Musings About Love, Romance, and Building Plans
The Gentleman asked me last night what makes a romance-for-the-future (my awkward term, not his) distinct from a friendship, if limerence* comes and goes (often goes), if one doesn't reserve sex for only one person (or, necessarily, for any "special" person), if one has close, intense friendships (with or without sex). If one holds no action specific to one's beloved, how does one distinguish the relationship from other close relationships.
For me, it's part of how I characterize the relationship's potential for the future, and how much of myself and my hopes and dreams I'm willing to share with that person, and how I feel I can ask of that person.
I don't have the vocabulary for this, so I tend to take refuge in metaphor.
My heart is an almost infinitely extendable house, with a door that's nearly always open. Some people come, sit at the kitchen table for a while, and leave, never to return. Some people have a permanent spot at the table, some have their own chair by the fire. A few people have their own rooms-and some of these rooms are very peculiarly shaped, indeed. Some of the rooms are clearly occupied: there are books on the tables, the windows are open, shoes are lined up in the closest, the quiet detritus of life has accumulated. Some of these rooms are kept ready, cleaned, aired out every so often, the surfaces dusted, the floor swept, but it's pretty clear that they are occupied, at best, infrequently.
One or two of the rooms are closed up, permanently. At least one is locked, and you really don't want to go in there, anyway. I'm not sure the floor is safe, I've moved all the furniture out, and put it to better uses, and there's an unpleasant smell whenever I open the door.
Some people have keys to the door to the house, and licence to come in, rummage in the cupboards, peruse the bookshelves, make themselves a pot of tea, and answer the phone if it rings.
Nobody has access to the building plans.** So far, nobody has taken up permanent residence, and beyond building rooms for people, I'm still the one in charge of the décor and furniture arrangement.
It's not a question for me of whether someone's welcome in the house. It's a question of whether they're a resident or a guest. The regular guests are always welcome, of course, heck, some of them have their laundry mixed up with mine, but they remain guests. It's a question of whether they want to live there, permanently, and whether I want them to live there, permanently, and, finally, whether we can build something together.
* Every so often someone mentions limerence in the context of relationships. I gather it's something like what other people call "in love" vs. "love," but lasts longer than the cloud of stupid that descends when one falls arse-over-teakettle in wuv with someone new and dissipates leaving one wondering just why one agreed to spend a weekend with this person in the Gatineaux
** I'm not sure where some of the building plans are. Part of what I need to do is draw up some new ones.
For me, it's part of how I characterize the relationship's potential for the future, and how much of myself and my hopes and dreams I'm willing to share with that person, and how I feel I can ask of that person.
I don't have the vocabulary for this, so I tend to take refuge in metaphor.
My heart is an almost infinitely extendable house, with a door that's nearly always open. Some people come, sit at the kitchen table for a while, and leave, never to return. Some people have a permanent spot at the table, some have their own chair by the fire. A few people have their own rooms-and some of these rooms are very peculiarly shaped, indeed. Some of the rooms are clearly occupied: there are books on the tables, the windows are open, shoes are lined up in the closest, the quiet detritus of life has accumulated. Some of these rooms are kept ready, cleaned, aired out every so often, the surfaces dusted, the floor swept, but it's pretty clear that they are occupied, at best, infrequently.
One or two of the rooms are closed up, permanently. At least one is locked, and you really don't want to go in there, anyway. I'm not sure the floor is safe, I've moved all the furniture out, and put it to better uses, and there's an unpleasant smell whenever I open the door.
Some people have keys to the door to the house, and licence to come in, rummage in the cupboards, peruse the bookshelves, make themselves a pot of tea, and answer the phone if it rings.
Nobody has access to the building plans.** So far, nobody has taken up permanent residence, and beyond building rooms for people, I'm still the one in charge of the décor and furniture arrangement.
It's not a question for me of whether someone's welcome in the house. It's a question of whether they're a resident or a guest. The regular guests are always welcome, of course, heck, some of them have their laundry mixed up with mine, but they remain guests. It's a question of whether they want to live there, permanently, and whether I want them to live there, permanently, and, finally, whether we can build something together.
* Every so often someone mentions limerence in the context of relationships. I gather it's something like what other people call "in love" vs. "love," but lasts longer than the cloud of stupid that descends when one falls arse-over-teakettle in wuv with someone new and dissipates leaving one wondering just why one agreed to spend a weekend with this person in the Gatineaux
** I'm not sure where some of the building plans are. Part of what I need to do is draw up some new ones.