U.S. Open Your Heart, My Dear c 2010 Peri Lyons, who wrote it and all
Though tennis I know nothing of,
They all know nothing equals love;
And all the sports fans know the call:
Love equals nothing much at all.
The poets tell us there's no cost:
It's better to have loved and lost-
But let me tell you something, hon-
It's BETTER to have loved and WON.
Sportsfans and poets all agree
That love's a bloody mystery:
If love's a game, as seems to be:
The heart's a lousy referee.
So though I loved and lost, it's true,
And played no games at all with you:
I've cut out sobbing into gin-
Cuz next time? I will play to win.
xx pl c 2010
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One of the most annoying things about the career I seem to have fallen into by accident, is that I occasionally have to actually TAKE the damn advice I give to others, in such a blithe and breezy manner.. Like the annoyingly new-age question, "If you knew this awful situation was happening in order to teach you a very specific lesson very fast, what do you think that lesson is?" I love asking that, in a slightly pompous way. But now that it's happened to me? Jesus, I HATE answering it.
Because, let's face it, what is the fun of going through a very hard time, if you can't feel immensely, gloriously sorry for yourself, and therefore indulge in- and rationalize!- incredibly self-indulgent behaviour?
Of COURSE you're temporarily allowed to watch 5 hours of "The Tudors" until the sun comes up! (I would also do the whole "consuming a pint of Haagen Dazs" thing as well, but sadly, don't like sweets. Or lately, food.) Of COURSE you can stay up all night listening to sappy music and sobbing! -Of course, unless you can figure ut a way to get PAID for these activities, pretty soon you have to snap out of it and go be a Regular Person Without Misery Privileges again, which kind of sucks. I got a lot of free cab rides when I was being Attractively Wistful And Slightly Teary. But now I'm kinda over it, so I have to pay AND tip. Am considering hiding raw onion in hankie to bring back those pity-inducing-and-really-rather-profitable tears.
I do miss living with my guy: we really had a blast together, and I kind of perfected the half badass/half geisha thing, AND I re-learned how to cook. But it turns out I'm much shallower than I thought: six weeks and booom: all better. It"s hard to realize that while,yes, one can be deeply and poetically miserable as befits a tortured poet with a profound soul, one can ALSO be pretty much completely cheered up by finding a pair of Yves Saint Laurent shoes on eBay for 5 bucks. Damn it.
Well, am off to read 19th century Romantic poets and weep for the beautiful poignancy of it all.-Oh, hell, who are we kidding: I'm off to bid on that really cool pair of vintage Air Jordans. I'm pretty sure that Shelley and Keats kept their references to athletic footwear to a minimum. But you never know.
Those guys were deep.
love
per
