"I'm Quiz Kid Donnie Smith and I've got a lot of love in me."
[from the film "Magnolia"]

Today I began writing an erotic story I've been meaning to write for a long time. Unlike the others, which were fictional (at least at the time I wrote them anyway), this is one based on a real day in my life, from a long long time ago. The woman it involves is one I've not set eyes on in perhaps a decade, so I seriously doubt she'd ever care, or even know, that I'll soon put the details of our evening together out there for others to read.

I've taken at least three separate sessions of writing, and we've not yet sat down to dinner. I'm not sure if I'll go back to writing tonight, or if I'll leave it unfinished until tomorrow or even later than that. It's proving a much more difficult task than I'd anticipated, and not simply for the length of it.

You see, it's not a story where I can simply skip to the gritty details of the ending. In fact, in many ways, to even refer to it as "erotica" isn't quite right. It's more a tale of romance than anything. It's the story of one of the most incredible nights of my life, and I'd like to keep it as true to life and as well detailed as my memory will serve me. Now I've had other incredible nights since then. I've probably had sex that was hotter. I've probably done other, equally nice or creative things for and with other women on other romantic occassions. But that does not diminish the significance of this particular night, nor does this particular night diminish the significance of any others I've had.

And while I was prepared to cope with the difficulty of prodding my adled mind to remember the details of something from so long ago, and while I knew it would be a lengthy process to write it all out, I've rather worked myself into an altogether different problem, albeit one which will no doubt fade quickly. There's only so much time you can spend listening to "Come Away with Me" by Nora Jones on repeat while detailing the events of a romantic night of long ago before, as much as the past is the past and nothing but the past, you've still reached inside and touched the hibernating inner flame, and singed the tips of your fingers.

I don't have decade-old unresolved feelings for Tracey. That's not the issue. Rather, I came to discover, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say, this process has reminded me of... certain pecularities about the way my memory works. Looking back, I can remember clearly certain details. Other things are hazy or downright lost. The chronological succession of events is clear to me. I remember what I cooked. I remember certain details of who was standing where and when. But it took me a concentrated effort to remember her face. I can't remember her body very well, just it's rough figure. But I remember how it functioned. (Ok, that sounds clumsy, but I can't think of a tactful way to express what I mean. I... remember what she liked or didn't, and what worked for her and how well... how's that?) I remember what kind of wine I served. I don't remember what she was wearing. We saw each other for 15 months but today I can't recall what color her eyes were. But I can close my eyes, reach inside, and remember feelings. I remember how my heart raced. I remember the calm. Not just the calm, but I mean if I close my eyes and go back, I can remember that calm - her calm. I have to take myself through the paces of the story and dig deep to do it, but, well... that's exactly what I've been doing all day in trying to write it.

I don't know. Maybe it's just what happens when you've spent too much time listening to Nora crooning while you're writing a romance tale and sitting at home alone on a Valentine's Day. But I do know that deep within me, I still have that hibernating flame. I know that I still possess the capacity to feel it, to unleash it, to consume with and be consumed by it, and to feel once again a passion like the one I felt that night. That it must remain such a rare and elusive beauty to me is on the one hand tragic, and on the other hand necessary.

And I know that in the next hour and 18 minutes before Valentine's Day is over, I'm not going to find that mysterious and wonderful lover I sometimes let myself long for, open the floodgates and spiral down into a wondrous freefall. I'm not going to caress a woman's body, or even sit and chat with one over coffe for that matter. And today is just a day like any other.

And I'm not sitting here doing the single-and-bitter diatribe about how "Valentine's Day sucks" either. That's not it. Valentine's Day is whatever you make it, and I spent some of today remembering a very wonderful Valentine's Day I once had, and I hope to have other similar ones in the future.

I guess the point is just that today I tried to remember the truth about the past, and tried to be hopeful for the future, and in doing so discovered something about the present that is both frightening and exhilirating. Something I've wondered about myself. That I think... I still have it in me. I could feel that way again, for the right woman. For the right one, I could not just fall in love...

I could let go.

"... and the good book says,
'you may be through with the past,
but the past may not be through with you'..."
[from the film "Magnolia"]