision an image of transformational image of exchange – it extracts where the positive sides of what is not lead to or might lead to or at least the direction that run. It does this then in a sphere of no ownership. It dos not in the prophecy need itself to be a part of the vision (although Mrs t and her acolyte will think it is such. It des not need inclusion, as it does not need the direct sight of the loved one. The exchange is just that at the whirling point of a challenge r a change – it is the point one difference in and through the point one is different from. This change this challenger is therefore a point or power of being not as we were, a point or power of being .
To love as an affect is therefore to open a nature to others changes and allow them to go in ones own mind and in the mind of the other and of others. One leaves therefore never simply as oneself but rather in the vision in the fire- a fire which burns and warms.
To love is to be caught in the domain of light and warmth – the secret watchwomen or fire. The problem is in either case how one relates to that fire – does on simply sock it will nilly and hope that it is contained somewhere anywhere else? Does one love then a boiler which contains a fire – one holds it with a passion within a identity- one holds as long as one can- before the explosion which ultimately comes? Does one love as container or at least as the element contained (within social pressure or mental expectation or passions power – they all flow together at his point). That is does one love and hope (somehow one will be allowed to or use social convention or rubrics to hold the love which defies these norms? A explosive paradox (love needs norms and yet also destroys them)
Or else does one love in the fire itself, as a part of the fire, and then accept the fire is warming many people, and cannot be held down or simply contained in any one individual?
Does one love then in the hope of containing or the knowledge it is impossible – a desperate gamble either..…
Love imposes upon us then the tumbling world of somewhere something else. As we love we cease being simply ourselves – we become caught up the prisms of others – it then challenges us. Do we understand those others merely as the watchwoman might – empty perceptions to be arranged and rearrange in our desperate little mind – or do we attempt to allow this other to be genuinely different and burn which it blows us?