trouble is the heart isn’t heart-shaped

And later I decided what it was I believed about love. We think of it as an active force. My love makes her happy; her love makes me happy: how could this be wrong? It is wrong; it evokes a false conceptual model. It implies that love is a transforming wand, one that unlooses the raveled knot, fills the top hat with handkerchiefs, sprays the air with doves. But the model isn’t from magic but particle physics. My love does not, cannot make her happy; my love can only release in her the capacity to be happy. And now things seem more understandable. How come I can’t make her happy, how come she can’t make me happy? Simple: the atomic reaction you expect isn’t taking place, the beam with which you are bombarding the particles is on the wrong wavelength.

But love isn’t an atomic bomb, so let’s take a homelier comparison. I’m writing this at the home of a friend in Michigan. It’s a normal American house with all the gadgets technology can dream (except a gadget for making happiness). He drove me here from Detroit airport yesterday. As we turned into the driveway he reached into the glove pocket for a remote control device; at a masterful touch, the garage doors rolled up and away. This is the model I propose. You are arriving home – or think you are – and as you approach the garage you try to work your routine magic. Nothing happens; the doors remain closed. You do it again. Again, nothing. At first puzzled, then anxious, then furious with disbelief, you sit in the driveway with your engine running; you sit there for weeks, months, for years, waiting for the doors to open. But you are in the wrong car, in front of the wrong garage, waiting outside the wrong house. One of the troubles is this: the heart isn’t heart-shaped.

– Julian Barnes

The comparison to a garage and a remote is quite haunting. I also read somewhere, “I am so horribly in love.” Of course it made no sense! Love isn’t horrid! It makes a little sense now.

on mute

Only today did I realize we aren’t meant to be anything but alone, utterly stranded. Thoughts and emotions trapped unless communicated, and what a hindering tribulation it is to reveal such private travesties. There seems to be less exposure in stripping naked, under unforgiving florescent lights, and in front of a carnival’s house of mirrors!

Love proved to be of solace, but not much of a cure. There’s no cure.

tidbit#1

Oy vey!
buttocks support

Patent number:6360375
Filing date: May 8, 2000
Issue date: Mar 26, 2002
Application number: 9/566,072
A buttocks support device for supporting and lifting a user’s buttocks, comprising:
an abdominal element adapted to encircle a user’s midriff;
a pair of thigh support elements each adapted to be connected to a portion of said abdominal element, each said thigh support element being connected to a front portion of said abdominal element near a user’s front midriff area and adjacent a user’s pelvic area, a remaining portion of each said thigh support element being placed past a respective one of a user’s inner thigh area and under a user’s groin area and being adapted to framingly encircle a bottom surface of a respective buttock of a user and being adapted to attach at a portion of said abdominal element so that each said thigh support element supports and lifts a user’s buttock.

source

*sigh*

You’re Beautiful

You’re beautiful because you’re classically trained.
I’m ugly because I associate piano wire with strangulation.

You’re beautiful because you stop to read the cards in newsagents’ windows about lost cats and missing dogs.
I’m ugly because of what I did to that jellyfish with a lolly stick and a big stone.

You’re beautiful because for you, politeness is instinctive, not a marketing campaign.
I’m ugly because desperation is impossible to hide.

You’re beautiful because you believe in coincidence and the power of thought.
I’m ugly because I proved God to be a mathematical impossibility.

You’re beautiful because you prefer home-made soup to the packet stuff.
I’m ugly because once, at a dinner party, I defended the aristocracy and wasn’t even drunk.

You’re beautiful because you can’t work the remote control.
I’m ugly because of satellite television and twenty-four-hour rolling news.

You’re beautiful because you cry at weddings as well as funerals.
I’m ugly because I think of children as another species from a different world.

You’re beautiful because you look great in any colour including red.
I’m ugly because I think shopping is strictly for the acquisition of material goods.

You’re beautiful because when you were born, undiscovered planets lined up to peep over the rim of your cradle and lay gifts of gravity and light at your miniature feet.
I’m ugly for saying “love at first sight” is another form of mistaken identity, and that the most human of all responses is to gloat.

You’re beautiful because you’ve never seen the inside of a car-wash.
I’m ugly because I always ask for a receipt.

You’re beautiful for sending a box of shoes to the third world.
I’m ugly because I remember the telephone numbers of ex-girlfriends and the year Schubert was born.

You’re beautiful because you sponsored a parrot in a zoo.
I’m ugly because when I sigh it’s like the slow collapse of a circus tent.

You’re beautiful because you can point at a man in a uniform and laugh.
I’m ugly because I was a police informer in a previous life.

You’re beautiful because you drink a litre of water and eat three pieces of fruit a day.
I’m ugly for taking the line that a meal without meat is a beautiful woman with one eye.

You’re beautiful because you don’t see love as a competition and you know how to lose.
I’m ugly because I kissed the FA Cup then held it up to the crowd.

You’re beautiful because of a single buttercup in the top buttonhole of your cardigan.
I’m ugly because I said the World’s Strongest Woman was a muscleman in a dress.

You’re beautiful because you couldn’t live in a lighthouse.
I’m ugly for making hand-shadows in front of the giant bulb, so when they look up, the captains of vessels in distress see the ears of a rabbit, or the eye of a fox, or the legs of a galloping black horse.

– You’re Beautiful, Simon Armitage

Shadow in Stone

I am currently reading “Burnt Shadows” by Kamila Shamsie. A riveting book I must say. The novel centers on Hiroko Tanaka, a Japanese woman that, in the first section of the book, survives the atomic bombing of Nagasaki. A German lover sadly does not, and is believed to have been completely eradicated and only his body fat staining stone like a shadow might.

Those nearest to the epicenter of the blast were eradicated completely, only the fat from their bodies sticking to the walls and rocks around them like shadows. I dreamt one night, soon after the blast, that I was with a parade of mourners walking through Urakami Valley, each of us trying to identify the shadows of our loved ones. The next morning, I went to the Valley; …. and I looked for Konrad’s shadows. I found it. Or I found something that I believed was it. On a rock. Such a lanky shadow.

– p. 76

I googled the atomic bombing of Nagasaki and Hiroshima, and found out that those said shadows were true.

The left photograph shows the stone steps of the main entrance of Sumitomo Bank which is only 250 meters from the hypocenter. It is believed that a person sat down on the steps facing the direction of the hypocenter, possibly waiting for the bank to open. By a flash of the heat rays with temperatures well over a 1,000 degrees or possibly 2,000 degrees centigrade, that person was incinerated on the stone steps

source

The summary attached to the below youtube video states,

An excerpt from Janice Mirikitani’s poem, a reflection she had when viewing ground zero of the Atomic bomb dropped on Hiroshima. The Shadow in Stone was all that was left of one of the victims after being completely vaporized by the blast, the poem is from their perspective.

Something’s I wish I never knew.