To love too much is stupid, unintelligent and risky. To love too little is stupid, unintelligent and risky. Where’s the sweet spot? You are glad she is yours. You don’t want her for yourself, but she helps make you, you. She gives you colour. She gives you hope. Her colours are yours, but it’s not just the colours it’s the formation of the colours. Do I disregard her as she gets closer? Do I push back and love her a bit less in case she hurts me again? Does less love mean less hurt? I don’t know. She’s no good some days. I’m no good some days. Bloody hell she’s good. I think I love her. Dammit I know I love her. Do I tell anyone? No. Yes! She’s having a bad day. Am I intolerant? Is she just no good? God no. She’s exquisite. Why can’t she cope with this? Be better? Why am I not better? Nothing is perfect. Have you ever seen a Jacaranda in full bloom? Or a Peone? There are perfect things. But she is not. I am not. Its agony. Its’ my agony. Not hers. I hope, hope, hope. What right do I have to hope? Did Solzhenitsyn hope? Mandela? Yes they did. Colour is the key. Colour and hope. The other colours are OK. I might have liked them if I were born to another combination. But I have these colours. They are beautiful and balanced. Unblemished but not undefeated. I don’t cry but I do get melancholy. Do I change when she fails? Hell yeah. Pathetic. But what if she’s disappointing? Do I stick? Yes. Why? Because I love her. It’s irrational. It’s stupid, unintelligent and risky. I think of the scientists who send messages into outer space and hope for (expect?) a reply. Are they the bravest people on earth? (Them and jockeys). Imagine punting your whole career on finding a needle in a yak’s fur. Or in a herd of yaks. But that’s what they do. I do too. Sort of. I yearn. I retreat. Then I get an answer from space. She loves me. She’s brought me the Holy Grail! It’s just for me. Is it enough? No. I want more. I want another one. She wins. She loses. I win. I lose. Why do I expect more from her? She is better than me so I want her to be better than me all the time. It’s stupid, unintelligent and risky. But I do it. I love her. I hate her. God I love her. I can’t wait to see her again. She is my team. Go Cats.
About Damian O'Donnell
I'm passionate about breathing. And you should always chase your passions. If I read one more thing about what defines leadership I think I'll go crazy. Go Cats.
I visited the Trinity College (Dublin) library in 1993 and whilst gazing at the Book of Kells, I must admit to feeling closer to God (Gary Snr).
I have just recently offered to write something about John Harm’s love of the Cats after I read ‘Loose Men Every Where”. It will be difficult now that I have read about another suitor. A devotee that makes John seem like someone with a passing interest in the Cats from a few years ago, One of those blokes who says I used to follow the Cats, but I don’t go to the footy any more. The game has changed.
Must be awkward when you are quietly watching your beloved at the footy and her former lover turns up and sits next to you. Change the subject to horse-racing? How was that ride by Michelle Payne!
Neil – I state quite clearly that I don’t want her for myself!
TG – when I see books behind glass I wonder what effect time has in all their sanctity. In 1,000 years from now will we see “Luke Luck Licks Lakes” by Dr Suess so revered as The Book of Kells.
Nice work Dips.
A man of genius makes no mistakes. His errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery.
Dips, bad news: She didn’t bring home the Grail just for you. There were three of us… a menage a trois. I was there too.
Well done.
ajc – I didn’t feel a thing.
davep – I must have millions of portals!
It’s as if James Joyce wrote 50 Shades of Hoops. Onya Dips
I thought you were reading my mind. I thought you were whispering softly of the Avenging Eagle. Until the last line.
Love is a coat of many colours. But a man can only wear one coat at a time.
Knowing how you don’t want her just for your self, John’s new book might be called ” Loose Women Everywhere”.
“Irrational, stupid, intelligent , risky” That wouldn’t be out of place on my tombstone. JJ would be proud old Josser. Interesting that you’ve feminised the Cats. If I try to picture Collingwood as a woman I see wrinkles, unwashed dentures, incontinence and the purple rinse. Thanks Dips !!
I reckon we can all relate to that on a few different levels until the last.2 words thanks,Dips
Phil – I see Judy Green (remember her?). Not sure if that says more about me or you!
Rulebook – the last two words are the best two.
Love it, Dips.
Was forced to read The Dubliners in my first year of Arts at Melb Uni.
Thoroughly enjoyed it, although as the years have gone on re-reading has certainly rewarded.
Judy helps improve the image Dips. Only problem is I can’t picture her without bloody Alby Mangles. Now my mind turns to Karen West aahh much better…
“So who is your favourite genius, James Hird or James Joyce” TISM, “Whatareya” 1998.
Great words Dips. Well played.
And this is why it;s never a mistake to read the Almanac. Colour is most certainly the key Dips. The colur of the hoops. Well played sir..
Oh I love this, Dips.
Some people would question the wisdom of one-way romance. And some people will never know.
Love your writing. Yep I know how you feel too.
Reminiscent of Gnash’s I hate U, I love U
I’ve heard of poet-warriors an poet-soldiers and poet-footballers but, bugger me, a poet-accountant from East Heidelberg.
Loved it. And the comments.
Finally got around to extracting this from the recent archives.
Quite a portrait, Dips.