The Book Of Love

 "Love takes off the masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within." -James Baldwin

Weddings don't really celebrate marriage, per say. I suspect that is by design because, if they did, nobody would want to go to them. Marriage, as a stand-alone, is not something to be celebrated--it is something to be endured, tolerated, survived, and re-created, over and over again. Weddings, I propose, celebrate the couple, and the accomplishment that they got this far without killing one another. 

Incidentally, I am getting married in a little over a year, and we intend to have a wedding. We have made it this far, after all, without killing one another.

Weddings should be spectacular! Marriages, on the other hand, can be pleasant, but they are primarily not spectacular, overall. Surprisingly, this should be one of the reasons they appeal to us, though we don't usually know that at the beginning of them. At the beginning, we think they will be something else entirely, something extraordinary. Sex will always be hot and we will both spontaneously want it at the same time, beauty will never fade and neither will our desire for each other. Look how far we are above the huddled masses who have yet to find their person! Young married couples have an intoxicating yet relatable arrogance about them that springs from the sincere belief that they have it all figured out. You can see it in the way they hold hands while walking on the sidewalk, seeing only each other, claiming space for themselves that belongs to everyone.

But then they start living their marriage. One to five years later is when they usually first come to see me in my office for help.

***

There is a theory suggesting that we have a natural tendency to "get used to" something over time as it goes from unfamiliar to familiar. As I understand it, our brains need to conserve energy and direct attention to things that could be a threat, so we pay less attention to things that feel safe. The familiar is seldom a threat, whereas the new and novel can be, at least until we assess the danger. This is one of the reasons that dating someone new is so exciting--it has elements of danger to it. Danger and threat turn up our attention in the moment, bringing us into the present. This is where the spark of life is, and it can be a heady feeling, which is why we love to be with our new lovers as much as possible. 

We love to be in love, don't we? The anticipation, the sexual tension, the excitement of getting to know someone new, the feeling that we are "special". Love makes the world go 'round, isn't that what they say? But the reality is that all of these feelings are in the service of an essential human bonding process, without which we would not continue to survive. The biology of this is functional and not very romantic, so we have assigned meaning to it elevating it to something profound and sacred, and we call it Love.

Big mistake. 

As intoxicating as it can be to have sex with someone new who we feel attracted to and connected with, it ain't love. As much as we are sure that we have found our soulmate because they seem interested in everything we say, it ain't love. As much as we share similar values, as much as we love the same foods, as much as we both want the same number of children, as much as it feels unlike any other feeling we have ever had, it ain't love. 

But it is something. 

It is the start of a process that builds trust, safety, and security. It is the start of what may end up being the best friendship you have ever had. It is the beginning of a foundation for raising children (or dogs, let's face it). It is the start of a journey of ins and outs that maybe, if you know what you are doing, lead to real love. Unfortunately, most couples have not yet arrived there on the day they celebrate their wedding. 

***

I always find it amusing when stand-up comedians get applause before they do their set--it's as if the audience is already celebrating a great show, even before it happens. Isn't this what we do at weddings? We talk about how great the couple is together, how it was "meant to be", how happy they will make each other, how their love for one another is immense--sometimes before they have had the chance to actually be a couple for very long. 

In the wonderful book, Wedding Toasts I'll Never Give, Ada Calhoun gives the reason why she does not offer toasts at weddings: "...because I'd probably end up saying that even good marriages sometimes involve flinging a remote control at the wall". How can you both celebrate a couple joining together and remind them that at times they won't be able to get away from each other fast enough? You don't, at least not at their wedding. But these are the things that can be most helpful to hear, rather than the cliched platitudes of loving one another forever or always having each others backs (you will, and you won't). 

You might think that I am not a romantic, but you would be wrong. To me, there is nothing more romantic than recognizing that as much as you love someone, that love will not be enough to keep you together. What is romantic to me is recognizing that there will be days when I won't want to be with my partner, and yet I will keep my promise to him and stay. What is romantic is knowing that there will be times when he will not like me, and yet he will keep his promise to me and stay. What is romantic is acknowledging that he is just as interesting to me when he is boring as when he is captivating. 

Romance does not negate duality, it acknowledges, accepts, and celebrates it. It is the decision to embrace all of it, even parts you don't like or agree with, because that is what it looks like to have someone's back. It is thinking they are sexy even though they just farted, it is seeing them as strong even though they have just broken down in tears, it is seeing them as your best friend even though they have just taken the last piece of bacon. 

Real love does not live only where it feels good, it lives in being interested in another's well-being, at all times; real love lives in putting your relationship first, at all times; real love lives in the feeling that even though you may fail with your partner a thousand times in one day, you wake up the next morning wanting to do better, at all times. Real love means that you both win, not one or the other. It means that when you are at your worst, the value you get from the relationship pushes you to be your best, or at the very least, vulnerable. Real love means that boredom with your partner is not a sign that you have lost interest, just a reminder that you may not be paying attention. Real love means that even though sex may change or diminish, affection does not have to. Real love means that, barring dangerous circumstances, you stay. Not because it feels good all the time, but because you promised to; and though it doesn't always feel good, these experiences can increase the closeness you feel to each other. 

