Inquiring Minds Want to Know
5/4/96
INQUIRING MINDS WANT TO KNOW
I'm trying to get to a feeling. The feeling of being loved. Does anyone really love me? Does anyone really love me that I love back? Do I really feel much love? Is it important to feel love? Is it important to cultivate love within one's self? Is it important to cultivate the capacity to accept and enjoy the love of others? Is love suspect? Does it really exist? Is it a kind of drug? Is love the real opiate of the people?
Where does one go to learn about love? Orgy houses? Aren't they the loneliest places on earth? Is there anything more emotionally barren than the seeker at the orgy, searching for physical intimacy with strangers?
Where does one learn how to love? Where does one learn how to accept and appreciate the love of others? And do I mean the same thing by the word that you mean?
Love is a four letter word. Is it a lie? Is it a feeling, or a deed?
Can we trust poets who are primarily concerned with impressing us? Can we trust those who use words to advance their own agendas instead of exploring their own truths? Can you trust these words, my words? Can I trust you, the reader?
I'm writing, I'm write write writing along. Can I trust the act of writing? Is my faith in this process misplaced? Am I writing merely to advance my own selfish needs? Is there love in this act, in these words? Can I somehow put love in these words so that you read them and feel the love? Is this some kind of shellgame I'm playing with words instead of shells? Am I inviting you to bet your time and energy and hope that there is love under one, or possibly all, of these words?
And if you lifted up these words, one by one, and found the pea of love under each one, or at least some, of them, would you know what to do with that love? Or would you simply consider yourself a winner, would you simply congratulate yourself for winning the bet, for being so clever, for not being outsmarted?
What if, I'm not saying it's true, but just suppose what if I weren't trying to outsmart you. What if I actually managed to hide love in every word? Even if you lifted up the words, even if you took the time and energy to lift up the words, would you be able to see and hear and feel and taste and touch the love?
How dare I say I'm putting love in these words. Who's to say what's in my heart, really. Aren't I just playing games with you? And who the hell are you that I should be sending love to you in my words. And who the hell am I that I should be sending love to you in my words? And who the hell are you that you should be receiving it into your heart, that you should be seeing it in every word, hearing it, feeling it, touching it, tasting it?
What is love? Is it a warm mushy feeling? Is it the opposite of hate? Am I wishing you well?
If, when I hate you, I wish you harm, then when I love you, do I wish you well? And what is well for you? Physical health? How can I send you physical health in these words? Prosperity? If I really wished you prosperity, shouldn't I be sending you money?
How can I send you love in a letter? In order to give you love, don't I have to be there, sitting beside you, giving you warm looks, meeting your needs? If you are a man, and you experience love through sex with a woman, how can I, another man, be of assistance to you? By pimping for you? Or, more respectably, by matchmaking for you?
If you are a woman, a lonely woman who wants to marry a wealthy, socially respectable man, how can I, an impoverished man outside the social pale, be of service? You want what you want, and when you get it, you may be willing to call it love.
I'm not a genie in a bottle. I'm just a humble writer. Maybe I can't put love in these words. Maybe the best I can do is try to entertain you. Maybe I ought to try to be funny. If I make you laugh, will you consider yourself entertained? And if I make you laugh hard enough, will you entertain the possibility that I have tried to put love in my jokes so that I can pass that love on to you?
Let's pretend that I have somehow figured out a way to put love in my language. And let's pretend that you're capable of extracting that love from my words, not only extracting it but feeling it. Does that make us lovers? Do we complete a circuit, a bliss loop, when I put love in on my end and you take love out on yours? What if I'm dead by the time you read this? Is ours still a circuit, a circle? Isn't the circle broken by my death?
Will you be more likely to find and feel love in my words if you don't have to pay for the privilege of reading them, if I give them to you for free? Or will you be more likely to believe that there is love, or whatever it is that you call love, or whatever it is that you need, in these words if you pay for them? And the more you pay to read them, the more value will you find in them?
Aren't I asking an awful lot of these words? Am I completely out of my mind? How could I send love to you in them? What if you are a devil, what if you are a re-incarnated Hitler, sitting there, reading my words. Even if I really did feel love, even if I were clever enough and openhearted enough to put it in my words, would I want to send my love, in the form of my words, to you, Hitler?
What kind of love would that be? Mindless love. Indiscriminate love. Crazy love. Worthless love?
Is love for everyone? Or is it only for those we know, for those we know who deserve it? Should we love only those it makes sense to love? Or should we madly, blindly, send it out into the universe. Should love be like rain, falling where it may, restoring the earth, stirring green shoots in young hearts and old alike?
Is there a part of the earth which does not deserve rain? Is there a desert so terrible, so dry, so deadly, that the sky should not rain upon it?
