Posts tagged “father

I’ve seen you before, again….

I saw your face and thought of a name, but was it yours, I wondered, and couldn’t say for sure.  Was it at work, in the clinic, in front of the vet, or down the road at the gas-station, the gym, or…?  I know, I remember now…it was when you were getting out of your car that day with your little ones in the grocery store parking lot and I hesitated before pulling into the spot next to you because your kids were standing there with big eyes looking at the car, my car, that was coming at them.  I just sat there in my patience and waited for you to grab their hands or usher them in some other way out of “my” spot.  You looked up and glared at me and angrily waved at me to drive on in.  I still waited, as I do, for you to get the little ones’ hands, to offer them your security, that sense of “Daddy’s got you, so it’s OK” before I continued in with my car.  You were swearing at me when I finally parked and you were walking away, little ones in tow.  As my car alarm beeped in my leaving, your words of “What the fuck are you looking at?!” bounced into my ears and around in my head and I couldn’t imagine “what the fuck” you were talking about.  I shouted “Hey!” and you yelled “What, bitch?!” and I said “I was waiting for your little ones to move.”  You suggested that I stop being such a fucking idiot and just park my goddamned car as your little ones’ eyes went from you to me as they were being tugged bodily up through the asphalted parking lot and into the store where the air-curtain above the door whooshed and splayed at their hair and yours and mine as I followed, not following, per se, just going in the same direction.

And it’s you I see again one day, inside of another store, with you waiting in line for the lady to ring-up your stuff and me walking past to go into another aisle.  Your kids aren’t with you and we, consequently, have nothing to talk about, but you see me and I see you and I remember very clearly where I know you from.  I see you looking after me as I turn into the aisle and my face is calm and your brow is furrowed.  “Where do I know you from?” you’re wondering, maybe, as you were wondering, still, when I left the opening to the aisle and was gone again.

Today, literally, these years later, I still see your little ones’ eyes.  Their tiny, large brown eyes looking at me through long and curly lashes and framed with clean black hair.  I see them looking at me behind the windshield and then walking through the parking lot, seemingly at and after them and I wonder at their wondering.  I see them looking up at you and your full brown angry face and silver black hair, first one and then the other, and then back at me.  I see their little arms tugged in their tiny t-shirts as you hauled them out of the parking spot and across the lot and into the store.

I see them still….

This is a Favorite Re-post from October 2010.

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faces on the wall….

The man sat in the dark and thought of the pictures on the wall and the eyes that looked out from their frozen images of faces and whatnot in the chemicals that held them in such places from their making until they left in some manner or other, moved to another wall, moved to another house, passed among the things that leave when he would leave on that unknown date and then.  The eyes that could bore through their selved-images into the eyes of the man who sat in the chair with heavy lids and pondered those things as night wound into itself and him and the sounds of day’s passing had become the creaking and yawning of the presence of its neighbor and twin, the one who exists on the other side of the thoughts of himself.

Picture frames glowing or reflecting the light that sneaks in through the windows from the posted light in the yard, that one thing that illuminates the darkened corners where what was present in the day has crawled into itself and themselves and exist only in shadow form or memory, but not sight, as they are hidden in the black and gray of their shadowed selves.  Those eyes accuse and remember in their fixed gazes and the man stares at the blank middles of the frames at what he knows is there but cannot see for the passed and past day and the dark inside the four edges covers but doesn’t hide the faces he knows.  Night doesn’t cover his heart and his wandering soul and it doesn’t relieve the ghosts that walk in his mind and in the fibers of the carpet and lay like a film inside the paint and wooded textures of stair railings and benches, those things that capture sounds and emotions as they are fleeing in their shouted births and deaths of echoes and remain.

Hollowed eyes and grins and thoughts and cheekbones and lips that lie in a stuck rictus, like painted and dead clowns and he doesn’t know who is inside, who is behind those portals of life and then, and he turns away and closes his eyes and hears the ringing in his ears as the cat talks not walks down the hall and a hidden beam somewhere in the wall creaks or sighs as the house wonders at the man in the chair in the dark, wonders at his thoughts and sitting there while others sleep and dream and think of nothing in the passing of the stars and moon in their circuits as the heater kicks on and whines through the vents and blows in its blowing and warmth of breath and stops with a shudder and how, as the man’s foot twitches as sleep tries to pull him deeper into the chair as his heart beats and beats and his eyes open at the cat’s passing and scratching on and of the one corner of the rug that has its frayed spot and spot as the eyes on the walls sleep in their openness and hide their thoughts in front of him as he looks away and remembers a younger self that fled a smile in furrowed brows and pursed lips of anger and rot, his eyes scorned and shaken and cast away and aside and down and away from any who would look.

