I suppose love could be broken down and examined in a petri dish or clarified as an equation, or refined into a deconstructed symphony. I suppose love could be stripped, layer by layer, until there is nothing but a point of light, a perfect clarity, a truth of being.
I suppose in identifying the pure point of love, one could then work backwards, building up the layers, adding the grace notes, stepping away from the microscope, smudging the language of mathematics.
But in supposing that, I propose that my supposition presupposes that love has a point. At what point do we love? In what moment do we know we love? And how we love? And who we love? And why we love?
Perhaps love is an Edward Lear poem. A book of nonsense, recognizable to all, understood differently by everyone. Cats and moons and boats and owls in crazy, pointless harmony. Experienced in billions of tiny connections that scorn microscopic scrutiny. Tangled in preposterous equations that deride human genius. Built in layers of mind-bending impossibility that defy the etchings of Escher or the brain of Bosch. And musically? Someone's symphony is another's discordant disaster. Perhaps love is a dripping Daliesque clock, a confoud, a conundrum, a bleak wasteland and a wish a you were here in a Pink Floyd of purgatory, a James Joyce novel you want to read, or Dante's Virgil, freed.
Love is different, and the same, over and over and over, in a multitude of facets and faces, and facsimiles, and fuck-ups. Love is large and miniscule, overseen and undervalued, precious and cheap and wasted and perfect and formless and endless. Love ends, begins, jerks forward, jerks off, jerks around, gets rebooted, reborn, re-experienced, resurrected, refound. Unbearable, unmissable, unfathomable, chaotic, psychotic, hypnotic, exotic.
Love is a screaming, heart-bleeding, skin-ripping, bone-chilling nightmare, the kind where you know you're dreaming but you just can't wake up, and then you dream you woke up, but you didn't, you’re still in it until sleep throws you out, flings you back, and you wake up and you want to puke because it was all too much and maybe you'll never sleep again because you don't want to risk getting stuck in the place of dreams where you're not in control and you do things you'd never do and go places that are impossible.
But really, when all is said and done, love is an Edward Lear poem. Just an owl and a pussycat and a runcible spoon and a silvery moon.