issue 3: lover
What is love? (Baby, don’t hurt me.)
Merriam-Webster has 15 definitions of love including: “strong affection for another arising out of kinship or personal ties,” “attraction based on sexual desire,” “an amorous episode,” “a god,” “a score of zero.” Love is encompassing and sloppy. Our media is saturated with it. But many are realizing that the reality of healthy romantic love is different than, if not in opposition with, both traditional and modern ideas of it.
Societal and biblical definitions are being called into question. Is love really selfless or does love include healthy boundaries? Is love a feeling or a commitment? How does love relate to sexuality and gender norms? And what do we do with an absence of love? Do we need it? There is much to be explored.
I’ll leave you with a quote, cited by bell hooks: Love is, “the will to extend one’s self for the purpose of nurturing one’s own or another’s spiritual growth… Love is as love does. Love is an act of will -- namely, both an intention and an action. Will also implies choice. We do not have to love. We choose to love.”
s m van de kamp, Founder & Editor
cover art: Valentine’s Day Self-Portrait by Shelby Lano
Kilig
Forever began with a smile. It spread ripples. The tourists felt lucky — instead of a tartan keyring, they got a glimpse of the most beautiful bride ever seen in Gretna Green. Cradling red, red roses, she lit a flame of pride in the locals’ hearts — rekindled, they fell in love all over again. Standing beside her at the anvil, so did the blushing groom.
Lucy Seymour-Kelleher
Kilig: A Tagalog word meaning romantic excitement – like butterflies –which could be a reaction to something romantic happening to you, but also a response to seeing something romantic happening to someone else.
I let myself scatter, pallid, over your blueglittered brown skin. Luminous! Unyielding! I try to revel in it but there are a few complications: salt spray, a woman drowning, sand in my teeth, sand everywhere, a swarm of beach police on ATVs.
You nibble my ear, unaffected. I ask if you’re seducing me and laughter is the answer.
I lean in closer.
Somehow distracted again, I rise and you kiss my foot. I worry.
“Aren’t you afraid of sand in your teeth?”
“It’s been here for millions of years,” you explain.
I fall down laughing.
Jennie Lawless
Amar no es una locura. Lo inexplicable es no poder permitirselo. Federico Daiup
Untitled (Villain)
Naked in my bed you look like a villain
Skinny boy with knife tricks
Bad burglar boy
Brutal.
Tender fruit and fear.
Ripe for the taking. This body over mine
Baring its teeth. The cruelness of his mouth.
I wanted to feel the bite without it leaving a mark Heaven is far. Heaven is late. Paradise is here.
Watching the eclipse together only to see the moon become more sky Villain wouldn’t kill me, but I stole everything I earned.
Paige Greco
August
Bird of prey
My sick hawk
90mph, August, sweating. Stoned.
Treasured pearl, dissolving, caught in freckled skin. Kissing me, shirtless, shy.
Throwing his weight like a dull sword— With little impact.
Little prey, poised for slaughter. Sever, swallow, dethrone. Tonight, let’s love or perish. Decimate.
One direct hit. Dissolve or devour. Paige Greco
Personal Ad
I want someone to manage me, harvest me like bees; suction my sweet, sweet honey from hexagonal cones made stamen thick.
I want someone, anyone, to hug me so tight that breath seems unnecessary, and the long ooze of Summer gives palliative care.
I want someone to undo me with a tenderness akin to carefree, where there is no separation, only the length of hair pulled out by the breeze, see it dance there, live in light, buzzing. tc arkle
One Year Later
Knee deep in a bitter March Connecticut River, I wade through eddies and watch the world swirl in my eye like a gnat. I soothe numbness with numbness, my good sense crumpled like socks on the bank. I look deranged— a nymph lurching through snowmelt, a spectacle of self-loathing— which is how he left me. Ablaze. Brainsick. A raw and reckless thrash, resentful of not drowning; that he didn’t want me to.
Jordan Stanley
Círculo vicioso. Pasión y lujuria. Federico Daiup
Second Chances
The countdown is finally over — tonight’s the night of my second date with Vince. I’ve got a serious case of the butterflies threatening to set off my IBS, but I’m not going to let that stop me. I’ll take a pre-emptive Imodium before I go. I’ve got an hour until I leave, so plenty of time to get ready. I have already picked an outfit — is a little black dress too obvious ? No, it’s perfect — it shows off my legs, which I love — and it doesn’t cling to my tummy, which is great as I’m going through a bit of a bloated phase.