He remembered the thick hand that smacked his mouth when his eyes were closed and thought the Divine was blind as the prayer was stuck in the swirl of ceiling paint as the black eyes bored into the smaller one’s eyes as his mouth throbbed and his heart ached and his mom sat at arm’s length away as her man’s hand smacked her child’s mouth and she kept her eyes closed as the sound echoed in her ears and she squeezed her eyes closed as she smelled the dinner cooling on the table in front of them and wondered how the paint could keep the prayer inside the ceiling as it rolled about and thinned against the summer air and finally withered and faded and was gone in the tears that rolled down his cheeks as hate breathes by itself in blank picture frames and white rocks cast along the way, tripping the travelers who dare not watch where they are walking, who are blind to the path and stumble in the dark footsteps that lumber ahead of them.

This is a Favorite Re-post from February, 2010.


it rained again

It rained again in that place where memories are stored, where the synapses fire and storm and lay things waste and then they are gone again or whole again and the images and sounds and scents live in the memories where we laid them those years ago, where they got tucked away somehow and have been waiting, if memories can wait, for us to rekindle them to their cogent prescience, for us to make them live again. 

Those pictures lived, then, they were images and words wrought together with footsteps down hallways, belts rattling into their drawer at the end of the day, a rough hand on a cheek, the smell of gum and tobacco smoke, and the image of a big yellow car slowly easing itself into the driveway,Vitalis in his hair and the shuffle and hitch of the arm or hand into his waistband, keys and coins rattling and black-framed glasses surrounding the dark, sad eyes again…and the gift of a shiny red pocket knife…and after sand through the glass, a car in a time of need, a gesture, an attempt…what can I do?  Moments and years and two or three lifetimes and the breath stops and the cheeks are tucked into place with clay or toothpicks or whatever the embalmer uses, and a little smile lives and holds that rictus shape until the crematory’s fires take it away.  He was an old man early, and gone, limiting his life by wanting to live only so long, so that’s what he did, just for so long…testify, prophecy….  And I wonder what he really wanted, what he really desired and didn’t quite get.  What dream remained unfulfilled, what heights weren’t reached?  I don’t know.  I have tainted memories and the taste of ocher, but that was my experience…what was he to someone else, what was he to his friends, what redeemed him when nobody else was around, or when he was in some others’ eyes, and not mine?  What unconfessed sins tormented his soul, or what happiness lived there, even, beyond others’ eyes and mine?  I don’t know what made him happy, or sad, or what left him feeling empty, what defined loss for him, or love…what stranger did he long for, what living or dead person didn’t fill a void that he needed filling, what or whom did he mourn, or caused him to smile when nobody was watching?  Did he really believe in a god, did he really believe that he was going to live with a heavenly father when he died, that he would walk on streets of gold up there when his life was informed by asphalt and broken concrete…was that going to be his reward, really, did he actually believe that…did he have to turn off a part of his brain to do so, or did it just come naturally, did he like flowers or football, or what about weeds and wild grasses that grow along rushing mountain streams?  Did he love his father, or even know him…or forgive him…or sin against him and not forgive himself after all those years?  I don’t know…and at the end of it all, it’s for naught anyway, the deeds are done, the tears fallen, the regret swallowed and poisoned the body to the marrow, and maybe the only redeeming truth is that he didn’t know how to be what he was, didn’t know how to be what he wouldn’t have chosen to be, and he had no guide along the way to steer him out of the footsteps that had been laid before him….

And it rained again as the thoughts fired upon themselves as the fingers tapped the keys and as the neurons kicked themselves and rocked themselves and curled around their own shadows again and shot again into the void, into the primordial abyss of eternity that ranges in the wasted spaces between the fibers and strands of the cerebral mass. 

Why are you crying, Daddy?