Is there a person so terrible, so hurtful, that we should withold our love from him or her? What's the worst thing in the world that can happen if we send love out to anyone who will receive it? Will some of that love be wasted?
Do we have a limited quantity of love in our hearts? Should we ration it out so that the most deserving, or needy, or appreciative, get the lion's share?
What if there were an infinite quantity of love in our hearts? What if it were impossible to drain our hearts of love? Are there different ways of loving? Is there a way of loving that drains our hearts, and another way that leaves our hearts continually full, full of love?
Should we love only that which deserves to be loved, and hate that which deserves to be hated? How much hate do we have in our hearts? Enough for everything that deserves it? How do we decide what to hate?
Can I send hate in these words? What if I have character flaws I'm unaware of? Is it possible that hate might leak into my words and make these words toxic to you if you should happen to read them?
How can you protect yourself from my hate? How can I protect myself from yours? How can I open myself to your love without also opening myself to your hate? How can you open yourself to the love in my words, if there indeed is any, without also opening yourself to the hate?
Is the love I put in my words love for you, or is it a generalized love, or maybe a love for mountains, or birdsongs, or fast cars, or money, or shapely women? What good does it do me to share my love of summer storms with you? What good does it do you?
What if I hate a certain kind of bug and I convey my hatred and disgust of that bug to you so that you, too, imagine you feel hatred and disgust for that bug? Does that make that bug hateful and disgusting?
Suppose I loved vanilla ice cream cones, and I talked about vanilla ice cream cones in such a loving fashion that, when you read my words, the words acted like a love potion and made you fall in love with vanilla ice cream cones? Would that be dangerous? Could you hurt yourself by eating too many of them?
What if I were so talented and clever I could describe cigarettes to you in a way which made them seem wonderful. Maybe I couldn't make you love them, but at least I could make you want them. Would that make me a dangerous man? Would you want to be careful about accepting the emotional message I placed in my words?
Suppose I told you that several of my family were chainsmokers who died of lung cancer? How do you think I would feel about men and women who placed messages in their words and pictures, messages that said cigarettes were a good thing to use? Do you think I would feel as if those cigarette messages were packets of love, or of hate, or of death?
What agenda would I imagine those men and women with their paeans to tobacco were advancing? A loving agenda? A greedy one? Should I receive their cigarette messages with an open heart? Should I be suspicious of what they are saying?
How can, I wonder, anyone in the world make his or her living advancing the cause of substances which addict, cripple, and even kill? The people who do so, do they do it out of love?
When a man drops a bomb on another man, does he ever do it out of love? Does he always do it out of hate?
Suppose a man sends a message out into the world that convinces thousands and millions of readers to hurt themselves and/or others. That message might be in the form of words, or images, or you name it. Can such a man ever be motivated by love, or is he always motivated by hate?
Does it ever make sense for us, the readers, the viewers, ever to accept hate into our hearts? If we do take that hatred into our hearts, what will it make us do? Will it just sit there? Can we filter it out? Can we neutralize it or make it harmless? Should we ever act on it? Will we act on it whether we want to or not? Are we helpless in the face of messages of hate?
Are we robots? If we are told to hurt or kill or destroy in convincing fashion, must we obey? What if we are told to kill ourselves? What if we are surrounded by messages, seeming messages of love, which are really messages telling us to kill ourselves?
What if we are told that cigarettes are wonderful, that they taste good, and that we ought to smoke them? Should we take those messages into our hearts and lungs? What if smoking was a form of slow suicide? What if there were people out there telling us to kill ourselves? Should we accept their words, their images?
If their words and images go into our eyes and ears, into our brains, can we get them out of there? Or will we act on them in spite of ourselves?
Suppose it were true. Suppose there were people who made their livings persuading other people to kill themselves. What kind of people could do that? Persuasive people. Tricky people. People who believe that others must die so that they can live.
Suppose this is a letter. Suppose I am writing it to people who make their livings persuading other people to kill themselves or others. Suppose I have loved ones who have died as a result of such persuasion.
Would I be crazy to try to put love in such a letter? Would it make more sense for me to send love or hate to people who have persuaded my loved ones to kill themselves? If I were crazy enough to try to send love, in these words, to people who have persuaded my loved ones to kill themselves, how would I do it?
Would I suggest that they forgive themselves for having persuaded millions of people to kill themselves? Would I suggest that they stop persuading millions more to kill themselves? What if they had mates and children to feed? What if they were part of a great American industry? If I loved them, would I suggest that they stop making a living? How could I possibly suggest, in a loving fashion, that they stop making a living persuading other people to kill themselves?