***

I am fond of telling people that "on paper", my fiancée and I should not work. I like saying this because they know we are very different people and may wonder why we choose each other. But my love for him is not the result of all my relationship boxes being checked. Though some of the boxes are indeed checked, my love for him is primarily based upon the realization that he gives me purpose, he allows me to focus my significant skills of care-taking upon him--not because he can't take care of himself, but because I help him do it better sometimes, and I love to do this. He allows me to practice with him the kindness, patience, and acceptance I have struggled for years to practice with myself, with the result being that I continue to get better--with both of us. My caring for him heals my hurts; my protection of him brings me joy and pride, knowing that I am sparing him even a portion of the pain the world can inflict. 

I am committed to him not because we love the same things, but because he eats the food I make, even when it is unfamiliar to him, being respectful when he needs to decline something. His innocence reminds me of myself when I was younger, before I felt betrayed by the world and those who were supposed to love and protect me, and his silliness invites me to explore what innocence might look like now, as a 60 year-old. 

***

He has asked that we use the song The Book of Love, by Stephin Merritt, as our first dance at the wedding. I will be honest with you, the thought of slow dancing under the gaze of our guests is something that makes me want to run screaming from the room, not because I can't dance, but because I am so private these days. But when I heard this song, or more specifically Peter Gabriel's interpretation of it, I knew we had found the song that I would not only want to be our first dance, but also that I would want to be witnessed by cherished friends and family.  

The book of love is long and boring
No one can lift the damn thing
It's full of charts and facts, and figures
And instructions for dancing

But I
I love it when you read to me.
And you
You can read me anything.

It is not your usual love song, because it is about real love, not romantic love. It is a song that celebrates the in-betweens, the quiets, the stillnesses, the sheer dumbness of relationship. What elevates it above all the romantic songs I have ever heard is the way it takes these very ordinary moments, then describes how they transform into something extraordinary when experienced between people who love one another. Real love can be loud, but it is loveliest in the silent moments--your partner sleeping, missing them when they are away, the lull of remorse and repair after a fight, the sharing of sadness, the hushed tingle of a shared secret. It is less about finding someone you can talk with and more about finding someone you can be quiet with. Real love make silence transcendent. Those silences help a marriage thrive. 

The book of love has music in it
In fact that's where music comes from
Some of it's just transcendental
Some of it's just really dumb

But I
I love it when you sing to me
And you
You can sing me anything

Our wedding next year will be a celebration of the ordinariness of marriage, it will be a toast to the quiet in-betweens. These are the spaces where we stepped into love, where we risked vulnerability, and where we learned that we could be still together. We have been together for nearly eight years, and though the fire is cooler, the coals keep us plenty warm. Our first dance together as a married couple will be an homage to what made us commit to one another--the gradual realization that we are better together, and our intention and commitment to continue in that direction. 

The book of love is long and boring
And written very long ago
It's full of flowers and heart-shaped boxes
And things we're all too young to know

But I
I love it when you give me things
And you
You ought to give me wedding rings

And I
I love it when you give me things
And you
You ought to give me wedding rings

You ought to give me
Wedding rings

Fair warning for those who will be at our wedding: our first dance may be boring to watch. At my age, I would rather not put on a show. It will just be two men, softly holding one another, moving and swaying to a gentle rhythm. There will not be any surprise choreography, no backup dancers, no cartwheels, no remakes of Bollywood musical numbers. Our first dance will represent the best part of our relationship: the quiet interdependence, trust, respect, and mutual reliance we have between us. The subtle movements will be an expression of how these qualities are constantly shifting, never static, and that they require a bit of vigilance and care to keep from toppling over; that love, like most of life, is a never-ending dance, where one shifts around on their feet searching for balance and trusting they will find it. 

You may notice me leading him a bit more than he is leading me, but don't worry, he regularly leads me back to my best self. That is how we are writing our book of love. 

imaginings

Every time I fly out of Los Angeles I imagine to myself that I am leaving it for the last time. I always get window seats on planes, not so much for the purpose of looking at aerial scenery, but more importantly so that I do not have to be disturbed by fellow passengers crossing over me to use the restroom. The thing is that I like setting myself up in my seat and organizing, inside the seat pocket in front of me, all the things I will need during the flight. The way I see it, this little seat is my rather expensive temporary home in the air, and when someone crosses over me it gives me the same feeling as if someone were trudging through my home on the ground in noisy muddy boots while I try to enjoy an episode of True Blood in my loungie pants. I just really dislike being disrupted once I have set in, and since my bladder is fairly functional in its load capacity, I can sit for stretches at a time at a window seat and not have to pee.