*neuron activity photo found via google at www.darkgovernment.com


Ramblings, undifferentiated stuff of whatever

I sit here and wonder, truly, at the cause, the origin of my anxiety at working this job.  I know that lives can be in the balance and I can be held accountable for whatever goes wrong, but why is it so unsettling?  People around me seem unaffected, content, and otherwise the opposite of me.  The sweat runs in streams, almost, down my side, darkening my shirts under the arms.  I am only talking to people…people just like me.  I had a brain lapse first thing this morning and I don’t think I have recovered.  It was an obvious call in which I just couldn’t grasp from my mind the type of call that it should be coded.  The supervisor said, “What do you think?”  It seemed like a real “Captain Obvious” moment that seems to have set me back somewhat.  Self-confidence is at a low.  The people seem particularly irritating today, as well; and bossy, and ignorant.  I am out of kilter and they are primed and ready.  There were moments I felt like I wanted to explode from the frustration.  The Quiet Room was beckoning.  I couldn’t smart off and that’s what I really wanted to do.  But now it is lunchtime, my sad book is finished – I’ll have to get the rest of his books, too, Robert Stone.  So the day is half over – or more, actually, and when I leave I get to drive to Avondale to get my baby.  Softness, gentleness; reason for going on, reason for living, for many things.  It’s not creative, but it’s expression.  The pen is to paper and the elements are flowing.  Flashes of images: the anniversary card I put by the coffee pot three days early, knowing I will put one out for the next three days as well, a flash of Josh, the garage, my chair by the piano, the plant running the length of the stairs, my mom, and more.  “Everything is proved upon the pulses.”  And?


And where it stirs is unknown but for the stirring.  And then.  I looked within to find the reason and the reason’s reasons.  Closed eyes and opening heart.  Searching for the portal that will release the flood.  Searching for the portal.  I finished a book, most sad, about the destruction wrought in a family by a sick parent and an obsessed parent.  One child who was born with something wrong and hovered over by the sick parent, and another child who was adored by the obsessed parent and loathed by the sick one.  Hated and loved simultaneously.  The loved and hated child ended up losing her own mind and finding the end in darkness.  Finding the soothing nonexistence of death.  It was sad to watch her coming undone.  It was sad to feel what her loved one, her mate, was going through while partaking in her life, when they talked about things that were better left unsaid, but had to be, unavoidable things.  The kinds of things that further rent and harmed the other party.  And then?  The quiet house came undone.  The foundation rocked and never stilled.  Well, it was only to be stilled in the loose and fragmented mind.  The torn heart that hadn’t learned to love.  Where would she find salvation, since her god was dead?  Where would she rest her soul if she had one?  By mine.  By mine in the eternal hereafter.  And then?  How the chords come, how they burst forth in song that means only what the heart knows and the tongue fails to express.  How it stirs, from deep inside.  I would that I could listen internally forever.  I wish.  Oh, I would that the song could flow unrepentantly, without hindrance, without impeded thought and constraint by others’ eyes.  Soothe where the damage is done.  Assuage the recklessness, still the torment; show the way to clear sight.  And then.  And then.  The chords release the chains.  They release the worries and concerns pent up within.  They release what the tongue and lips cannot.  They release.  Find the saving release in their escape.  And then.  With ease.  And counsel.  And tight throat.  The door opened, the heart closed.


In a fever, I slipped from scene to scene, desirous of the portable pen to capture the thoughts and bring to them a permanence that was otherwise not theirs.  It was a cyclone of images that whirled together and apart and had a semblance of meaning that could have been deciphered with someone’s unease.  Places I had been and faces I had encountered in many unreal ventures of living and existing outside of the normal self.  Whence came I to understand the unattainable?  Whose life had been caught in the web of searching and find?  That is all.


When I was a child, I spoke as a child and understood with the mind of a child.  What was a child?  What was the child in fetters to become upon release?  How would he know when the release came?  What herald could he trust?  They lied.  Thought censor prohibits reality from speaking with its multi-tongued lucidity and confusion.  The escape was unknown and lost to reasonable thought.  Never gave it another thought.  I guess I thought that this is just the life that I have and that’s it.  Of course I considered running away, but where was I to go?  Where could I go?  Naive in life and experience, fearful of the wrathful hand, I just endured.  Simple enough.  Behind the water conduit pipes that had been placed as playground equipment in the common yard, I lay contemplating a destination.  Further down the dirt road I went then, seeking any kind of escape, leading nowhere, but away.  The two tire-ruts that constituted the perimeter road lead further into the woods and then beyond the split to that one spot where we found the snake.  Torn open, its heart still beating, it had two firecrackers shoved into its internal organs, then BOOM!!!  A ringing and tingling of all my senses, fingers, and ears – scared me to death.  Unexplainable, I would certainly get my ass beat if discovered.  My ears still ring.  I have been discovered by none other than myself.  The snake symbolizes rebirth, everlasting life, and so she lives forever in my ringing ears.  Die not.  Salvation was scrawled out on a piece of notebook paper when I was sick.  The perfect crucifixion scene with the wind and everything.  I was ill and alone in that.  I have searched and cannot find.  Beyond the conduit and into the woods was a hole that had been dug into the rich earth.  A shard from a green ‘7- Up’ bottle left a scar on the little finger of my left hand.  Blood dripped into the dark soil, somewhat like a drop of mercury sliding across a tabletop.  Different though, it collected smaller bits of the dirt as it rolled further into the hole.  The pain shot up my arm and into the shoulder, registering finally at my brain before I knew what I had done.  Ok.  One of the neighbor kids would sneak out of the house with a baggie full of Oreo cookies and a cardboard can of frozen orange juice concentrate – Minute-Maid.  It was fun because it was stolen, but in truth, it wasn’t a good mix of flavors.  We hid in the conduit, out of sight.


