On The Feast of Lupercalia

In 1868, Cadbury had perfected the art of chocolate-making. Back in the day, in 496 AD, there was no chocolate, but there were lover's lotteries, until Pope Gelasius banned them. Instead of chivalrous knights and young bachelors and maidens pairing up as lovers in the more carnal sense of the word, or lovers in the ways of chivalrous devotion to a lady, people were then required to give up the pagan ways and draw the name of a saint from a hat. Instead of walking around devoted to a lady wearing your heart, and her name on your sleeve, you were to emulate this random saint.

Kinda takes all the fun out of it. And what is more, the gerrymandered festival was moved from the end of the celebration on the 15th to the 14th. And the ancient Roman month of February, named for an older Spring fertility ritual, the Februa, was much later in the year than it is now. Christianity ruined all the fun, and we now have conflicting stories of a 'Saint Valentine' who variously does things like marrying couples in secret, or curing prison guard's daughters of blindness, falling in love with them, sending them notes, and getting executed.

I digress momentarily to thoughts of Gabriel Garcia Marquez' "Of Love And Other Demons" and the girl's long red freakin' ass hair. I also digress to thinking about what the real point of living is, which is, I think, truly to live and love, and not make notches on your wallpost about how much you've grown spiritually. The point of living isn't to wallow in misery either because you don't have someone to play with your hair on this God-forsaken occasion. But, of course, I am digressing.

Ah...where was I? The original festival upon which St. Valentine's Day was founded was for purification, and the ancient idea of purifying by 'getting something out of your system'.

So this nasty cold bug I have isn't quite out of my system. Nor is my anguish for the old physical memories of pain coming up, the resentment at years spent caring about people who just objectified me, or my general malaise with the idea of love.

Ironically, another side of me really likes the idea of love. Love for the earth, for friends and family, for people as human beings, just not romantic love and sappy, fake Valentine's Day sentiments. Give me a copy of Paul Bowles' "The Sheltering Sky", Neil Gaiman's "Harlequin Valentine" serving his heart up on a plate with a knife and some catsup/ ketchup (tomāto/ tomäto), and an empty Gondola in Venice...and I'll give you a bottle of Shiraz wine, and sit on the floor after reading those books and cry so hard that I can almost touch my toes again in Bound Lotus. Today, the Feast of Lupercalia, does not look to be one of my happiest, but maybe that's just because I haven't done Bound yet. 281 days and counting. Yesterday I wanted to quit. Today I want to quit. But I do it anyway.

And my appetite is now back. I am hungry like a wolf.