Anyway, I wonder at the similarity between my imagination of leaving Los Angeles and the inevitable actual experience of it. I imagine that the actual experience would involve a certain quality of melancholy and adventure that are missing in the imaginative version, but the thing about imagination is that it is often as accurate as it is inaccurate. In reality, it is not so important whether or not my actual experience matches my imaginings, because in this case, at least, the imaginings are an end in themselves.

I enjoy imagining leaving Los Angeles. As I look out of an airplane from the small porthole window, I imagine that I am looking down at my whole life in the city—all 20 years of it. In a way, I would not be surprised if I were to see myself on the streets below, as I pass over and above them, acting out the various chapters of my Angelino life. Look! There I am on the stage of the El Capitan Theater in Hollywood, playing Bert from "Mary Poppins", dancing and lip-syncing to Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. There I am working at the Starbucks Coffee downtown in the Arco Plaza, laying cardboard dinosaur feet on the floor in homage to the opening of Godzilla. Oh! There I am riding my bike down Jefferson Blvd. on my way to Antioch University, where I am completing my Masters degree.

In these imaginings, I will marvel not at how much younger I was, but instead at how much I have done in Los Angeles in the past 20 years. Part of the reason I have done so much is because I am single and childless. (So often, those with children list one accomplishment—raising a family, primarily because this is an all-consuming activity. They cannot always list “marriage”, since we all know that having a child these days rarely requires marriage; additionally, getting married these days rarely ends up on one’s list of successful accomplishments.) Another part of the reason I have done so much is that I am curious; and yet another part of the reason is that I subscribe to the science that proves (yes, I said proves) that this is our only shot—you get just one ride on this Merry-Go-Round.

Now, though it is somewhat difficult as well as entirely silly for me to get excited about “new beginnings” at this age and at this stage of my life, I am sure that this is exactly what I will be feeling as my jet plane glides off the runway at LAX and into the air on its way to __________. I have not moved from one major city to another since 1991, and it was quite a big deal for me back then—therefore I have no doubt that it will be a big deal when it happens again. But there will be a huge difference, among many differences that I could name. Mainly, there is the difference of what I will be moving to. Back in 1991 I was moving into my future, and what would arguably be my prime productive years. I moved here to develop my performing career, and, to a lesser extent, to jumpstart my life. I was 29 years old. It felt as if everything significant was in front of me: success, love, fame, happiness(?). In comparison, my next move will most likely occur as I approach my 60th birthday, which I can safely say will be two thirds of the way through my life; and though some would say that I will still be moving into my future, I am not sure that I would call this is an accurate description. I don’t know what I would call it, to tell you the truth, but I know that this is not it. Maybe…moving into my Third Act? My Comfortable Decline? My Final Adventure? None of those sound right (or particularly appealing) to me either. I guess that is why this blog is a 10 year project—I have not yet figured out what I am planning on moving into.

***

My most recent opportunity to gaze out of an airplane porthole at a receding Los Angeles, was a trip to Connecticut for the wedding of one of my closest friends. This was a short trip, just four days, and I knew that the most difficult part of the trip would be the urge to detour into Manhattan—just a hop skip from La Guardia Airport. I have not been into the city in maybe five years, and although I have not ever lived there, it nevertheless calls out to me like a siren whenever I am within hop skipping distance. I did in fact once want to live in New York, but that was many years ago, when I was still nursing a dream of a theater career. I nearly had a chance to go there, too, with one show I helped originate in Los Angeles, but the producers ultimately decided to go with New York performers. Phooey on them! I often wonder how different my life would be if I had ended up there with the show—if I would have continued performing, or eventually gone back to school just like I did here. It is fun to ruminate about, without feeling any regrets or misgivings. There are always a million other choices we could have made at nearly any point in our lives, all of them leading to potentially life altering results.

Anyway, I had a wonderful time, in glorious weather, participating in and attending my friend’s wedding. Connecticut is quite beautiful, but then so is the whole Northeast—green, green, green, and missing for the most part that brand of ugly stucco strip mall architecture that dominates the corners of nearly every Southern California city street. The homes are generally old, but well kept, with wood slat sidings and large porches, and the business buildings are often made of brick—quaint and lovely. But Connecticut is awfully “white”, with the women wearing hairbands over their bleached blond hair, and the men, even in their 20’s, pasty, overweight, and encased in topsiders and polo shirts. Not too exciting for a queer man who is used to being around lots of color and creativity, you know what I mean?

So although I once wanted to live on the East Coast, I would no longer do so, and although I love the beauty of Connecticut, I also would not want to live there. But it is worth a visit in order to attend the wedding of a dear friend, and it is worth a visit for the opportunity to look out an airplane porthole window and once again imagine that I am leaving Los Angeles, for the last time.