It’s easy to write about smart. Smart is verbal, cerebral, all about manipulating ideas and symbols.
It’s hard to write about love. Love is feeling translated into action, all about making choices on an understanding that exists somewhere deeper than words can reach.
Writing about love takes the power out of it, turning it into something banal, trite and formulaic. It is like dissecting a cat; the minute you cut it open, you lose the essential energy that makes it so catlike.
Love is at the heart of trans. We know what we love, what calls us, what triggers our Eros, our love. Like gays and lesbians it is love that makes us who we are, the desire we have for something that the normative find as queer, though not a simple love of partners, but a sense of self that is informed by what we love, what we have always loved.
It’s spring and love songs are going through my head. “I Will,” “All The Way,” “I Wish I Were In Love Again,” “Someone To Love,” “Love Can Build A Bridge,” whatever
What the hell good is a woman who isn’t in love?
Love is what drives us. There is no reason to open up, to show yourself, to get hot and bothered, to fiercely protect your family without love. Without love, how could we ever negotiate the messes that other people make all around us?
Love makes you strong and love makes you stupid.
Love gives you hope and love tears you open.
Love melts us and makes us a sucker, opening our heart and letting it flow.
There is a reason we feed ourselves on love stories. We need to feed ourselves on love and there is never enough of that directly around us.
I need to feed on love. I knew that as a hidden woman, I couldn’t get people to see and admire the woman in me, but that I could care for them from the depths of my feminine heart.
I gave love, gave and gave and gave. Sure, I would have rather built my own family, but spinsters can’t be choosers, so I loved the people who needed my love the most.
Today, though, I’m having trouble accessing my love. What do I love enough to fight for anymore?
The idea that I should love something again that doesn’t love me back, though isn’t going to play. As much as I need love, loving people who are unable or unwilling to love me, well, I just don’t have the power left to do that.
I need to melt and reform, feel the heat inside, the power of my love incarnate in the world.
The world around me, though, feels frozen, pulling the fire out of me and leaving only a damp, weak chill.
Reflections of the power of love, love coming back to me rather than just going out, creates the chain reaction which lets women consume their fears, transforming it into the energy of love which has always kept the world warm and safe.
Too much smarts mixed with the love makes people crazy, no matter how much those smarts are useful when they serve them.
I learned early that my love was corrupt, perverted and sick, that I needed to attenuate and modulate it so as not to burn into the fears of others. Love denied is love twisted and wasted rather than love focused, polished and honed.
The sin isn’t loving, the sin is sabotaging love.
Love, love, love. Love is all you need.
What the hell good is a woman who isn’t in love?
Callan 