Another day brought my father and me out into the yard to play catch.  One of the things that dads and their boys do.  It was not a sunny day and the grass, I believe, was nigh unto dead – it must have been winter or late fall, maybe early spring.  The ball kept coming to me faster and faster.  It stung my hand afresh with each catch.  I would toss the ball back to my father and he would burn it back to me.  With each rotation of his arm, I would wince inside at the thought of missing the ball.  I knew it would hurt like hell if it smacked me in the face – if it happened to glance off the outer edge of the pocket, missing its target.  Hey, batter, batter!  Hey, batta, batta!  Maybe the glove wasn’t the target.  My father. He told me later, when I was an adult, that he wanted to quit playing catch but didn’t want to spoil my ‘fun’ by simply calling it to an end, saying he was done…so he just kept throwing the ball harder so I’d want to quit myself…and I guess I thought the attention was good, it was positive somehow, I mean – he wasn’t yelling at me or beating me or ignoring me, so it must have been good…and I kept tossing it back to him…and he kept firing it back to me…it ended somehow…and he remembered it all those years later. I know why I remembered…but why did he?


Yes, they spoke of angels’ wings and other sacred things.  They, and I, sat on the edge of your mental periphery and scouted the ideas and concretized miscalculations that you had made in viewing us.  We happened to notice the wrinkle on the side of your one eye that was caused by long and hard pondering of things that you thought went around in the night of our minds.  You disclosed to nobody the inner dealings of those tangled nerve endings and beseeched your own unknown for the release.  Too bad.  You are captured in your self.  We are freed from your perpetual gaze, for we exist without you, and you do not.  You are your own imagining.  We live.  Free.  To free.


Fall from grace and find your own self.  Search those nether regions and un-lose your self.  We have and have not.  We have and are having to do that which is not.  We have seen the eroding sand castles on invisible shores.  We have observed the tide wearing away at the unimaginable.  We are.  We are beyond the imagined ourselves.  They have not unknown what in us lies.  Unimagined.


Looking through the mind and seeing out of the physical eye, I beheld that there were bars before me, like the frames of leaded window panes, structured, yet unmade.  Pointing the sight of my gaze, the lines began to sway in rhythm with themselves; undulations, and parallel.  Gone in the glimmer of the flicking eye; moving like a mouse along the baseboard.  She runs from the quiet become loud and hides beneath the empty wrappings of warm bodies.  And gone.  The spirit mouse vanished as though she never was.  Hiding in my mind.  You are pure crazy.  And then.  Bring on the cat to find the hiding.  Her little heart beats beside the shining of the stars, and the tiny eyes, while unmoving, see the world from an inch above the soil.  How do you acquaint the hunter, or scoop up the broom to unliven the furred runner?  Baby whiskers see, hear, and smell – me.  No.  Unfind the hiding.  Live, beat little heart – you are not of a roach.  My prejudice against ectoskeleton life- forms reminiscent of fouled kitchen appliances brought into pristine dwellings separates you from this lesser being.  Live and enjoy your diminutive yet worthwhile existence.  Live and enjoy!



