2.8 - [ video ]
[ the feed opens, spooling through focus and blur until the image sharpens on a close-up of a dog. The dog is sleeping, wrinkled face slack and nose worming as it breathes ]
This is my dog. His name is Archimedes, but---but I usually call him Archie. Animals identify to the "ee" sound. He was a gift to me, a....for Christmas. From. From Betty. [ Bruce turns the comm device so that it shows his face. He's pretty clearly worked over, his hair a mess and his glasses hanging off one ear. He's smiling, though!
He's drunk. The camera wobbles as he hiccups, a hand to his mouth ]
My Christmas gift. She decided that I needed a companion, a friend to lie at my feet while I worked. I---I think it was a romantic notion, at least in the sense of...I don't know.
But I don't like dogs. Or, more accurately, dogs don't like me. They...smell it. My mutation. Scares them. But Archie, he was introduced to me when he was very young. I don't know how, but his natural fear of a predator like me never...kicked in. I am his master and he loves me. I've never had a pet before---no, I did; a goldfish that brooded for two days and then went belly up in a fit of protest---but animals, me and animals, I hadn't wanted to try. But you can't say no to a gift like this, so I've learned to love this dog.
Mostly, because he loves me. Oh, god, he loves me. I am his. He follows me, mimics my routine---rubs his smell on me when he leans into me. He loves me so desperately that he pines when I'm gone, and when I come back he can't seem to---to get his cumbersome flat tongue to form the right polysyllables to tell me how much he missed me. It frustrates him so much, so clearly.
I've never had love like this before. It's...puppy love. Literally. It's irrational love, beautiful love, love that you surrender to because you have no choice. It's rare. It's frightening. We fear our feelings precisely because they have the ability to overwhelm us. When we are excited or frightened or anxious or sorrowful, when we have passion, we drop the conventions of our rational selves. We become something more, maybe something better.
Love is. Love is Love is transcendental and damning. It's a mass of chemical reactions. It's spiritual, it's physical, it's wasteful and messy and necessary.
[ his voice has been inching louder and louder as he's gotten more into his speech---there's been wide, almost unbalancing hand gestures and his glasses have almost fallen off. He wobbles a little when he reaches for a bottle of wine and drinks straight from it. ]
I've spent most of my life analyzing love. It started from a young age. When you are small and needy and are not getting the attention you crave, you...[ he takes another drink ]...seek to understand what it is that you lack. I understand love. I want love.
[ aaaand now he's really starting to show how upset he actually is. He rubs a hand over his scruffy face ]
But at least I have my dog.
This is my dog. His name is Archimedes, but---but I usually call him Archie. Animals identify to the "ee" sound. He was a gift to me, a....for Christmas. From. From Betty. [ Bruce turns the comm device so that it shows his face. He's pretty clearly worked over, his hair a mess and his glasses hanging off one ear. He's smiling, though!
He's drunk. The camera wobbles as he hiccups, a hand to his mouth ]
My Christmas gift. She decided that I needed a companion, a friend to lie at my feet while I worked. I---I think it was a romantic notion, at least in the sense of...I don't know.
But I don't like dogs. Or, more accurately, dogs don't like me. They...smell it. My mutation. Scares them. But Archie, he was introduced to me when he was very young. I don't know how, but his natural fear of a predator like me never...kicked in. I am his master and he loves me. I've never had a pet before---no, I did; a goldfish that brooded for two days and then went belly up in a fit of protest---but animals, me and animals, I hadn't wanted to try. But you can't say no to a gift like this, so I've learned to love this dog.
Mostly, because he loves me. Oh, god, he loves me. I am his. He follows me, mimics my routine---rubs his smell on me when he leans into me. He loves me so desperately that he pines when I'm gone, and when I come back he can't seem to---to get his cumbersome flat tongue to form the right polysyllables to tell me how much he missed me. It frustrates him so much, so clearly.
I've never had love like this before. It's...puppy love. Literally. It's irrational love, beautiful love, love that you surrender to because you have no choice. It's rare. It's frightening. We fear our feelings precisely because they have the ability to overwhelm us. When we are excited or frightened or anxious or sorrowful, when we have passion, we drop the conventions of our rational selves. We become something more, maybe something better.
Love is. Love is Love is transcendental and damning. It's a mass of chemical reactions. It's spiritual, it's physical, it's wasteful and messy and necessary.
[ his voice has been inching louder and louder as he's gotten more into his speech---there's been wide, almost unbalancing hand gestures and his glasses have almost fallen off. He wobbles a little when he reaches for a bottle of wine and drinks straight from it. ]
I've spent most of my life analyzing love. It started from a young age. When you are small and needy and are not getting the attention you crave, you...[ he takes another drink ]...seek to understand what it is that you lack. I understand love. I want love.
[ aaaand now he's really starting to show how upset he actually is. He rubs a hand over his scruffy face ]
But at least I have my dog.