you see, there IS such a thing as mojo

I mean, the words are just a means to skirt the real issue: love, infatuation, obsession, devotion, or, mo jo! the least divisible common denominator among all the words, all these lengthy, wordy attempts to describe the same thing is that the the thing they will describe is a thing beyond our control.  this feeling – again, “feeling” is only the tangible part of this thing – you feel something that you did not instigate.  right, you may have instigated the relationship or the sex, but that does not make you the outcome’s owner. because when you least expect it, there is this thing looking right back at you.  and it is substantial, it is a part of you, but you sense the its power does not emanate from you, or her, or him, alone. not an elephant, but a snow leopard in the room.

maybe we’re not talking  about the same thing. I’m talking about the thing that puts healthy people into the emotional state of suicide contemplation.  know that one? wherein a breaking occurs, as part of a break up.  for some others, it’s this bizarre glowing light – the circumference of a small pot of gold – that you see glowing on the nightstand in paintings of people  accompanying their loved ones along the final stretch of life, into death.  they sit there, hold the hand of the person who charges that glowing light, and they imagine – or, let’s say, it enters their minds – imagine for a brief moment the possible sensation they might have when the light goes out of that hand they are holding.  and when that sensation flashes over them, they buck forward, only slightly, from this immense wrenching feeling in their core. this is what I am referring to when I talk about the magic core of love, as being something mystical, that lives with us, and in us.

and when this Tollhaus substance is passed, through mouths, from one to the other, it becomes stronger, and more independent. in this state, when you feel it, it is unimaginable to you that such a thick rope could ever be separated. when she tugs on this rope, you feel it attaching rom a very deep place in your abdomen.

and then, a wind comes along – a force that might not cause paper to move – and the strands fray and debraid. and off you go, with a single lo-fi photograph in your hand. and you show it to people. but it angers you that they don’t feel the power of that photo, as you do.  anyway, fine with me if it’s just me and my photo. a perfect balance.

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