 london diary Livin', lovin' and wailin' on... Who ever it was that informed me at a tender impressionable age that true love conquers all deserves a right bollocking and a smack in the gob. I have just awoken from a dream in which 'Surf n' Turf' feature heavily (the affectionate nicknames by which I choose to refer to my ex and his new girlfriend based on the unfortunate coincidence of their monosyllabic names- Stef and Trev). The dream proceeded as follows (perhaps some of you will be familiar with these types of imaginings): I meet Surf n' Turf in a restaurant for a civil luncheon. She is a dreadful hag carrying a oddly shaped bag- almost like a violin. I am charming, erudite and gracious. She viciously attempts to hurt me using wicked enchantment powder from her violin purse. He realizes she is an evil witch, saves me and pledges his undying love to me. Back in what some cynically term 'the real world', I am left with two questions: 1, why this continuing longing for a man who resides on the other side of the world? And 2, would it be possible to find a similiarly shaped purse to Surf's? The off-white stitching was fabulous. Are any of my readers familiar with the scenario? A relationship breaks up- but not for any lack of love. Rather the realities of time, space and place rear their ugly heads and yet another pair of star-crossed lovers are born. The scenario is particularly prevalent here in London, a place where your chances of interacting with persons born in London (or even in Britain for that matter) are slim on a daily basis. London is a city for transients- a nomadic microcosm of the entirety of the world. Many come, some stay, lots and lots leave. Not a good place for those of us with abandonment issues. In London, the ephemerality in relationships is not a theoretical discussion of the meaning of love, but rather a very practically oriented concern. The chances here are that your lover will inevitably not be from your home country, and often not even from a recognizable nation- state. Questions of love are superceeded by concerns about visas, expensive flight tickets, and the eventuality of loss. Marriage becomes a strategy to give foundling relationships more time and the ratio of the value of person or place is constantly negotiated. I used to walk through the streets of London after my lover left and question my commitment... what is more important- my city (my life) or my love (my life)? Over pints in the pub my friends and I circulate success stories: 'My Mexican friend is visiting South Africa right now with her South African boyfriend... they are thinking of moving together.' 'She met him and only three months later he moved to Hong Kong. She went out for a visit and stayed... they are now married.' 'He lived in Norway with her parents while she finished school in Montreal, saving money so they could move to London together.' Based on soaring divorce rates, the erosion of the family- oh, all the modern evils, the message today seems to be- look after yourself and you'll be fine. Hopefully you will meet a love that tailors itself to your path in life along the way. What has happened to the myth of true love? It seems fairly self-evident these days that love ain't forever- but is complete pragmatism in love such a good idea? Doesn't losing our idealism that love can possibly conquer all destroy something precious in our souls? The problem remains: in London, if you meet someone from Easter Island it will always be ticking away in the back of your mind that some day you might end up living in a shack next to a very scary looking statue. Thus time and place become calculated pawns in an attempt to make yourself happy in love. Compromise is heavily weighed- how much is too much? How much compromise will take away from the life I want? On the flip side of the coin, I wonder about the effects of compromise. What if, by not compromising we are actually hurting ourselves more? What is the questions of time and place, context and situation are placed in our paths in order to determine our characters? What if, by deciding not to move to Easter Island for a person I loved, I thwart my best opportunity to put human relationships before place, before difficulty, before fear- and thereby hurt my chance to be better, more loving person than I am? I suppose that I pine for lost love because I want the chance to believe in fairy tales. My girlfriends and I circulate stories in order to feel the possibilities of forever. In a defeatist world where divorce, serieal monogamy and one night stands are normal and desired; in a city where love fails every day because of the calls of time and place, I cling to my battered yet unbeaten hope that love transcends all. Even as deep, deep down in my heart I fear that love is a finite, conditions-based negotiation- I still wake up in the mornings after gorgeous dreams in which love has bright, beautiful wings and flies- soars high above all the pain and mess and bother of our limited, impossible lives. Now, the real question is: where do I get a fabulous, violin- shaped purse with off- white stitching? |
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