My phone lights up — it’s Sophie — my best friend. She’s on her way to a trial shift for her dream job — sous chef at a swanky restaurant in West London. “Hey, Soph ! ” “No, it’s fine, I’m nearly ready, ” I reassure her as I get started on my makeup. “Just getting my makeup on…ahh, thanks babe. Yeah, I went for the little black dress in the end….awww thanks hon – you’re right, I do have good legs ha ha !”
I hold the phone with my shoulder while I rummage in my makeup bag with one hand and grab the Imodium from the medicine cabinet with the other. “You’ve got this, Soph.” I say, swigging back a pill with some water. I sweep black mascara on — just one coat should do. I like it subtle. Not bad. Now for lipstick — “Yes, we’re meeting at his place for a drink first before dinner….Holland Park — yeah I know —…well, they’d be mad not to take you…thanks babe, yeah, you too —just be yourself and enjoy—you’ve got this ! ” We ring off, promising to text later.
My recent dating history is like something out of a rom com, minus the happy ending. There was the blind date mistaken identity case: we met at the tube and started walking to the nearest pub. He said “Nice beret - you must be wondering where mine is” and whilst I was thinking errrrrm, he got a text and shouted out “You're not Emma!” and ran away. I went back to the tube, where I found my
actual blind date. I should have gone home after the beret mix-up. Then there was Ollie, the guy who turned up wearing a wedding ring. Naturally, I asked him about it as soon as I noticed over our first drink. He explained that the marriage had been a mistake...he had been going to end the relationship, but then she had been diagnosed with stage 4 cervical cancer and he had felt duty-bound to stay with her. He gave specific details, timelines, plot points. When I told Sophie the story, she said “ Hang on a minute - that sounds familiar... ” We googled it, and sure enough it came up on a Reddit thread where someone had asked how to explain a wedding ring on a date. I only ever use this word when there’s nothing else harsh enough – and I think you’ll agree, but What a c*nt . That episode was enough to swear me off dating forever.
But then Vince came along. We met at a mutual friend’s party. My Uber was already on the way when he arrived, so we didn’t get time to chat properly. I'd assumed he couldn’t have been single with eyes like that, so I was over the moon when Hannah texted the next day to say he’d asked for my number. Hannah reassured me he was definitely single. Our first date was lovely — one of those where you just click and talk and don’t want it to end. But the ending was perfect — we held hands walking to the taxi rank and had the briefest but loveliest kiss goodbye before I got in the cab, Vince waving and blowing me a kiss as it drove away. Even the cabbie said – “ Looks like a keeper, that one. ” I agreed.
My tummy is still doing somersaults as I walk out of the Holland Park tube in the late autumn sunshine. I’m glad I’ve gone for the comfier shoes; ankle boots with a block heel rather than the little kitten heels — I feel more like myself. Some of the houses around here are stunning — their enormous bay windows giving the rest of the world a glimpse into the lives of the mega-wealthy.
They’re the kind Soph and I love playing “that’s my house” with — you only get one chance to claim a house. Once you call it, you
can’t take it back — even if you see a better one. Leave it too late, and the good ones will have gone — but settle too soon, and you might miss the house of your dreams.
I get to the white pillars with number 69 on (Sophie winks in my head) and I follow the black and white checkered path then up the steps to Vince’s flat– a little attic studio right at the top of the converted Georgian mansion. It had belonged to his grandmother, and she’d left it to him in her will. Jammy. Hannah says that’s how Vince’s friends describe him – jammy. He’s one of those guys who seems to get all the luck, but nobody begrudges him because he’s just so nice.
The door buzzes open, and I start the climb to the top flat. My butterflies increase with every step. As I reach the last spiral up to his front door, my heart is in my mouth. He’s waiting at the top, smiling in the doorway. As I reach the last step, our eyes meet, and the second kiss is inevitable. We let it draw us in, but neither of us completely let’s go – we’re both holding our breath. We pull apart, smiling and he tells me I look lovely as he shows me through to the tiny living room and gets me a glass of white wine. We slip into easy conversation again, and time seems to both stand still and go too fast . It’s time to leave for dinner – so I pop to the bathroom quickly to wee and reapply my lippy.