Questions about Love

How do you know that you’re loved?  What tangible something can you label as being a sign or indication that someone loves you?  Or is it not tangible?  It’s a feeling, right?  Is it that knowing or sensing what the other feels for you?  Is it the comprehending of their appreciation, your importance, their need for you, what you know in your homecoming, what you sense in your going-away, or their homecoming or their going away?  Is it real?  How enduring is it?  What things or events or forgetting or betrayals can damage that love beyond all repair or healing?  How temporal is it?  How can one/we say it will last forever?  Will it be the same in its enduring?  How will it change with the passing of days and months and years?  How will the love of today resemble the love that you/one had a decade or more ago?  What trials actually make it stronger or weaker?  What little ‘nothings’ or ‘somethings’ will make it stronger?  How does it fade when there are no trials or challenges to it?  How does it grow when there are no trials or challenges to it?  How does it stay the same or remain constant when there are no trials or challenges to it?  How do celebrations make it stronger?  How does participating in others’ love make yours stronger?  How does participating in a second love make your primary love stronger or weaker?  How does loving your spouse make your love for your children stronger?  How does your parents’ display of love make your own love stronger, both as a spouse and as a parent?  Does an atheist sense and feel love the same way as someone who believes in God, or a god?  Does an atheist sense or feel love more on a gut or human level and a believer more on a supernatural level?  Does a Christian experience love the same was a Muslim does, or a Hindu, or a Buddhist, or a Jew, or a believer of any other religion or belief-system?  If a Christian and an atheist fall in love with each other, does the Christian love the atheist more than the atheist loves the Christian?  Does the love of a potential God make any and all of your loves stronger or weaker?  Does the love of a potential God make any and all of your loves stronger or weaker than the loves that you would experience if God didn’t/doesn’t exist?  How does the possibility of suffering in Hell make one’s love for God stronger?  How do you actually ‘love’ a god who threatens you with an eternity of suffering in Hell if you choose not to believe in and ‘love’ him/her/it?  How do we choose to believe or love?  We can decide to be ‘committed’ to someone or something, but how do we decide to actually ‘love’ someone or something?  Doesn’t love either happen or it doesn’t?  If one has a poor relationship with one’s parents, or father in particular, how does that really affect one’s ability or willingness to accept and love a potential heavenly father?  How do you know when your parents love you?  How can you tell that your mother, mom, mommy, or ma loves you?  How can you tell that your father, dad, daddy, papa, or pa loves you?  And your siblings, how can you feel their love?  If you’ve been estranged or moderately distant from your siblings for the majority or entirety of your adult life, do you really still love them?  Do they really still love you?  You don’t know each other, so how can you say that you ‘love’ each other?  Does having a shared set of parents and childhood mean that you’re ‘supposed’ to love each other?  What does it mean if you don’t ‘feel’ that love?  Is the love you might/do feel from your siblings different than the love you might/do feel from your best friend?  Is the love you feel from your siblings different than the love you feel from your best female or male friend, when you’re a male, or when you’re a female?  Do you feel love differently when you’re a guy or a girl?  Isn’t infatuation really the same as love?  Can love grow out of infatuation if it’s not the same thing?  Can love grow out of hate?  Is there really, or actually a fine line between love and hate?  Are they actually so closely related emotionally?  Do you feel love differently when you’re a man or a woman?  Do you feel your mom’s love greater when you’re a boy child or a girl child?  Do you feel your father’s love greater when you’re a boy child or a girl child?  Do you feel your mom’s love more than you feel your dad’s?  When you’re an adult, do you still feel the love that you might have felt as a child from your parents as strongly as you did when you where younger?  How do your adult experiences as a parent affect the love that you remember feeling for your parents when you were a child?  How do your adult feelings of love for your parents affect the love that you have for your young or adult children?  Do we dare love our in-laws in the same way or more than our own parents?  Is it ever okay to identify more with them than with our own parents, or is that a betrayal?  If we think we love our in-laws more than we love our own parents, does that say more about ourselves or about our parents?  What if we can’t stand our spouse’s parents?  What if we can’t imagine how they could possibly love their parents?  How do you measure the love that your spouse says they have for their parents against the strength of love that they say they have for you?  How do we claim to ‘love’ people when we don’t really like them?  How can we say that we actually love someone when we don’t like them?  How can we not like someone when we say that we actually love them?  Is it even possible to love someone if we don’t like them?  Is love like belief?  Do we love the idea of love without actually loving the way some people believe in belief without actually believing?  Is it possible to love someone without them knowing that we love them?  Or, can we love them without letting them know?  