A post for Valentine’s Day, something I’ve never done before, as far as I recall.
I imagine it as an Ode to Narcissus, which is my own personal meaning attached to this holiday. Through the Greek myth we are told that Narcissus fell in love with his reflection in a pool of water and up to modern times there are myriad explorations for what that represents.
The most well-known today, coming from Wiki:
The myth had a decided influence on English Victorian homoerotic culture, via André Gide‘s study of the myth, Le Traité du Narcisse (‘The Treatise of the Narcissus’, 1891), and the only novel by Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray.
Most often in our modern era it’s considered a negative thing—a forsaking of the beloved or even God, or the destructive self-love of a tyrannical ego, or the folly of youth.
Echo and Narcissus, oil on canvas by Nicolas Poussin, 1627 (Louvre, Paris)
But for myself, I imagine its original intent as being more pure and innocent. I don’t imagine the Greek myths were to be taken as literal stories of living people and Gods, but rather the mysteries and processes of Nature.
Eros is Cupid, but I imagine that what’s being unveiled between these 3 figures is depicting the process, the mystery, the intimate and delicate balance with Cupid (Eros) manifesting through Narcissus’ love of beauty and pleasure.
That something bigger than we mere mortals is occurring when we fall in love, sometimes even against our own will, awakens and evokes the spirit of Eros. A natural force so powerful we think of it as a drug, capable of making us behave in uncharacteristic, undesirable and even dangerous ways.
Narcissus is in love with love, which is to say, in love with life.
In the water, a classic symbol of emotion, he truly saw himself in the spirit of divine love.
The latest modern remaking of The Picture of Dorian Gray.
What came after that initial myth were the modern cultural assaults and chronic misunderstandings cursing him with egoism, arrogance, selfishness, cruelty, taken to the extremes of self-absorption, self-loathing and eventually self-destruction, as in The Picture of Dorian Gray. Eros as uncontrolled self-obsession.
My belief is that to fall in love with anything, or anyone, is to fall in love with oneself; that is, an aspect of one’s own reflection. Just as Narcissus is our first flower to appear in spring (it’s blooming right now in fact) Narcissus symbolizes the coming reawakening of all our natural pleasures as spring approaches and life is renewed.
Before the Easter ritual of fecundity, first the pair must meet, and fall in love.
In celebrating the courting rituals, it’s the one holiday that’s not considered a family affair, and conjures an atypical respect for intimacy in our mass-loving modern culture.
To me it is a holiday of guilty pleasures, quirky pursuits, strange beliefs and peculiar tastes.
What’s your pleasure? Do you indulge it enough? Or perhaps, too much? Narcissus wants to know!
Do you prefer the cake or the icing?
Immediate reward or delayed gratification?
Are you the driver or the passenger?
Is ‘fun’ the same as pleasure?
Is your pleasure a particpatory adventure, or to be delivered on a silver tray?
Active or passive?
Photography or painting? Reading or writing? Listening or singing?Watching or playing? Cooking or eating? Looking or being seen?
Is there one without the other? Is there the other without the one?
A personal story of guilty pleasures.
A fine restaurant, with a fine atmosphere, and fine company, is my guiltiest pleasure of all. I’d spend lavishly without reserve, relish with abandon, obsess over every detail, waste hours, or weekends without a second thought. Dionysus takes the reigns when I experience such exquisite care, such regard for pleasure and beauty, I’m easily swept away. (And unfortunately, just as easily disappointed.).
Hubby did not know that about me. How could he possibly, he’d only known me a week or so.
Perhaps it’s not such an unusual thing, considering the love affair with food that’s shared across seemingly all cultures, if not always appreciated to the same degree with all people.
I’ll forever cherish the singular date when Hubby won me over, especially because I know the chances of something remotely similar ever happening again are microscopic. It was one of those one in a million evolutionary occurrences, kind of like the Big Bang.
As we all know, it just takes one miracle.
He planned it to the letter—chose the best restaurant, actually went there in advance to choose the best table overlooking the water, spoke to the chef personally, tipped the maitre’d in advance.
Who does that? I mean, I would probably, but who else? Only in the movies, right?
It wasn’t on Valentine’s Day, there was no chocolate or champagne. But I did drink too much, and he swiftly transformed into my white knight on a scooter. He was the crafter of the most perfectly romantic night of my life. And romantic is not something he’s ever aspired to, by any standards, and by his own admission.
Like I said, just one miracle. Perhaps a little help from Cupid?
I was ho-hum before that. Not that he wasn’t a good catch, of course. Certainly loads of divorced 30-something women are attracted to a man who finds it to be bragging material that his belongings fit into a backpack with few aspirations besides spending half the year in a hammock on a Thai beach.
We had a lot in common, as in we were both fairly uncommon vagabonds. Not trust-fund kids or military brats, that was most common in the ex-pat scenes in those days. We worked and scrimped and hustled and snubbed our noses at such privilege, when we could afford to. Otherwise we enjoyed their parties and their company and their contacts.
We met at one such fancy affair, and he wasn’t my type, that’s how I saw it in the moment. Not because of any of those previously mentioned assets, those I actually found pretty charming, especially that he would be bragging on them with a woman he’d just met. I was far more impressed with his stories of rugged adventure than any of other’s comfort and privilege.
But I was just barely out of another failed relationship; I just wasn’t on the market, according to me.
He perceived otherwise. I dare say, I have never been pursued with such seemingly carefree precision. He is/was not ever a lady’s man, had less relationship experience than me, and was not there looking for love.
It didn’t help that my just-failed relationship was with a photographer, and that he was there as another photographer’s assistant. Of course I noticed he was fit and handsome and friendly and funny. I imagined we could become friends, maybe even friends with benefits. My imagination stopped there.
We bumped into each other often, as would be expected, since we were all covering the Phuket King’s Cup Regatta. They had us all staying in top resorts, sailing the seas by day and attending parties every night. It was amazing and overwhelming and so deliciously extravagant and foreign.
Even under such conditions, he was able to corral my attentions, redirect my intentions, and totally capture my life’s trajectory (as dismal as that was looking at the time considering I was living in an old, drafty single-wide in my dad’s trailer park in Mena, Arkansas.)
Though I’m sure he won’t admit it and questions who was doing the seducing, I will still insist, it surely wasn’t me. Narcissus, perhaps?
We are told it’s human nature to pursue pleasure and to recoil from pain. But all around us we have plenty of evidence that’s not the case at all. In honest observation it looks much more true that pain and pleasure have a very mysterious relationship that is quite unique to each individual.
I personally will not allow the Dorian Gray’s of the world to eternally spoil the beauty of Narcissus, so I celebrate Valentine’s Day as a gateway into the new season’s promise of pleasure.
Happy Valentine’s Day to all the Lovers of Love, Beauty, Pleasure and Life!
