Love (Short Story Series) - Index & Description
- Building the Fire
- Telling Stories to the Person You Love
- An Australian Wedding
- The Fishers Belt
- While the Crow’s Day drags on in the Darkness, We are the only Ones Left here on Earth
- What Becomes of the Brokenhearted
- Because the Night
- Blood of the Coopracambra
- In Ameria
- For my Mother
- Only we dream
- In the Minstrels Gallery
- Here is the Gold of the Otter's Well Gleaming
- Bone Girl
- Mercury in Retrograde
- Advice to My Daughter
- 1867 – Jerrabatgully
- 1882 – Jerrabatgully
- In Your Memory, I Still Live
- The Great Dance
- Futures Lost
- Moon Rider
- Love in a Time of Plague and War
- Happiness and Imagination
- The Shepherdess Marcela
- The Mercantile Soldier Poet Abu Ja’far and the Aristocratic Lady Hafsa in the Grand Garden of Hawr Mu’ammil
- Recollections touching on The Knight of the Rueful Countenance
- In this Life, We only get One True Love
- All Good Things must come to an End
- The Unexamined Life
- Echoes of You
- Den Fennella
- Fire Storm
- Into Darkness
- Once Upon A Sunrise, In the Burrogorang
- I Wish We Had Never Met
- Wind-wolves raging
- For What is Love But Madness After All
- Resolute Penelope
- Half a Life
- Silly Love Songs
- Of Helen of Troy
- Orlando and Rosalind
This is a series of short stories illuminating love. Some of the stories are told around a fire, and some deal with romance. My friend Rodri points out: "La Vida i l'Amor son símbols de Llum, per que il·luminen de goig l'Univers" (Catalan: Life and Love are symbols of Light, because they illuminate the Universe with joy.) Here, while i will strive for happiness, i cannot promise it.
Love in popular culture is often reduced to the romantic love of one person for another. A whole genre of our writing concerns the yearnings for domestic bliss or momentary passion. But a moment's thought suggests that the concept has a far broader scope, including the love of a mother for her child, the faithful for their god, or those who sacrifice all for their community. It encompasses not only subjects but means of expressing love, by flute girls as well as comic playwrights.
Perhaps, for a moment, let us put all those other sorts of love into a basket, and selfishly concentrate simply on ourselves. When we do, we part company with Socrates, because the concept of a crystalline or abstract form of love is a thousand miles away from the touch of skin on skin. And while concentrating on one in the absence of all those other intangibles that contribute to love, by themselves, the bits fade like sparks from a winter's fire.
Unlike the Romantics, we are reluctant to say that having loved once and failed, love is no longer within our reach. While emotional creatures, we are unable to adopt physical satisfaction as the sole criterion for success. While we might understand the point, the attempt of our poets and songwriters to describe love concerning the bliss of being lost in another’s eyes and body burns hot then, after the 10th repeat, simply leaves us cold.
But then, when each time we ask ourselves, “Well then, what more is there,” we turn to contemplate dishes yet to be washed, dinners uncooked and floors unswept. Attempts to describe love in that broader domestic partnership sense engage different subject matters that can and must persist regardless of desire. Relationship compounded by finance, dependents and washing machines.
From a different angle, do we seek the love of Helen for Paris, or Troilus and Cressida, or Orlando and Angelica or Odysseus and Penelope or Socrates and Diotima? Will our love be so soon forgotten or distorted like that of Aurelius and Faustina? But perhaps our choices have already been reduced to those of Kormak searching in vain for Steingerd? Or lost behind the curtains of time like Patye and Dawes? Or maybe the intangible, Don Quixote and Dulcinea. And, maybe even the intangible tragedy of Marcela and Chrysostom might color our view of love
Some have got to this point and concluded that love is just an illusion. Or perhaps it is just a pale jewel, some bauble for the young to chase. Some ask “Does it make any sense?”
And then it starts again, lightly brushing against another’s mind.
There can be little question that the subject of love is often quietly put into a basket. Perhaps the same bucket we put all complicated things or those that with no scientific explanation. Maybe the same basket we placed the love of a mother for her child, or for the faithful for their god a moment ago.
Copyright Dark Aelf, 2021