---FIN---
INQUIRING MINDS WANT TO KNOW
I'm trying to get to a feeling. The feeling of being loved. Does anyone really love me? Does anyone really love me that I love back? Do I really feel much love? Is it important to feel love? Is it important to cultivate love within one's self? Is it important to cultivate the capacity to accept and enjoy the love of others? Is love suspect? Does it really exist? Is it a kind of drug? Is love the real opiate of the people?
Where does one go to learn about love? Orgy houses? Aren't they the loneliest places on earth? Is there anything more emotionally barren than the seeker at the orgy, searching for physical intimacy with strangers?
Where does one learn how to love? Where does one learn how to accept and appreciate the love of others? And do I mean the same thing by the word that you mean?
Love is a four letter word. Is it a lie? Is it a feeling, or a deed?
Can we trust poets who are primarily concerned with impressing us? Can we trust those who use words to advance their own agendas instead of exploring their own truths? Can you trust these words, my words? Can I trust you, the reader?
I'm writing, I'm write write writing along. Can I trust the act of writing? Is my faith in this process misplaced? Am I writing merely to advance my own selfish needs? Is there love in this act, in these words? Can I somehow put love in these words so that you read them and feel the love? Is this some kind of shellgame I'm playing with words instead of shells? Am I inviting you to bet your time and energy and hope that there is love under one, or possibly all, of these words?
And if you lifted up these words, one by one, and found the pea of love under each one, or at least some, of them, would you know what to do with that love? Or would you simply consider yourself a winner, would you simply congratulate yourself for winning the bet, for being so clever, for not being outsmarted?
What if, I'm not saying it's true, but just suppose what if I weren't trying to outsmart you. What if I actually managed to hide love in every word? Even if you lifted up the words, even if you took the time and energy to lift up the words, would you be able to see and hear and feel and taste and touch the love?
How dare I say I'm putting love in these words. Who's to say what's in my heart, really. Aren't I just playing games with you? And who the hell are you that I should be sending love to you in my words. And who the hell am I that I should be sending love to you in my words? And who the hell are you that you should be receiving it into your heart, that you should be seeing it in every word, hearing it, feeling it, touching it, tasting it?
What is love? Is it a warm mushy feeling? Is it the opposite of hate? Am I wishing you well?
If, when I hate you, I wish you harm, then when I love you, do I wish you well? And what is well for you? Physical health? How can I send you physical health in these words? Prosperity? If I really wished you prosperity, shouldn't I be sending you money?
How can I send you love in a letter? In order to give you love, don't I have to be there, sitting beside you, giving you warm looks, meeting your needs? If you are a man, and you experience love through sex with a woman, how can I, another man, be of assistance to you? By pimping for you? Or, more respectably, by matchmaking for you?
If you are a woman, a lonely woman who wants to marry a wealthy, socially respectable man, how can I, an impoverished man outside the social pale, be of service? You want what you want, and when you get it, you may be willing to call it love.
I'm not a genie in a bottle. I'm just a humble writer. Maybe I can't put love in these words. Maybe the best I can do is try to entertain you. Maybe I ought to try to be funny. If I make you laugh, will you consider yourself entertained? And if I make you laugh hard enough, will you entertain the possibility that I have tried to put love in my jokes so that I can pass that love on to you?
Let's pretend that I have somehow figured out a way to put love in my language. And let's pretend that you're capable of extracting that love from my words, not only extracting it but feeling it. Does that make us lovers? Do we complete a circuit, a bliss loop, when I put love in on my end and you take love out on yours? What if I'm dead by the time you read this? Is ours still a circuit, a circle? Isn't the circle broken by my death?
Will you be more likely to find and feel love in my words if you don't have to pay for the privilege of reading them, if I give them to you for free? Or will you be more likely to believe that there is love, or whatever it is that you call love, or whatever it is that you need, in these words if you pay for them? And the more you pay to read them, the more value will you find in them?
Aren't I asking an awful lot of these words? Am I completely out of my mind? How could I send love to you in them? What if you are a devil, what if you are a re-incarnated Hitler, sitting there, reading my words. Even if I really did feel love, even if I were clever enough and openhearted enough to put it in my words, would I want to send my love, in the form of my words, to you, Hitler?
What kind of love would that be? Mindless love. Indiscriminate love. Crazy love. Worthless love?
Is love for everyone? Or is it only for those we know, for those we know who deserve it? Should we love only those it makes sense to love? Or should we madly, blindly, send it out into the universe. Should love be like rain, falling where it may, restoring the earth, stirring green shoots in young hearts and old alike?
Is there a part of the earth which does not deserve rain? Is there a desert so terrible, so dry, so deadly, that the sky should not rain upon it?
