It is only right that single people respect this day as a special day - a day for couples to make a point in reminding each other of their love.
One could go on for thousands of words writing about how crass and commercial this day has become. The lovely dovey marketing of the marketeers, is like a waiter who has a wind problem at an intimate dinner date. There will always be those who seek a profit in what is beautiful.
This day can be difficult for single people though. For those whose love has passed away, betrayed them or simply been unable to love back, it can be heartbreaking. One can be reminded constantly about what is absent. The ultimate sin is for 'good intentioned' couples to try and give their single friends advice, as if they possessed some higher understanding of the Platonic sun.
The truth is that there is no secret formula. It is only possible to be connected to someone, when you recognize what is special and individual about them. Then there comes acceptance, which is really only the by-product of such a connection.
Still, for many single people this day can pass like any other. Individuals can be content in their own company and do not always crave company. Such singletons are blessed.
Showing posts with label beauty. Show all posts
Showing posts with label beauty. Show all posts
Tuesday, 16 February 2010
Tuesday, 2 February 2010
The Beauty of A.
I know a woman. She is beautiful. She likes to be reminded that she is beautiful. And by aknowledging her beauty, it is as if there is a connection, a sacred tie between her and I.
In her absence, I cannot comment on her beauty. Or if I do, by writing words down and trying to make things clear, I am only really commenting on my memory. I cannot smell her scent or taste the flavours of her company. The light that travelled between us, travelled light years ago.
In my absence, she has found herself a man. He can be with her and remind her of her beauty. There is no jealousy, just a joy tinged with sadness - for I know she can now be happy.
On the day that my mother left my father, I am still thinking of her.
In her absence, I cannot comment on her beauty. Or if I do, by writing words down and trying to make things clear, I am only really commenting on my memory. I cannot smell her scent or taste the flavours of her company. The light that travelled between us, travelled light years ago.
In my absence, she has found herself a man. He can be with her and remind her of her beauty. There is no jealousy, just a joy tinged with sadness - for I know she can now be happy.
On the day that my mother left my father, I am still thinking of her.
Tuesday, 24 February 2009
Five Nights in Port de Pollenca.
Just to the right past Hotel Romantic is where I had my bed.
I was informed that Robert Graves had lived in Mallorca after his involvement in the first world war. As I fantasized about being a writer, I noticed that I stood apart from the crowd. Though this was not due to any pretentions.
The town I was staying was in the north east of the island. I had not imagined anything like this. There was no one my age. There were lots of children and older couples. It was like my generation and been wiped out from the face of the planet. Even with the Spanish barmaids, there was probably an eight to ten year difference.
I spent my days strolling around the town, taking in the sun rays and trying to forget my name. No one knew who I was, what I believed in or where I came from. From my appearance, the most that you could tell was that I was northern European or of European extraction. I felt free. No one expected anything from me and no one was concerned.
When I had enough of walking and needed a rest, I would move into a bar and ordered a cider with a pint glass and ice. The Spanish barmaids with their darker complexions and their friendly glare must have set some hormones rushing for I seemed to get a little high. I laughed to myself about the unconscious aspect of biology. I never had a chance with any of these beautiful maidens but the body refused to listen.
Taking my drink outside, I would bask in the glory of the cloudless sky. This was so different from home, not a chance of rain and no one to bother my solitude. I didn't want to leave this place and I discovered something about myself. I am not always driven by ego. I don't want to be 'the best'. I do not want to come first or be the bravest. Such concerns actually empty the magic out of existence and don't really mean anything. To be alive and to be able enjoy the beauty of life is enough.
This was also a break from my obsessions at home: my eternal search for an easier job, a partner and the desire to buy my own house. All of this became unimportant.
By about half way through the night, the bars would be half full and I would have enough to drink. I would eventually make my way back to my room. I would politely file past reception, saying hello to the person in charge. Parents would be struggling to get their children to sleep. You could tell that they wanted just a couple of hours to enjoy a drink and have some peace and quiet. As I lay face down into my pillow, the sweat trickling from my pores, I tried to block out the distant echo of happy children and shouting parents.
It's hard to tolerate laughter when you're out of your head.
I was informed that Robert Graves had lived in Mallorca after his involvement in the first world war. As I fantasized about being a writer, I noticed that I stood apart from the crowd. Though this was not due to any pretentions.
The town I was staying was in the north east of the island. I had not imagined anything like this. There was no one my age. There were lots of children and older couples. It was like my generation and been wiped out from the face of the planet. Even with the Spanish barmaids, there was probably an eight to ten year difference.
I spent my days strolling around the town, taking in the sun rays and trying to forget my name. No one knew who I was, what I believed in or where I came from. From my appearance, the most that you could tell was that I was northern European or of European extraction. I felt free. No one expected anything from me and no one was concerned.
When I had enough of walking and needed a rest, I would move into a bar and ordered a cider with a pint glass and ice. The Spanish barmaids with their darker complexions and their friendly glare must have set some hormones rushing for I seemed to get a little high. I laughed to myself about the unconscious aspect of biology. I never had a chance with any of these beautiful maidens but the body refused to listen.
Taking my drink outside, I would bask in the glory of the cloudless sky. This was so different from home, not a chance of rain and no one to bother my solitude. I didn't want to leave this place and I discovered something about myself. I am not always driven by ego. I don't want to be 'the best'. I do not want to come first or be the bravest. Such concerns actually empty the magic out of existence and don't really mean anything. To be alive and to be able enjoy the beauty of life is enough.
This was also a break from my obsessions at home: my eternal search for an easier job, a partner and the desire to buy my own house. All of this became unimportant.
By about half way through the night, the bars would be half full and I would have enough to drink. I would eventually make my way back to my room. I would politely file past reception, saying hello to the person in charge. Parents would be struggling to get their children to sleep. You could tell that they wanted just a couple of hours to enjoy a drink and have some peace and quiet. As I lay face down into my pillow, the sweat trickling from my pores, I tried to block out the distant echo of happy children and shouting parents.
It's hard to tolerate laughter when you're out of your head.
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