Tuesday, November 1, 2011

BKG: Love is a BROAD topic!


In a self-scripting class I said I wanted to talk about Love and my teacher--said, "that's too broad."

Bingo! I know it's too broad, that why I want to talk about it.
It's the one thing that everyone/thing needs, but not everyone knows how to give it or even receive it.  
Love often gets confused with lust, sex, jealousy, obsession, and a variety of scary words---but love is just love--(until it's not). Love is also NOT "Like".

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. 
It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. 
Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 
It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
(1 Corinthians 13: 4-7)

Such an overused verse-- available at every wedding ceremony--but it's truly the perfect definition of this "broad" word that dictates our every move.

We do things for "love", we don't do things for "love", we do things we don't "love".

Love is blissful.
Love is painful.

"Love" is what we go to see in the Movies and in Plays--even the most disturbing movies like "Saw 1"---at the end he cuts off his limb to be with his wife.  

"Happy" will be a piece that will attempt to dig into the deepest parts of love and bring it's complexities to light. Notice I didn't say understand it.  But if we can at least identify it, then maybe, just maybe understanding will be in the foreseeable future.

It's a love story---but #therealone.  #therawone.  we're gonna leave the sugar at home, cuz there's nothing to coat.  We're gonna be honest, and be liberated in the embarrassment, the awkwardness, the joy, and the tragedy that is the love between to individuals.  the will be words, there will be music, there will be name calling, and if we're lucky maybe someone will make up.  If we're lucky--maybe they won't



  1. Yes, LETS talk about it. Let Us.

  2. LOVE this love poem.

    by Edna St. Vincent Millay

    Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink
    Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;
    Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
    And rise and sink and rise and sink again;
    Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath,
    Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
    Yet many a man is making friends with death
    Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
    It well may be that in a difficult hour,
    Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,
    Or nagged by want past resolution's power,
    I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
    Or trade the memory of this night for food.
    It well may be. I do not think I would.