On
our way from Barry, while listening (and listening, listening
and listening) to A, I realised I don't know anyone* who has ever
done as thorough an analysis of a failed love as that carried out by him, partly at my expense, over the last month. We – my
emotional arm has been twisted to relive and rethink it all with him
- have gone through every conceivable, and in most likelihood also inconceivable, aspect of
the break-down of his relationship with R., and we have revisited
every possible (or impossible) observation, every argument, every
conclusion a hundred – or perhaps a thousand, I’ve lost count
now – times. Wake me in the middle of the night, give me a couple
of key words and I’ll elaborate on them for half an hour or so.
(And even if I don't cry, I'll get on the very verge).
Just
before Sully (or was it Lavernock?) A. paused, possibly to contemplate in silence how to
squeeze dry, analysis-wise, another ueber-nuance (I'm sure he hadn't analysed R. even half as much when they were together; I even
seem to recall him admitting that). I took advantage of the extraordinary situation and put on a CD with a compilation of covers sung by a local boy . I
wanted to give both of us a much needed distraction from all the
sadness we'd plunged ourselves into. In no time, though, we got
distracted from our distraction (I know, cheap), because - surprise,
surprise – not only most of the songs were about love, but every other one, or so, was about failed love. “You know what’s just struck
me? When she said… “, he re-launched his ueber-analysis. I
faked interest and kept listening to a cover of a 1970 hit, but A. failed to be moved by all the troubles two famous New Yorkers were singing about, and ploughed on: “… I'm sure someone must, just must!, have told
her at some point: What?? Over something like this??" I nodded, but all I could hear was ‘...when
you're weary, feeling small; when tears are in your eyes, I will dry
them all.'
I started intertwining with the lyrics a reflection on a well know truth: when love ends we engage in a long, pains-taking and painful effort to try to understand what happened, why it happened and why it wasn't avoided. When love is there, however, we just enjoy it. Have you ever heard of anyone spending hours on end on a madly detailed analysis of a love in progress? Love, though infinitely complex on the one hand, introduces a relieving straightforwardness too; not simple itself, it simplifies everything; it brushes away anything not relevant to itself; perfect love focuses only on what's conducive to keeping it perfect. (This may be the solution of the mind-shattering, universe-shaking, faith-undermining questions that get our heads on the brink of exploding - or imploding; I haven't got that far yet in my analysis. Why is there something rather than nothing? Where does God come from? How can plurality come of of oneness? In the presence of perfect love, those philosophical demons may simply melt down.)
A. went
on. He talked about words, deeds and wounds.
The song went on too. 'Sail on silver girl, sail on by...'. Just
before we entered a tunnel, he shut up and sped up. He
shouldn't have done this, as he's driving without a
licence these days (which – aren't some of the tests set for love really weird! – triggered the series of events in
question). We entered the tunnel at high speed. I looked at a long line of lights above us - could they be leading somewhere? Then I
imagined us having an accident and suddenly I felt I could,
or even would like to, get straight to the other, simple side now. No
more analyses of breakups, no more investigations into broken hearts,
no more staring into spaces where love is no more – all of that
melted by a perfect romance. Tom Jones raised his voice: 'I'm sailing right behind; like a bridge over
trouble water I will ease your mind... like a bridge over troubled
water I will ease your mind...'
*apart from me.