Is it possible to be loved or to feel loved without knowing who’s actually loving you?  Rather, do we feel or know it if someone loves us but leaves no outward indication of that love?  Does love leave a mark or a track somehow?  Is there some type of electromagnetically-spiritually-staticky-kind-of-powersurge-kind-of-chemical-something-or-other that one can sense or know when in the presence of someone who loves them?  When we ‘feel’ that someone loves us, what are we actually feeling?  Is it love or desire or lust or infatuation or like or compassion or similarity or dependency or co-dependency or co-survivorship or co-spirituality or oneness?  Is it possible to be co-spiritual or ‘one’ with someone and not love them or be loved by them?  Can you share ‘soul-mate’ status with someone and not love them or be loved by them?  If you love your same-gendered soul-mate does that mean
you’re gay?  Do gay people love as intensely or as deeply as straight people?  If you’re straight and come to love a person who is gay, does that make you gay, too?  Isn’t it possible to want someone so strongly, or intensely, physically that we think we love them?  Or isn’t it possible to be so intensely wanted by someone physically that we think they love us?  If someone treats us like shit, how can we still love them?  If someone kills, abuses, or treats our child or children poorly, how can we still love them?  How can we even like them?  Does a parent who leaves with their children to prevent/stop physical or emotional abuse of themselves and/or their children by their spouse/partner love their children more than the parent who doesn’t leave to prevent/stop the same abuse by their spouse/partner?  Will the children of the parent who left with them love more strongly than the children of the parent who didn’t leave with their children?  Will the children of the parent who left with them love their parent more strongly than do the children of the parent who didn’t leave with their children?  If we were abused or neglected as children and missed-out on something like ‘true-parental-love,’ is our measure of any kind of love ever accurate following our childhoods, or will it only be experienced in the extremes?  Do foster children love the same way biological children love?  Does a foster child who gets adopted feel love the same way a biological child feels love?  Does a foster child who ages-out (turns 18yo) of the system without having been adopted understand love the same way another foster child does who did get adopted?  Will the love of the aged-out foster child be as strong or as enduring as it would have been if they had been adopted at some time?  Do the adoptive parents love the adopted child the same way they love their biological children?  Do adopted children love their adoptive parents more than their adoptive parents’ biological children love them?  Do people who cannot reproduce biologically and adopt children love their adopted children the same way parents do who were able to biologically reproduce?  Should parents admit, even to themselves, that they love one of their children more or less than they love another or the rest of their children?  Should parents admit, even to themselves, that they like one of their children more or less than they like another or the rest of their children?  If we had a crappy childhood, but had a dog or cat that we loved and felt loved by, will that pet-love be a reliable or appropriate measure to compare other non-pet loves to if and when they occur?  If we had a relationship that started with both of us ‘loving’ the other and things went sour along the line somewhere and our love came to nothing or came to be something so far removed from what we had at first understood to be love, how does that tainted ‘love’ effect any subsequent loves that we might come to know?  Will the subsequent love be more real or pure than the first one was, even though, at its inception, that other love was understood to be real and pure?  Do we measure our friends’ love for us against what we know of love as a child or as a sibling?  When there are social power differentials between the people in a relationship, does one actually love the other more?  Does the lesser-powered person love the higher-powered person more than the reverse?  Is this like a child-parent love, but twisted somehow into whatever it is?  Does a preacher love his congregation more than the members of his congregation love him?  Does a child love a teacher more than the teacher loves the child?  Does a priest love God more than his God loves him?  Does God love Satan and his fallen angels?  Do Satan and his fallen angels actually love anybody?  Can an evil person love other people?  Can an evil person feel love from another person?  Do the answers to these two questions depend on the definition of this particular ‘evil’ and the context in which it exists?  Did Hitler actually love anybody?  Did he sense Eva Braun’s love for him?  Did she actually ‘love’ him?  Did she know everything about him and still love him?  Did the serial-killer ‘Son of Sam’ actually love someone?  Did he sense anyone’s love for him?  While a psychopath doesn’t or can’t empathize with others, are they capable of sensing love for themselves?  Did Adam love Eve even though he didn’t get to choose her?  Did Eve love Adam even though she was formed or brought to substance from one of his ribs…and didn’t get to choose him as her mate?  Did Adam and Eve still love Cain after he killed his brother, Abel?  Did Cain and Abel love their wives the same way Adam loved their mother, Eve?  (Don’t ask me where Cain and Abel got their wives; that’s another essay.)  Did Adam and Eve love God, even after he had them chased out of the Garden of Eden?  