Does Love Exist? #2: Story-making

I have spent the last week wandering around and asking my three little questions.

At a fancy-shit party

Croul (My BFF for the newbies) invited me to a premiere happening at the god-awful Champs-Élysées. I went, attracted by the possibility of free food and was submitted to one of the most despicable three movies I have ever seen. French movies, see, can be the worst. We have this degenerated acting scene: alcoholic baby-boomers frauding their money into Switzerland, sons and daughters and nieces and cousins and stepbrothers of the cleaning lady of those same baby-boomers, sad, sad, B-list comedians only appearing on charities and that kind of movies, agonizing pop singers trying to make it into acting…

All of them were casted for the last Claude Lelouch. I didn’t know Claude Lelouch: I am blissfully ignorant in cinema. Well, as I talked to people about his latest turd of a movie, people actually yelled at me for going to see it. I was apparently responsible for my sufferings. So glad my taxes helped finance this. So glad.

Anyways: thank god there was an after-party at the very démodé Arc club. I tried and enter the club, when I was barely fifteen. The flaca  blond physio had contemptuously explained that to enter I needed the membership card and that to get the membership card I needed to enter.

Fifteen years later, back I was, and she was still at the entry of the Arc. Older, still flaca, still of the same unreal blonde. Inside, you try and not cross anyone’s look, because you could stumble upon of of the actors and have to try a smile and say Bravo or Congratulations. Usually, when I think something is awful, I stick to one sentence. There it was: it had a lot of nice details. 

As there is a cast of thirty VIP’s, the club was swarming with NFAs (Needy For Acknowledgment) and name-droppers wannabes. Croul and I were starving. We got into a table and exchange goods with our neighbors. Then, the Croulest thing happened. See, our strongest suit is our ability to build stories. We are, together, like mini-fables: we can set context, frame and a plot-line almost instinctively.

Along the night, the space we were in started to become very IP. Without moving, we had platters of sushis brought to us, bottles of booze, waitresses emptying our ashtrays… We even got photographed by a paparazzo!

Here it was: the story-making. We had added to reality a story which allowed us to be obnoxious and IPs even though we weren’t. Of course, the waiter wouldn’t take any of our shit and wanted to kick us out. But by then we had made friends with a New Money Couple and acted deeply involved into the conversation. As the NMC was friend with all the IPs, we were invincible.

We started a chat about love.The NMC wasn’t the brightest in the bunch, so of course they believed in love. Actually, they had a whole story set up. Love does exist, and it is about making love everyday, greasily says the husband. She adds it’s all about nurturing love, taking care of the good ol’ flame. Croul adds a saying from his grandmother (I like Croul’s outmoded sayings). Love is like a fire. 

However grand and beautiful were those phrases, I could almost see all the fires being put out by all of us in the past. So, what good are grandiose phrases when reality doesn’t check out?

Talking to Lockhart 

I think I have been in love with love. Lockhart’s blue eyes start to wander as I ask her about her past love life. See, Locky and I are very similar. We look alike, we both have the same views on many subjects, and we like to fuck things up in the same pervert pattern.

I face time her as it’s been a long time. At first, her answers are also a bit made-up. When it comes to love, the first thing to come to mind is of course. For example, of course Locky loves her family. In spite of everything. When I asked her why, she couldn’t come up with an explanation.

We are fed up from birth with the love thy neighbor and everyone and you’ll find the one story. It’s  really one big story, called Love. It spread everywhere within ourselves, and it seems we are on this ridiculous race to find love. I am supposed to look under a rock?

Oh, and don’t get me wrong. If by chance you do find love under a rock (You lucky basterd), it has to be The One. Worst of all? No one can escape. From the most underrated movies to the best literature masterpiece, there is always a slice on love.

Looking back on her previous love stories, we both discarded them because they were not the ones. Putting a new whole story above all love stories: out there, somewhere, is The One, waiting for us…

I tried to escape many times the Story. I have this recurring nightmare. I am about to wed someone. The someone varies at each dream. There is, however, the same feelings of dread and scared-out-of-my-mind at this awful commitment I’m about to make. Every single time, I run away, in a white heavy and sometimes gooey wedding dress. 

The Love story needs eternity. It does not accept not to be forever, even though that’s what happens to 99.999999% of all relationships. Love also need exclusivity. Because, when you love, most of the time, you want to possess the person., by fear of rejection. You know, you being too damaged to appreciate yourself so you rely on a different person to do so. Us being so unprepared for the challenges and demanding conditions of an impossibly ideal story.

Everyone telling me about their projection or their fantasy of love without ever giving a definition. Trapped into stories that do not check out with reality. Not one bit with the real relationships they’ve been through. I run through my library. I am a bit sad as I see many, many stories. Beautiful, heart-tearing, funny, desperate love stories.

I am no different. What stories have I been telling to myself? Look into the dictionary for erotomania: a delusional disorder in which the central theme is that another individual is in love with the stalker. Seems to me passion, liminence, obsession, also are delusional disorders around the whole Love deal. Well, now that I come to think of it, recurring nightmares and past stories feel delusional. After being in love, it looks like you’re coming back from yellow fever or something.

As Swann puts it in Proust’s mega novel In Search of (ah!) Lost Time, after he’s spent – and us with him – years dealing with the heartbreaking and great liar Odette: I wasted years of my life, wished to die, had my greatest love, for a woman I didn’t fancy, who wasn’t my type! And this is the conclusion to a loooooong love story, guys.

Mine for this article will be a simple condition. Don’t pay attention to what could be. Pay attention to what is.

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