When we turn to the subject of love, we think too frequently of love’s consuming and blood-quickening first blush. We think in terms of ardor and longing, of desire, of yearning.
“Love” is a Cthulhu kiss – a pair of tentacle-faced demons, enslaved by their hunger, lapping and yanking at each others slurping mouths – a kiss that sounds like you’re trying to drink a milkshake through a tracheotomy tube, or a Shop Vac shuddering as it guzzles up a puddle of greek yogurt. A dentureless grandma in a pie-eating contest.
The Cthulhu kiss aims to give pleasure, but only to the extent that it permits the demon to continue pulling apart the face of its opponent.
At the dawn of love, your genitals form the needle on your compass, pointing always toward the bikini area of your partner, and guiding you thereto.
Which, yeah, is true in the beginning. It’s all Cthulhu kisses and the magnetized contents of your underpants.
After this kind of heat has died down, after the quivering has stilled. What, then?
Well then, as with everything, time lays claim to us. What you take to be love gets buried under the passage of time, and sorrow, and circumstance; submerged beneath obligation and worry, expectation and regret. It gets buried beneath the blizzard of our experience – those billion flakes of distraction and discontent, of fatigue and frustration.
The phrase “a blanket of snow” – this applies only to snow we look at through a window. When we are out IN it, snow never resembles a blanket. It is a stinging and shitty thing we must endure. We trudge through snow. We curse as our leaky boots pierce its crust and plunge down into it. We squint at the blinding featureless landscape and muse bitterly about how much more of this shit there will be.
This forbidding hellscape, this wasteland into which you have wandered, deceived by your wiener compass to die like Shackleton, having eaten the last of your sled dogs, staring in bafflement at your stiffened and useless fingers, blackened by frostbite. With your last breath you curse your wiener compass, which has led you to this bleak and sorry fate.
To be clear: in this metaphor I am torturing, the snow is not love, but the complexities and constraints of life under which it gets entombed.
I have been married for fifteen years. We have been together for twenty-five years. Over half our lives. We have had two children together. We have two pets – a dog, brimming obviously with love, and a cat, who is sociopathic enough to barely qualify as a mammal. We have signed auto loans together and attended funerals, we have endured flooding and poverty, overwork and bedevilments of every description.
And the love of which I speak is not marriage – though there is love to had there. It is not parenting, though love and fear battle always for supremacy there. I mean love. For her. Absent all other factors. I have still love that is hers alone.
But when you are atop the snow of circumstance that stretches to the horizon in every direction, it becomes too easy to forget that there remain morsels of love below your aching feet, down where the tall grass has been pounded flat by the pummeling weight of the snow, down by the permafrost. It is only the cunning and stubborn among us who can adapt to these punishing conditions.
So if we resolve to hold fast to what love we can harvest from such a forbidding climate, we must become like the fox. During the long and lean winters, the fox will stalk its quarry from above, its sharp nose plunged down into the snow, its ears fanned out to trace the scurry of the vole, the furtive travels of the chipmunk – creatures who will sustain the fox for only a little while. But failure to pursue and capture these bony little snack animals ensures the fox’s death.
So it is with love longstanding.
The wind-blasted blanket of circumstance and habit and routine threaten to snuff out the fast-moving and bite-sized tidbit scooting deep inside the snow underfoot. You must remain vigilant, ear pressed to the rutted crust, listened with all of yourself for the tiny and telltale footfall below.
And when the time is right, you must spring. You must coil your haunches, and describe with your body an orange-pelted parabola, driving your head and forepaws to drowning depth in the frenzied pursuit of the panicked morsel. You must close your jaws over it quickly, so as not to waste a drop of its blood. You must gulp it down fast.
And while it is true that you must remain thankful for the sustaining little nugget making its way down your gullet, you cannot stop too long. Because you must keep hunting.
Because these are lean times, and it is the hunt alone that gives us purpose.