Catherine Millet says:

millet

“Dirty words need less
reciprocation than caresses do
(and are) always more stereotyped,
and perhaps some of their power derives from the very fact that they belong to the most immutable inheritance.

So, in the end, even words–
which should help to
distinguish us from each other–
— serve to fuse us all together,
and to accelerate the annihilation of the senses that we are all trying to achieve in these moments.”

Love Letters Part Two

Unless you’re one
of those folks
with a photographic or
encyclopedic memory
about all things Muscleheaded….

(well, if you put it that way,
who wouldn’t want that?)

You probably don’t
remember a post from
a couple days back called:
” Don’t Write Luv Ya “ ,
in which we regaled
you with our vision
of a modernized-
muscleheaded
version of  1944’s
How To Write Love Letters
by Walter S. Keating,
AKA Henrietta Rosenberg.

I think I just may
have rambled on
about my distaste for
the expression ” Luv Ya
as a popular substitute for a
declaration articulating
any notion of
real affection/passion.

Sorry.

I’m not a tepid-water
kinda guy…

I run very hot,
or very cold.

And so, I expect if
somebody’s gonna tell
me something like that,
I would very much like it
to have a bit more meaning
than the average message
contained in a fortune cookie.

Of course, those
lottery numbers
they always list
are always helpful, but…..

Anyhoo —
I did promise
in that post that we
would revisit this topic,
since I had a lot of hot air
about it that had not
yet been blown off —

and that, despite the
average reader’s probable
wish that I had forgotten
the whole damn thing and all ….

(Actually, don’t be surprised
to see a Part Three later,
cause I feel another
ambling-ramble coming on…… )

The topics of the aforesaid book
included:

How To Express Your Love

How To Make Him
Or Her Miss You

How To Assure Him
or Her of Your Faithfulness

How To Break The Ice

How To Discuss Those
“Little Things” About Love

Useful Synonyms
etc.

I especially like the ‘Useful
Synonyms’ part of it, and
our regular readers are
already familiar with my
fondness of such things….

But I think, first,
we need to address this
chapter on how to
discuss the “little things”
about love.

How many damn times
have you heard it —
That size doesn’t matter.

Well, sure it does.

That’s why men back in
previous times liked to
bed virgins so much —

’cause they might be able
to convince ’em
that a 5-incher
was the fucking “Titanic”–

— and theoretically, the girl
wouldn’t know any better.

Ha.

Hope springs eternal, man.

The truth is :

Speaking as a proud and
only slightly disappointed
possessor of a genuine
‘grower, not a show-er’ myself,
I can tell you that it’s only
gonna be a major issue
if she doesn’t
really love you.

In which case, don’t
write her a love letter….

— a simple text will be fine.

Something like :
CUM SOON,
LUV YA,
SHORTY.

A letter is overkill in
that situation,
and you never know,
she might frame it
and hang it in her
bathroom next to a ruler.

Wait.
I digress, methinks.

I’m not completely sure
that those are the
‘little things’ that
you should really
be worrying
about, anyway —

That habit of yours of
slobbering down
her ear canal….

Now, that’s probably
something you should
really watch, brother.

She really didn’t
wanna mention it, but the
ear infections are getting
out of hand, ya know.

And I guess it’s relevance
to our topic of love letters
is this

(ha- you thought
I forgot, didn’tya)

Be sure not to mention
things in your prose
that makes her
get the squirmies —
— in a bad way, that is.

Damn, this whole
‘staying on topic’
shit is hard, man.

Ok– so,
we’ll try harder
in Part Three.

Anyone in the mood
for another Anaïs Nin
love letter excerpt
to Henry Miller ?

Colette says:

colette

Voluptuaries,
consumed by their senses,
always begin by flinging
themselves
with a great
display of frenzy into
an abyss.

But they survive,
they come to the surface again.
And they develop a routine
of the abyss:

“It’s four o clock.
At five I have my abyss…”

Elizabeth Bishop says:

elizabethbishop“I am in need of music
that would flow

Over my fretful, feeling finger-tips,
Over my bitter-tainted,
trembling lips,

With melody, deep, clear,
and liquid-slow.

Oh, for the healing swaying,
old and low,

Of some song sung to
rest the tired dead,

A song to fall like
water on my head,

And over quivering limbs,
dream flushed to glow!

There is a magic made by melody:
A spell of rest,
and quiet breath,
and cool Heart,

that sinks through
fading colors deep

To the subaqueous
stillness of the sea,

And floats forever in a
moon-green pool,

Held in the arms of
rhythm and of sleep.”