Ars Amatoria

amo, amas, amat, amiss

Her name?

Let’s get a couple of things straight right at the start, ok? Her name isn’t my fault. I was nowhere in sight when her parents gave it to her. In fact, I wasn't around so my parents hadn’t even given me my name. It’s not some cheap novelist’s trick to give her the most appropriate name possible, and don’t try telling me that you don’t think that’s the case. Whatever I’d chosen to call her you would have read something into it, people just do that , and no, I’m not going to give you a couple of examples to prove the point, you know them well enough. One name would mean that she was cute but stupid, another studious sexy and bespectacled, a third, big-titted. That’s how it is with names, you ascribe characteristics to them and those characteristics to everyone with that name. In this case I haven’t chosen to call her anything. It’s her name. Simple as that. And whilst it does describe her perfectly, you probably shouldn’t read too much into it, that’s for novels. And that’s the second point; this isn’t a novel, it’s real life...sort of.

And it’s real love. But you knew that as soon as I wouldn’t tell you her name didn’t you?
You don’t get to be this disillusioned without love.

Names come at the beginning, they are our primer. “Hello, I’m”, “I’d like you to meet..”, “Dear..”. Books are always at it. Crap isn’t it? Names pin. Names are the window to the soul.

But if names are that powerful how come every Peter isn’t a rock star, every Philip a jockey, every Alex a lawyer? And how come I haven’t felt this way about someone with her name before? No, I have met them; it’s not unusual.

When I first met her, in the mail room, I made the mistake of pigeon-holing her because of her name. Still first encounters are full of misunderstandings. She says I was really arrogant, which always surprises me because I clearly remember trying to be friendly. But her assessment is near the truth of my personality. Sometimes others see you more clearly than you see yourself. Of course when you do see yourself you’re not troubled by your own name. I, me, my, mine and if that isn’t arrogant and egotistical then what is?

This isn’t the first time I’ve been in love, although normally I‘ve managed to get involved too , so I know what it’s like. Or I thought I did.

First love? Which one do you want to know about? They all felt like first love at the time. As the wisemen say, if you have to ask it probably isn’t love. I could tell you all of their names and how they started and ended. But that’s all you need to know really. They ended. And this isn’t about them it’s about her and I’m not even sure it ever started with her, although I’m pretty sure it’s ended.

So where’d you meet her?

Not at the candy store unfortunately. Nowhere that sweet. At work, her first day. I don’t remember the date, or what either of us was wearing, those things come later. I don’t remember where we were in the building, or what the weather was like. Give me a break. I do remember that she asked me what it was like in the office and I said everyone was really friendly. How do you get from there to arrogant? How do you get from there to anywhere? The detail’s not important because the first meeting counts for nothing. The only important thing to emerge from the first meeting is that we met. I’ve got plenty more detail on subsequent encounters and they’re much more interesting. But they’re not more important. Nothing is more important. Nothing is more important than the first sight, when I didn’t fall in love with her. Because without not falling in love with her at first sight I wouldn’t have been able to fall in love with her later.

1000 year's worth of art about lighting strike, love at first sight and how to chat up girls at the circus and it’s all wrong. A pack of lies. You meet girls at work, and you fall in love with them a bit later. Maybe too late, but certainly love. Timing eh?

There’s not a single event ever in the world where timing hasn’t been crucial. And don’t try telling me that’s obvious. If it was that obvious we wouldn’t learn history at school. History is just a record of timing, good and bad. It’s not helpful. It’s not going to help us avoid mistakes or be successful . It will only help us understand our failures in the context of bad timing. What we really should study is Future. You could argue that what you’re about to read has yet to happen – believe me it has – but you won’t know about it until you turn the page and. Id o know about it but I haven’t written the next page yet. So whilst you have the benefit of foresight – knowing that I’m going to meet her and fall in love with her, I didn’t. And I have the benefit of hindsight, knowing that somewhere down the line the timing was wrong, but you can’t see that yet and you’re probably, despite all the evidence to the contrary still hoping for a happy ending. Get real.

Fact: Happy endings only happen in fiction.

Of course just like the moment I choose to reveal her name, I’m in charge of everything here. I could sell you short on the truth for the sakes of art. I’m the one who’s writing it. You’re only ever going to hear her side of the story from me, so even if it doesn’t go right in real life I can right it on the page. I could alter all the bad timing. I could go back and make it love at first sight. She might remember my first words effort at friendly as just that, my nervousness as charming and feeble joke endearing. I could remember her gin-clear eyes, her tantalising smile (look it up smart arse, you might learn something) and the way my heart got its timing wrong and quivered. At the moment of perfect timing, lighting and the blind archer struck us both.

But why bother? Believe me I’ve done quite enough fantasising; I don’t need to let you in on it. And what would be the point anyway? Who the fuck ever wrote a book about requited love? People don’t want to read about someone else having fun. They read to see lives more miserable and desperate than theirs to make themselves feel better by comparison. If you’ve got requited love you’re too busy being in love to worry about writing. Your energy has an outlet. No writing is best left to the poor, miserable bastards who haven’t got what they want, but know what it is they want and have plenty of time on their hands to tell everyone else about it.

These failed lovers are writers. They can take deconstruct a name, lovingly describe the tripping tongue on the palate. Jesus, a whole chapter about her name! And how it sounds, plus the phonetics, nicknames, literary nudges and winks – talk about juvenilia. He wouldn’t have wasted all his time doing that if he’s still been shagging her that’s for sure.

And the people that read about it? You? Well they’re the ones who are frightened it will happen to them, or they should be. So writing is my revenge. Oh don’t worry, nothing bad is going to happen, I’m not going to hurt her. This isn’t novelist as murderer and novel as murder weapon - Colonel Red, in the library with the hardback. No what I mean is that when you write you’re in control, you pick the words, you pick the timing. There are countless ways of telling you how it was, but to be frank, you’re going to get my way. Or rather one of my ways because I could talk about it endlessly.

Endlessly trying to find exactly the right words. If the truth can’t be told so as not to be believed, when someone doesn’t believe you, you must have told it wrong. And that in the end is the story, not telling it right. So by writing it down I get to avoid spoiling it by saying something stupid. Practising all day to find a clever line to make the meaning come true. Actually, I don’t think I ever said anything stupid, I just said things at stupid moments. If your watch stopped and you used it the tell people the time there’d be nothing wrong with what you were saying, just when you were saying it. Twice a day you’d be telling the truth.

It’s like the old joke about the new prisoner. In order to cheer him up his cellmate decides to tell a joke. “Number 43!” he shouts out and the inmates roar with laughter. “67” come the response to more delight and belly laughs rock the jail. Newbie asks for an explanation. “We know ever joke in the world and we’ve heard them so frequently we save time by giving each joke a number”, explains the old lag. Keen to give it a go Newbie shouts out “143” to deafening silence.
“It’s not the joke”, says his mate. “It’s the way you tell it”.

And that is the point. It’s not her name or whether what I say is true or not, it’s the way I tell it. Maybe if I tell it right, I can rewrite this story. Maybe by the time we get to the end the beginning will be different. Don’t fool yourself. I’m not writing this for your benefit, I’m writing it for mine. In the hope......I’m writing this because I don’t have any choice, that’s who she is. Amanda, "to be loved".

“So, Kennedy, tell me what it’s like”