Is there a person so terrible, so hurtful, that we should withold our love from him or her? What's the worst thing in the world that can happen if we send love out to anyone who will receive it? Will some of that love be wasted?
Do we have a limited quantity of love in our hearts? Should we ration it out so that the most deserving, or needy, or appreciative, get the lion's share?
What if there were an infinite quantity of love in our hearts? What if it were impossible to drain our hearts of love? Are there different ways of loving? Is there a way of loving that drains our hearts, and another way that leaves our hearts continually full, full of love?
Should we love only that which deserves to be loved, and hate that which deserves to be hated? How much hate do we have in our hearts? Enough for everything that deserves it? How do we decide what to hate?
Can I send hate in these words? What if I have character flaws I'm unaware of? Is it possible that hate might leak into my words and make these words toxic to you if you should happen to read them?
How can you protect yourself from my hate? How can I protect myself from yours? How can I open myself to your love without also opening myself to your hate? How can you open yourself to the love in my words, if there indeed is any, without also opening yourself to the hate?
Is the love I put in my words love for you, or is it a generalized love, or maybe a love for mountains, or birdsongs, or fast cars, or money, or shapely women? What good does it do me to share my love of summer storms with you? What good does it do you?
What if I hate a certain kind of bug and I convey my hatred and disgust of that bug to you so that you, too, imagine you feel hatred and disgust for that bug? Does that make that bug hateful and disgusting?
Suppose I loved vanilla ice cream cones, and I talked about vanilla ice cream cones in such a loving fashion that, when you read my words, the words acted like a love potion and made you fall in love with vanilla ice cream cones? Would that be dangerous? Could you hurt yourself by eating too many of them?
What if I were so talented and clever I could describe cigarettes to you in a way which made them seem wonderful. Maybe I couldn't make you love them, but at least I could make you want them. Would that make me a dangerous man? Would you want to be careful about accepting the emotional message I placed in my words?
Suppose I told you that several of my family were chainsmokers who died of lung cancer? How do you think I would feel about men and women who placed messages in their words and pictures, messages that said cigarettes were a good thing to use? Do you think I would feel as if those cigarette messages were packets of love, or of hate, or of death?
What agenda would I imagine those men and women with their paeans to tobacco were advancing? A loving agenda? A greedy one? Should I receive their cigarette messages with an open heart? Should I be suspicious of what they are saying?
How can, I wonder, anyone in the world make his or her living advancing the cause of substances which addict, cripple, and even kill? The people who do so, do they do it out of love?
When a man drops a bomb on another man, does he ever do it out of love? Does he always do it out of hate?
Suppose a man sends a message out into the world that convinces thousands and millions of readers to hurt themselves and/or others. That message might be in the form of words, or images, or you name it. Can such a man ever be motivated by love, or is he always motivated by hate?
Does it ever make sense for us, the readers, the viewers, ever to accept hate into our hearts? If we do take that hatred into our hearts, what will it make us do? Will it just sit there? Can we filter it out? Can we neutralize it or make it harmless? Should we ever act on it? Will we act on it whether we want to or not? Are we helpless in the face of messages of hate?
Are we robots? If we are told to hurt or kill or destroy in convincing fashion, must we obey? What if we are told to kill ourselves? What if we are surrounded by messages, seeming messages of love, which are really messages telling us to kill ourselves?
What if we are told that cigarettes are wonderful, that they taste good, and that we ought to smoke them? Should we take those messages into our hearts and lungs? What if smoking was a form of slow suicide? What if there were people out there telling us to kill ourselves? Should we accept their words, their images?
If their words and images go into our eyes and ears, into our brains, can we get them out of there? Or will we act on them in spite of ourselves?
Suppose it were true. Suppose there were people who made their livings persuading other people to kill themselves. What kind of people could do that? Persuasive people. Tricky people. People who believe that others must die so that they can live.
Suppose this is a letter. Suppose I am writing it to people who make their livings persuading other people to kill themselves or others. Suppose I have loved ones who have died as a result of such persuasion.
Would I be crazy to try to put love in such a letter? Would it make more sense for me to send love or hate to people who have persuaded my loved ones to kill themselves? If I were crazy enough to try to send love, in these words, to people who have persuaded my loved ones to kill themselves, how would I do it?
Would I suggest that they forgive themselves for having persuaded millions of people to kill themselves? Would I suggest that they stop persuading millions more to kill themselves? What if they had mates and children to feed? What if they were part of a great American industry? If I loved them, would I suggest that they stop making a living? How could I possibly suggest, in a loving fashion, that they stop making a living persuading other people to kill themselves?
---FIN---
posted by mobydoug at 12:07 AM
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