Howdy Luv Doc!
I’ve been immersing myself in the worlds of the real fact that there is definitive proof of life out there visiting, watching, etc. Government conspiracies to hide the truth and why. Overpopulation as issue No. 1 on Earth. Crystal programming. Magnetism. Meditation. The sort. I keep coming back to a certain thought that your chosen pseudonym might be of help to shed light on … what is love? – Really
“What is love? Baby don’t hurt me … don’t hurt me … no more.” I think that pretty much answers your question, doesn’t it, Really? In real fact, I don’t think I can say it much better than Haddaway’s classic 1993 dance hit, which asks the very same question. That song has a throbbing, insistent beat that makes me want to suck on a glow-in-the-dark pacifier dipped in MDMA.
And yet, even good ecstasy is a fairly shitty substitute for love. It might get you through a foam room rave or two, but ultimately you are going to wake up with a wicked vodka hangover on some stranger’s damp futon, covered in glitter and Astroglide. That’s not a given, mind you, it’s just a high percentage chance.
Instead of diving headfirst into extraterrestrial visitors, government conspiracies, overpopulation issues, crystal programming, magnetism, meditation, and all that – which, let me say, is a fucking labyrinth of rhetorical wormholes – I will try to stay focused on the task at hand, which is not my strong suit.
It is possible that someday scientists will crack (maybe even hack?) the part of the genome that is responsible for (or programs?) our emotions. But I prefer to believe that emotions – particularly love – are the wild cards of sentient existence. Imagine including in a robot’s operating system something completely irrational that makes it go against its own interests and even self-preservation. That’s some diabolical shit, even for the blood-and-gore hairy thundering hirsute hipster God of the Old Testament. Even if you don’t buy into the whole God model, you have to admit that love makes a strong case for a divinity that likes to throw an occasional turd in the punch bowl … just to keep things interesting.
The alternative, I guess, is to have everything set-directed with the fastidiousness of a Wes Anderson movie. Not the worst of worlds to be sure, but in a universe that (theoretically, at least) started with an explosion, you have to think that the inclination to blow shit up would repeat itself a few times – maybe not as much as in The Expendables 3, but you get the idea.
The problem is, people tend to get hurt when things explode. I may not know what love is, but I know what it costs: loss. Love is knowing that you could have your whole world obliterated by something completely beyond your control and yet still crashing headfirst into that uncertainty – even embracing it – because, for some insanely unfathomable fucked-up reason, it is precisely what gives your existence meaning and value.
What is love? Baby don’t hurt me.
This article appears in September 25 • 2015.
