We’re Changing Our Ways,Taking Different Roads; Then Love, Love Will Tear Us Apart Again.

I was told recently, and I believe it, that if I spend too much time thinking about the above lyrics, that I will have a hole drilled into my head to facilitate the removal of any and all contaminated brain tissue. I do believe it.

I also believe that love will tear us apart. It always does. It tears us up and sews us back together in new ways. Sometimes we lose some of the old pieces, and sometimes we find new pieces brought into the mix. Our priorities shift, our worlds change, and our edges (sometimes) soften.

And it is a scary bit of business when we love. It doesn’t really matter what we love, either. That’s part of the scariness, I’ve learned. We don’t always love wisely. In fact, we rarely do. Getting burned, used, and disappointed goes with the territory, but it doesn’t often scare us off. Maybe it’s biological, maybe it’s spiritual, but we will keep climbing into the ring as long as our legs will carry us, no matter how many times love makes us it’s bitch. And while we might not get any smarter for all the beatings, we might get stronger.

One thing stays the same, though. Our Precious, whether it is a cherished pet, a lover, or a big pile of gold takes hold in our lives. It becomes important, and the idea of losing that and going back to what we used to be is terrible. Unthinkable, even. You may be expecting me to quote some Robert Palmer here, but I won’t do it. The old cliché of love as a drug is tired and untrue. It isn’t a drug, and it isn’t air. It’s a fucking Dark-City-style retuning of reality. And it happens so fast, for better or worse, that you probably don’t even see the change in your life until you’re already living it. For example, you could be driving down the street, talking offhandedly to your significant other when she starts choking on a cookie from Starbucks and in a split second you feel terror unparalleled by exploding ovens, collisions with trucks or the worst midair turbulence you could ever imagine.

Love’s a funny thing.

[quoting Spike at biblebeltbabylon.blogspot.com, xanga.com/moontos, and blog.myspace.com/moontos]

No One Ever Says A Word About So Much That Happens In The World

You may or may not know about my new shower. I like it. One thing I like about it, is that I’m pretty sure that Zacarias Moussaoui never bathed in it. You may think that’s pretty silly, and even more silly that I envy you because of the absolute surety you have that you don’t have to eat food from a stove that fed a man who plotted the deaths of thousands, nor washed your hands in the same basin as one of those who helped to plunge our world into years, perhaps decades, of war, darkness, intolerance and terror.

Does any of this make any sense? Maybe not. And maybe it is all lies, but I doubt it. I should start over.

My apartment is managed by a fantastic company full of very capable people who take their jobs seriously. As such, the company tends to retain employees. Two of those employees set up camp in my apartment shortly before Christmas to install the new shower mentioned above. They had been helping to keep that apartment together for a while, and clued me in to some of the local history. For instance, an Imam, his family and a young aviation student lived there together. Is that surprising? Perhaps. What was even more surprising was the visit the next tenant, a young Mormon fella, received from the Federal Bureau of Investigations shortly after he moved in. It seems that the efficient and focused agents were tracking all the places that Zacarias Moussaoui had lived while attending the aviation school in Norman, Oklahoma.

So I wonder now how life in my apartment was when it was his. Was the air colder? Were the stairs steeper? Was the view of Lindsey Street from the big bay window somehow repulsive and profane in a way that I will never see? What did he see out that window? I hope I never know.

[nothing funny today at biblebeltbabylon.blogspot.com, xanga.com/moontos, and blog.myspace.com/moontos]