Infatuation
Five Devious Syllables
Infatuation —
Five devious syllables
invading the heart
Philosophers and Saints and Wise Men and even some Unwise Men have all hunted for the source of this scourge. Most Unwise Men, however, court her presence and open their doors wide so that she might enter fully fledged to wreak her delicious havoc. At their peril, of course, but they never know (or learn) this, nor would they care if they did.
Philosophers and Saints and Wise Men, however, though they are not certain, strongly suspect that these five devious syllables indeed mean to wreak nothing but havoc with the poor unsuspecting (though welcoming) victim who spells his name “Mankind”.
Gotama Buddha once advised: “In the seen, see only the seen; in the heard hear only the heard; in the tasted, taste only the tasted; in the smelled, smell only the smelled; in the touched, feel only the touched.”
Rarely has wiser and more appropriate advice been given Mankind.
We have only to look at advertising (and peek a little under its hood) to appreciate the Buddha’s wisdom. What, one can ask, makes a woman (or a man) beautiful? In the main (and so agrees every soul in advertising), it boils down to sex appeal. No more, no less. Hence, the more leg the better (or the more bared six-pack midriff, when it comes to men).
However — and this is a huge however — viewed with clinical detachment, there is no reason why a pair of meat- and skin-encased, multi-boned and strung-together-with-ligaments-and-sinews extremities should induce a sexual yearning; still, men will see more (a lot more) than the seen (they see opportunity, they see allure, they see promises, enticement, future, they even see children, and, of course, pleasure, pleasure, pleasure), ignoring the Buddha altogether. And should there be an enticing perfume (as tested at vast expense by the manufacturers) involved, then the scent will also induce that sexual yearning we often refer to as lust (if momentary) and known as infatuation (if sticking around a little longer).
On paper, there is no reason whatsoever that a female (or male) body, whether scantily dressed or not at all, should evoke yearning, unless we, genetically speaking, are programmed to see what we, under those very circumstances, “should” see rather than what we actually do see.
Now, a program implies a programmer, and one must be excused for asking, where or what is that programmer? Is it God? No, that would make God evil.
The Devil then? No, I don’t think the Devil is that clever — even though Baudelaire did propose that the greatest trick the devil ever played was convincing the world that he did not exist, a clever trick indeed.
What then? Are we perhaps just lab rats for some gigantic, galactic, bio-engineering research outfit determining how best to make us meat puppets dance to their tune? Hard to conceive as that might be for the run-of-the-mill puppet, my money is on that option.
Infatuation (or lust) is an amazingly strong emotion: it compels, compels, compels action — often not of the wiser kind. And not only will we do idiotic things at the behest of this carrot-cum-whip but we will feel “absolutely right” in perpetrating whatever insanities we perpetrate.
It feels so, so good, therefore it must be so, so right; good infatuated logic, but nowhere near logical in the cold, post-coital light of day.
Oh, it’s our genes ensuring procreation — the popular explanation; our genes’ ensuring the survival of the species.
My take on that: Genes are only smart the way a computer program is smart: some intelligence must have conceived and written the program (the genetic code) this way, using the human (and animal — for they are driven by the same grim seeder) endocrine system to enforce compliance: bare legs equals sexual urge (no matter how well disguised) equals doing whatever it takes in order to eventually mate.
I read somewhere that Jehovah, when He created the male, gave him a choice: you can have either a brain or a penis, which do you want?
I want both.
No, you can only have one.
I want both.
No, you can only have one.
I want both.
Et cetera for some time.
Then, Jehovah, sighing, says, all right, I’ll give you both, but I’ll only give you enough blood to use one at a time.
Good enough, said Man.
And it’s been that good enough way ever since.
As a fifteen-year-old, one night before falling asleep, I imagined what it would be like to fall in love, to truly fall in love (though I did not stress the word “fall” in my conjuring). And, I succeeded. I felt what it must feel to be in deep, wonderful love. Or what I thought was love, for I have since come to recognize that what I felt was infatuation — still, it was so real, and felt so good, and so true, and so worth living for and striving for and perhaps even dying for. I knew this was love, steeped in that feeling I just knew.
I don’t know what source I (accidentally?) tapped, but for a few moments that summer night (still light outside, as it always is in northern Sweden that time of year) I was truly and utterly and helplessly in love with some unknown, faceless woman I had yet to meet. And it was right. And it was good.
Not so, in the cold post-coital light of day.
Love, I have come to understand late in life, has nothing to do with sex. Let me restate this to make sure that no one misreads this: Love, I have come to understand late in life, has nothing to do with sex.
Love has to do with spiritual admiration, it has to do with trust and with friendship. It is probably fifty percent compassion and fifty percent wishing the other person or persons well. I believe it is what Jesus said love was all about — that is, nothing to do with sex.
Nothing to do with infatuation.
Best infatuation policy: steer clear.
© Wolfstuff
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