a different sort of e.k.g.

it goes like this. the first time you are so desperate to cling to anything that you love everything. a puppy! a flower! the world is new and full of possibility. then after a few more failed attempts, dejection sets in. you will never love again. you had the one; it's now floating somewhere out there in the morass of your blackened past, and it wasn't really that good anyway. but you persist, because, well, how can we not? fortuitous encounters chip away at your hardened will, and gradually you decide, hey, what's one more ride on the true love express? after all, you've done this so many times before; you could do it with your eyes closed. and thus we settle into complacency.*

three times in my life i have been told that i think a lot about love as a way to structure my work. each time i have felt fully childish and denuded. but denuded in the sense that it is both a moment of shame and a moment of victory. a victory over a society that doesn't know what to do with itself as it stares, agape, at you dancing around in your most basic form of being.

*note: this graph has not been considered with the inclusion of a z-axis variable: intensity of love; regardless, the idea may prove fruitful for future analysis.