I sit on the loo with a smile and a happy sigh. Suddenly, out of nowhere, my worst nightmare is happening. The world’s most giant pooh is already halfway out. My mind goes back to when I was getting ready to go – and I realise I must have reached for the wrong pill packet and taken a bloody laxative!!! Oh god. I hear it drop. Ok, maybe it’s not so bad. I say a silent thank-you to the pooh gods for giving me a clean wipe (Sophie calls this a “ghostie”), then turn around to flush. Jesus christ — it is absolutely fucking massive! Like the length of one of those giant
Subway sandwiches. That explains the bloating – I feel about a stone lighter. Aaand flush. My heart sinks. It’s stuck. Oh my fucking god. It won’t flush. I look around for a toilet brush, but no joy. Oh god!!!
Every second I stay in here increases the chances he will know I’ve done a number two. But I can’t very well just leave it here, can I? If only I could call Sophie. She would know what to do. But I’m on my own with this one. Ok think. My options are: 1) Make an excuse, say I need to go home and then just never see him again. Or 2) Leave it here and go to dinner. Hopefully, it’ll break down a bit of its own accord. I could leave something behind (besides this enormous turd) on purpose so that I have an excuse to come back with him – then slip back in here and deal with it. Ok – let's go with option number 2. The irony is not lost on me. My dating life has quite literally gone to shit.
As we walk to the restaurant arm in arm, I’m thinking that since this is probably the last time I get to have dinner with this lovely guy, I might as well make the most of it. Order the lobster, tell him your best stories and be totally yourself. Oh, and pay the bill. Hopefully, that will help to soften the blow of what you have done in the poor guy’s bathroom. Either that, or you’ll end up looking like a total sociopath.
We get to the restaurant and order drinks. I manage to fake-smile and nod my way through until he goes to the gents, giving me time to contemplate my life choices. As I look at the ice cubes floating in my negroni, the full horror of the situation sinks in.
What have I done? Ok, There’s still a chance you’ll get away with this, isn’t there? But wait - even if it magically flushes first time, there will still be the small matter of the appalling smell. I realise my choices have changed. I can 1) Run away now while he’s in
the toilet and accept that I won’t see him again. Then move to Australia and start a new life. Or 2) Confess now and maybe tell the story at our wedding three years from now. Or, end up reading about it on Reddit from a beach in Australia.
“ Are you ok? You look like you've seen a ghost. ” He’s come back from the toilet already (must have been just a wee for him). The decision has been made for me. It’s option number two again. I’m going to have to come clean. I knock back my cocktail in one, and tell him everything. As the words come out, I feel I’m having an out of body experience. My ears are ringing as he listens with a totally straight face.
www.reddit.com/dating-nightmares-i-did-a-massive-poo-in-my-date s-bathroom-and-it-wouldn’t-flush-but-now-we-are-engaged
Lucy Seymour-Kelleher
Te escribo un poema, un poema de amor.
Tu boca me ensueña, y pienso en vos.
Me tiembla el cuerpo cuando te observo.
La locura me acecha cada vez que te pienso.
Untitled you are my oh no not again and my yes yes please s m van de kamp
La diferencia que forja una simetría perfecta. Federico Daiup
Love Sonnet
I am the master of my own despair, no one weeps better than me. My sorrow, I’ll never share to you, lover, there is no key. The cracks of my heart flow down to a center cold with withered veins— True! I never turn up the frown in spite of the care, and joyous tear stains. Oh the fragility of woman skin! I am weak to sunlight, however no man now will ever win, for my knife was sharp, my mind’s severed— Oh God! Is this how you made me? A flower, raised only by moonlit entropy.
Lavender Hemlock
The Fight
There was a place we met just now and then, but only in the dark and by accident, came crashing in out of storms and wind when life let go and our breath was spent.
It was grotesque, the fight. Visceral. Throwing storm-force tulips, and words of bitter metal, broken glass and lips and crushed stems and hearts and petals.
And at its height a friend calls in, and us among the shipwreck of the flowers, with windows, water hopes, all smashed all carelessly on those rocks of ours.
So what to do but laugh?
We joked an explanation,
“I tripped over while passing him the tulips”, which was, in a way, what happened and some sort of salvation.
Jan Martin
Want is a wolf. In this desertscape, parched and alone, I wander.
Want is a wolf and your wolf eyes follow me.
Our meeting is a moon rising, reflecting you to me, me to you. You’re the howl on the roof.
Then, blood red blood red, this orbit drenches us both.
Inescapable need tears at our furred limbs as we discard them.
We lick our lips and fall, now bone nets against sand, we merge into the land where we belong with red blood.
s m van de kamp
