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April 6, 2003
When I get into my car in the morning, I adjust the rearview mirror to account for nocturnal heightening. This morning was no different except, for some reason, I sang Where The Boys Are while thinking of Yvette Mimieux.
Perhaps it was the spring air, or maybe the airplane glue, but whatever it was, I was light-headed. Easter, for me, is a time of rebirth and renewal, a time for newspaper photographs of Jesus sporting a bed sheet and mullet-hair, and Twinkie-fattened Roman centurions with wristwatches and frayed denim cutoffs peeking from beneath their ill-fitting tunics. It is a time for Passion Plays.
I've never seen a Passion Play, but I've seen people play at romance. From time to time, I've seen secretaries at the office beaming at rose-filled vases on their desks--"surprises" at Valentine's Day or a birthday or simply because their partner fucked up and sees flowers as a key to the doghouse exit. I can think of few gestures more pathetic and less meaningful than sending or receiving store-bought, store-delivered flowers under pretense of romance. It's too easy and unoriginal. How do I love thee? Let me pick up the phone and order a stranger to deliver flowers I have never seen, much less grown or picked.
Most of what passes for "romance" is nothing more than contrivance. If it has to be created using forethought, it's not romance. Romance exists only in retrospect.
© 2003 by the beastmaster