From a "rooftop films" email:
Evidently summer’s end leaves the rooftop folk melancholy. Here’s the laughably-emo description of Friday’s film event:
Maybe all love is doomed. Maybe to have genuine passion, you have to face real peril. Perhaps true love only surfaces when it’s threatened, tested, lost and forged anew. In these films, couples face down outside threats-some crumble, some cohere stronger than ever. In these stories, lovers sew the seeds of their own destruction-some crash and burn, some rise together from the ashes. Because deep in all our hearts, we have clashing emotions. We want wild passion and steady companionship, we want spontaneity and stability, hot sex and good friends. We might drink, cheat, fight, fornicate with fuzzy creatures and run off to Vegas in a fit of fury, but the next morning, the next day, years later, from far away, we know we’ll gladly suffer for that singular soul mate. Because love is confusing, love is conflicting, love may destroy us all, but goddamn love is hard to kill.
Neruda was a communist, frenemies with Borges, and generally a rather flimsy-spined individual. But good lord those words kill me, "love is so short, forgetting so long."
The best part of the whole poem is perhaps the part where he goes "de otro — sera de otro, como antes de mis besos," and then in the very next line amends his previous "sometimes i loved her" to "perhaps i love her," i.e., it becomes about competition, he can stand to lose her but can’t stand to have her forget, to belong to someone else.
Why is all the loveliest lit is the most puerile, most emo, most sad?