Valentine's Day: Do you love it or hate it?
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Review of "Valentine's Day: Do you love it or hate it?"
E.P. Thompson once announced... "May I propose that we live as if a free and independent Europe already exists... "
The day passes by, neither with an ecstatic sigh, nor a nostalgic cry...
Being a man of body and soul, I am merely a wobbly calf, when it comes to the matters of the heart; for I much prefer a night in with a Bakewell tart, and I don't mean the highly venerate octogenarian Joan Bakewell.
There was a moment when I saw lover's dream turn into a pile of chunder, I was eight years . I shot out of an exit door at a wedding party to find the bride and groom holding each other up while simultaneously projectile vomiting. Yes, being a man and woman of body and soul, they were wobbly fowls. At the time, alcohol for me was a scent, not consumed, insobriety was a decade away. I didn't compute this glorious display of over indulgent love could've been a ritual every Saturday evening... my only assumption was that married life or 'love' wasn't too their liking, an impulsive realisation of their equal visual flagrancy. What I didn't concur was why make a spectacle of it? I concluded this was a life lesson on 'grand gestured consumerism'; in reality no-one can stomach it or each other... but for capitalistic survival, we must continue this valentine 'love' tradition... walk the walk, follow what our forefathers did, allow the village halls and florists to coin it in. Forever love is ultimately a mythical chemical.
To turn love into an entity only causes mayhem, and furthermore real roses eventually wilt and perish as I was reminded by a theology student. Inadvertently predicting the death of strong affection, thus, I got prepared and lined up a handful of suitors, thereafter - abiding by the three Corinthian terms: faith, hope and love to others was unfavourable. Culinary delights also had downfalls, accusations of not paying due attention of wobbly parts or dietary requirements when twenty four hours earlier pizza passed her lips like a metaphorical 174 Mph HS2 train bound for Marylebone. To ease her pain, I incorrectly scoffed the culinary delights, indeed this act of thoughtful gluttony provoked an inner disturbance equating to a tectonic plate shift, fortunately zero deaths were documented - retail vouchers logged in my memory bank if correlation survival lasted 366 days, apparently a leap year was peeping its head out of the marital bunker at the time. Sanity was worth saving, to put it bluntly.
Perhaps, I am wrong... maybe Valentines is an attempt to placate ones' characterial differences (although, opposites attract) , a day to express unheeded raw adoration, to put the record straight among the distractions of divisive life pressures. A respite from the carping verbals and a chance for a heart to heart - in theory valentines sounds accommodating even judicious; a de jure for... bonheur éternel . Even my raconteur orientation is doused down when I recall the outlandish predicament of a beautiful girl, for usually only the unscrupulous, egocentric souls try their luck; somewhere en-route the beauty's heart is broken and there the damage is done - all narcissists tick the 'schadenfreude box.' Beauty is as fragile as a petal, the inner-self is as fragile as a moth's wing; hence, the irrevocable decline. No man is a valid substitute for retail therapy, and this is the crux of where misinterpretation derives.
When a man offers gifts without heed, automatically they're skating on thin ice, unless extravagance is employed with a capital 'E.' For females mark there beauty persona against gifts of love, males don't, unless they're foppish or effeminate. A Lord Byron balladry full of eloquent description and positive reassurance of love has the ability to crease foreheads and create a sharp tone... "Words from a long dead poet doesn't increase my shoe collection..." The irony was, Madonna's, 'Material Girl' was playing on Radio One in the background. Indeed-y, our radio stations, mass media is adding idiotic consumerism drivel to the complex day of 'love.' There's no escaping streaming consumerism, we haplessly invite the streaming marketplace into our homes and in return it stimulates beautiful heads... the result: love and 'feelings' left on the non-material conveyor-belt destined for a place called; solitude .
Human concupiscence starts off the pattern to which we find ourselves in and in no time you're in a 'Jimmy Choo' queue; wearing yesterday's footwear. Smiling inwardly you've managed to secure a quiet evening, of no work, rest and hopefully play - notably, this was 'Mars' intended advertising slogan; albeit, too verbose for the packaging. Not enough Lord Byron romantic material out there, for he was a necktie womanizer of a bygone era - equipped with beautiful prose left behind in the 1920s; unfittingly, where most of our personal morality decided to rest in peace. Although, I suspect those who've read the Kafka writings... Capitalism had quite a firm grip over sustainable love interests in this epoch, allegedly the religious impulse didn't put bread on the table, then either in truth; pre 1920s saw the dehumanisation nature of work pandering to a capitalist ideology. However, the machine ethic covenant was originally to encourage greater autonomy, work, life balances. Since the advent of digitalization greater expectations have tarnished and swamped human relationship values... for example: new business contacts have greater worth than old; the same applies to loves... everyone gets excited over a friend's new dalliance, no one gets peppy over a dalliance that has lasted five years or so.
