The Chase

There’s Love—compassionate, altruistic, and understanding; and then there’s love—procreative: the Chase.

I read somewhere that the average normal American male between eighteen and thirty-five years old one way or another thinks about sex once or twice a minute; as in sixty seconds.

I can’t find the reference right now, but looking back at myself in my “prime,” I’m not sure I doubt those figures.

And how deeply this river runs.

As my view of things improves, I see that there were so very many things that I did primarily in the spirit of the chase.

My album collections (which began as Long Playing records—LPs; then migrated to cassettes, then migrated to CDs, and which grew in step with my disposable income to eventually number in the thousands) were always gathered with a view to make the “right” impression on the right person, with a view to entice and color myself interesting to prospective mates—this, honestly, even after I was quite happily married, and for years. I was not looking; even so, the subtle reason for choosing that particular artist, or that particular recording, lay in how such a choice would read in some enticing eyes.

And then there’s clothes (for I truly do not give a damn myself), and the car you drive—always an extension of who you feel you are; and the latest gadget, all—in varying degrees—acquired and honed in order to entice, in order to appear unusual or interesting (to the right person) — All in the spirit of the chase.

And how deeply it runs. And for what reason? To propagate the race, is that it? It must be, for mankind seems to be rather stubborn in his resolve to survive.

Sometimes I’m amazed that things function at all, on this planet—if, indeed, we can say that they do.

The chase. Hard to hide and hard to show, easily felt but harder to know. This craze, this lovers’ maze that we have to trace to live.

The Chase There's Love-compassionate, altruistic, and understanding; and then there's love-procreative: the Chase. I read somewhere that the average normal American male between eighteen and thirty-five years old one way or another thinks about sex once or twice a minute; as in sixty seconds.

The Words:

Lost among forgotten hills
memory their keeper
mystery the lure
that draws me still
deeper

Master of the moonlit night
distance is your fortress
caster of the spell
of hearts’ delight
heartless

hard to hide
hard to show
easily felt
but harder to know

in this craze
this lovers’ maze
that we have to
trace to live:
the chase

Cradle to the twilight storm
mystically, gladly
poison to the heart
(that must conform,
sadly)

Forger of the chains that seal
clarity and reason
firmly in the heat
of your concealed
treason

hard to hide
hard to show
easily felt
but harder to know

in this craze
this lovers’ maze
that we have to
trace to live:
the chase

Dance to me
your thin despair
dance me the air

Dance my heart
that I may share
dance your lie
but dance me fair

Ah, dance me blind
but dance me there

Tempted by this mortal fate
(promises we follow)
to find what we
held true and great
but hollow

Leaving what was once so clear
overcast and jaded
hostage to a heart
whose very heart
has faded

hard to hide
hard to show
easily felt
but harder to know

in this craze
this lovers’ maze
that we have to
trace to live:
the chase

Dance to me
your thin despair
dance me the air

Dance my heart
that I may share
dance your lie
but dance me there

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