When our babies look at us while they’re nursing or being fed a bottle, can we know their love for us when we’re looking into their eyes?  Are they capable of loving us or knowing that we love them…or is this pre-verbal state or place where love actually begins and is undefined and is pure and has no measure?  If Abraham really loved his son, how could he put him on the altar and be prepared to sacrifice him for God?  Is it right to love God more than we love our children?  Is it right to follow the rules that our church has established, to love our church, more than we love our children?  If our church tells us to stop ‘fellowshipping’ with our child because they no longer believe the things that the church teaches, should we choose our church over our child?  Does love allow us to dis-fellowship our children, or should this be a sign that we should dis-fellowship our church from ourselves because we love our children more?  Would God’s love for Himself demand that we turn our backs on the children we love if they no longer love or believe in Him?  Does God still love a person who was brought-up in the church and got ‘saved’ when he/she was a child, and then reaffirmed his/her love for God and rededicated himself/herself to God and his service when he/she was an adult and then slowly came to doubt and no longer believe in God and His word, but instead believes that the notion of God/god is a myth, does God, if He really does exist, still love that person?  And does God, if He exists, love that person as much as He loves a person who never questioned or doubted His existence, but lived and ‘loved’ Him faithfully?  Do Christian parents love their Christian children more or less or the same as they love their atheist children?  If we perceive that we are loved by a certain person, but that person doesn’t actually love us, are we still loved because we perceive or feel that we are loved by them?  And if someone actually does love us but we perceive that they don’t, are we still loved?  Does a person who loves another person in spite of knowing the worst thing about them, which wasn’t horrible, love the person as much as someone else who loves another person in spite of knowing the worst thing about them, which was
horrible?   Does a serial-killer’s mom love her serial-killer son as much as another mom loves her son who isn’t a serial killer?  Should a serial-killer’s mom still love him?  Should anybody still love him?  Does he deserve love?  Given that people often don’t get what they deserve and just as often get things that they don’t deserve, should the serial-killer be loved?  Should/does Jesus still love the serial-killer?  Should God forgive the serial-killer?  Should/does Jesus still love people who murder their girlfriend’s children?  Should God forgive that person who murdered his girlfriend’s children?  Was Jesus’ blood shed to wash-away the sins of serial-killers and people who murder their girlfriend’s children?  Really?  Is that the ultimate in love, to be God/Jesus and have your blood shed, or to give your life to wash-away the sins of people who have done absolutely horrible and disgusting things and that if they believe in you and the cleansing power of your love, they will be forgiven and join you and the other believers in your eternal heaven or paradise?  Really?  Does the horrible sinner who has a lot to be forgiven love God more than the average sinner who has only an average amount of sin to be forgiven?  And does that super-sinner then know or sense a greater love from God than the average sinner?  Does God love the super-sinner more than He loves the average sinner, given that He’s forgiven/forgiving more of the super-sinner’s transgressions?  Does God love the prodigal more than He loves the one who never left?  If you fell in love with someone forty years ago and then split apart and married someone else, and that someone else died or left you somehow and you reconnected again with that first someone with whom you had fallen in love and fell in love again, would this second ‘being in love’ be as strong as it was those forty years ago?  Would this second time really even be falling in love, or would it be falling in love with the totality of the memory of having earlier fallen in love?  Does a soldier returning from a war in which he killed people, up close or from afar, experience a different intensity of love than he did before he went to war?  Do the children of a soldier returning from a war in which he killed people, up close or from afar, love him/her as intensely as children love their soldier parent who didn’t go to war or aren’t soldiers?  Do prostitutes love their children less than people who are not prostitutes love their children?  Do prostitutes who later get married experience a different intensity of love than do people who were never prostitutes and get married?  Does marrying someone mean that you love them more than if you didn’t marry them but lived with them for the rest of your life?  Do parents of an only-child love their child more than parents who have multiple children?  Does an only-child love his/her parents with a greater intensity than do children from multiple-child families?  Does an only-child love his friends more or less intensely than do children from multiple-child families?  Does an adult who was an only-child love his children any differently than a parent does who came from a multiple-child family?  Do only-children feel cheated by their parents from experiencing sibling-love?  Do single-sons feel cheated by their parents from experiencing true brotherly love, or do single-daughters feel cheated from experiencing true sisterly love?   Is love the same to me as it is to you?  Does my feeling of love feel the same as your feeling of love?  Can I know love the same way that you can know love?  Will or does the list of questions about love ever end?