Well, actually I do get peppy when I witness a loving relationship 'working' after a handful of years. I ask how they celebrate 'V Day' - the usual flowers and culinary delights or romantic meal discussing corporation mergers works a treat. Toast and jam in bed get squeals; point-y triangle toast rather than squares; precision counts. They call each other ribald words too, such as: 'memissus' - 'sugarpups' - 'mindreader' and 'theboss.' Comrades have alerted me that satire defuses internal conflict and whets the damsel's appetite for fun and frolics; being of an analytical nature any attempt of satire ends up on the conveyor-belt of lost property, destined for the unwanted baggage section at London, Gatwick, an earwig away from being destroyed. Valentines slips into the middle earth's quest of rules and regulations - do I keep him/her, or risk finding a better specimen? Basically, our procreation spirits consciously or not subscribe to the 'everyman's psychosis' ; a need to cover oneself over with a blanket of delusionary love status; (oh ye-s, not worth mentioning this if you're enjoying a romantic meal).
The commerciality banana skin
Valentine's Day plays havoc with the phenotypes, for the day has the power to control feelings dependent on actual 'love status' - narcissists and the aesthetically pleasant use Valentines Day and the weeks prior as an annual ritual to engage their so-called beauty arsenal, I like to create a poetic term for it if I may: 'the protection of quiddity.' Prepossessing individuals are inherently insecure within their own skin, a fine example of this is by how much effort and time they endorse their energy and thoughts on their outside appearance and body shape. Sadly the validation of 'alleged' success is based on how expensive a gift was... (the giver's expendable income status nonplus); or how much attention they received during this time - this is then, set to stone / memory and re-recorded for years to come. In reality, we can't really escape the 'everyman psychosis' for the nature of interactive social networks is another banana skin, decades ago, it was better controlled via glossy magazines, media advertising and in turn individuals could protect their quiddity and self-medicate self-assurances, now thanks to easy access home-bound digitalisation, we're far more vulnerable; yeh, the face preservation and keeping young emphasis has gone up a few notches. Unsurprising, why mental health issues have exploded in the developed world; greater value has to be installed on the youngster's self-worth entering 'kidult-hood' and then onto adulthood.
Do you love it or hate it? Actually I don't despise any day wholeheartedly, to the point of active protest - just imagine how sad it would be to be seen holding up a placard saying: 'Ban V'Day' - it'll imply the world has run out of love. And we all know that's not exactly accurate... love just unevenly balanced out that's all. And if you're in urgent need of the 'love stuff' go by the old faithful the synecdoche of God's love and keep it to yourself; for we are all children at heart and make-believe can be a positive force for the good. Nothing wrong with unconditional love either; although, it's only apparent in dogs - we're too engrossed with protecting our quiddity to traipse into the unconditional love cul de sac. The few who've experienced it - tend to lose something precious en route... self respect, a self worth; they're forevermore pregnable. In regards to comprehending Valentine's Day, I view the consumerism aspect similar to vultures picking with their hook beaks at the entities of the trepidatious.
Spare a thought for the poor fools who've overdosed on love too; the disheveled knee trembler, the cotton wool headed delustionists who're a shadow of their former selves. Lost in a rose bed of unity, incessantly staring at their smartphone, hankering for a tuneful flicker of communication from their new loves, to validate a mutual chemical reaction; an entrancement. Basically, these poor souls are paralytic autumn fruit flies, made useless after tasting the nectar of life, and Valentine's Day is encouraging this unsightly chemical reaction. What with an onslaught of éruptions cutanées menton and entrapped rêverie ; the contradistinction is... modern life doesn't allow for the 'love drug' chemical idiosyncrasy for long - twenty-four hours is suffice. If I had my digit on the 'Valentine' duration dial, I'll say several hours maximum, why because no-one really wants to be a paralytic autumn fruit fly roaming about the high street not remotely focused on getting the right gifts... because your future could depend on it - no pressure.©1st2thebar 2017
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Listed on Ciao since: 01/02/2017