Copyright (c) 2012 J.D. Chapman All Rights Reserved
Fancy that when your eyes first meet, at that moment when your pupils dilate in anticipation of love, that you slide on the Spectral Analysis glasses. You know, the ones that are sixty percent reflective, an odd beige yellowish tint, with thin half-frames, gold plated sterling silver. The glasses that can tell you immediately what happens throughout your relationship — the whole rainbow spectrum — how you will feel when the whole relationship finishes, what might be your due respect.
As your eyes meet Ms. P, you are totally taken by her beautiful breasts and her perfect body. Still she may present the most horrid face you have seen. You deftly slide on the spectral analyzer, and you can glimpse that you will spend the whole day kissing her beautiful younger cousin. Then in the middle of a cold moonless winter night in Connecticut you will read her thoughts as clear as if they are your own, and they want you to be warm and conjoined together. You will jump her bones at her parents’ house awakening her from her sleep. Thirty years later, wise and alone, you will still remember everything about her. With all due respect, you will once have loved her. You slide off the glasses, nod once knowingly to Ms. P, and reach over to hold the hand of her ravishingly gorgeous cousin.
Or perhaps just barely after discovering your sexuality, while expanding the boundaries of your spirituality, you may be lounging around with your guitar on your front porch on a crystalline clear Spring day. While just sitting there strumming, Ms. B. sidles up on a bicycle to stop a bit to watch. You nonchalantly slide down the yellowish beige lenses and peer deep into her soul. Through the glasses you see a reflection of the man she yearns to marry, and since you ache with all your heart to be that man you suddenly see your life through her eyes rather than your own. But she will see you as a player and an acid head (which may be true) and so she will break your heart with nary a kiss. You will dream of her for ten years after that. With all due respect, even after twenty years you will still love Ms. B, occasionally. You remove the glasses, gently place them by your side, and then nod slowly and respectfully while you continue strumming where you had left off.
Or after a few years of acute loneliness, ready to give your soul away to be able to procreate and continue the species (indeed unable to think of anything else) you bring the gold plated glasses to work one day. As you gingerly slide them on and gently gaze at Ms. O, you realize with final relief that you will marry her for nine years, counting seven of them as the best years of your life. You will raise a family, stay busy with work, and passionately lose yourself in your craving for her at night. Indeed it appears you will have what folks take for a normal middle class married life.
You can see that the whole thing may came tumbling down like a skyscraper implosion, and in the end the pain may be quite unbearable and strong enough to wash away all of your best memories. Even though you can foresee the time when you will no longer love Ms. O. in the slightest, with all due respect and at the moment you recognize that you probably love her more than life itself. You fold the glasses and return them to their case, anticipating it may be many years until you don them again, shyly take a deep breath, and pray for her to find a way to break the ice.
Or maybe several years later, settled in your work and family ways, you sit down next to an attractive blonde tax analyst, Ms. P, and just for curiosity you don the sixty percent reflective. Your eyes widen astonished as you recognize that your love for Ms. P. is pure and simple, a very deep vanilla longing, that she will somehow both strongly stoke and completely stymie for three years. You suppose you will love her more deeply than anyone. With all due respect, you recognize that Ms. P. may break up your marriage. You frustratingly remove your glasses and try to impress her anyway with an insight about how the tax accounting could be made more efficient.
Say you had such magical spectral glasses and, on the rebound from your divorce, you prance around in your high righteousness and invite Ms. L, a British executive secretary to dinner. Over the arugula and a glass of zinfandel you casually slide on the glasses as you look up from your plate at her, Ms. L of the gigantic world-wise eyes, the pert British accent, the chest that could stop a bullet. You see that your love for her was all for her eyes and her knowledgeable grasp of a different world. With all due respect to Ms. L, you see you would never sleep with her, but still love her four or five times a year. You remove your glasses as you finish your salad, sigh, and wish Ms L. a most pleasant good evening.
Or finally, over coffee at an artsy Santa Monica café, you calm your chattering heart on your first date with Ms. K. by discreetly reaching for your glasses as you feign to pick up an artistic postcard from the table. Only to discover that the literary Ms. K. will be the most peaceful soul you will ever meet and yet, like you, will recognize this peacefulness as honed from the Damascus steel of prior suffering. Whether she is with you or away from you, her nose reddened by too much wine, or walking lock step with you and her Pomeranian, she will always be partway in your soul and partway traveling afar. With all due respect to Ms. K, you recognize that you will always stay ninety-six percent in love with her lilac melancholy, forever.