Here's the thing that I love about Marc Chagall. He dreamed wildly. Not only do people fly, but there are goats at fifth story windows, blue men who play instruments on a cloud...and my favorite...a cake on a slanted table. The painting I stare at right now (not an original...good God, man!) is called "Birthday" and it features a man flying through a small apartment, gently folding his head back (here, I romanticize, because truly no neck could do this without a demon's aid) to kiss his girl, who holds a sweet wildflower bouquet. This is one of Chagall's less crazy works....no farm animals or blue musicians. Her cake does sit precariously on a table that is slanted towards a red floor. It wouldn't dream of falling off, not in Chagall's world. It could fly away, or feed itself to passersby. But, crashing to the red carpet would never happen. And that is what I love about Chagall. He's hopeful in the power, the magnitude of magic.
Does it happen for all of us...this floating lover? I'm not sure. Once upon a time...I thought yes. And now, I think it's more about what you really want, deep down in places that not even you know about. I am a romantic...it's hard to say that maybe lover's love doesn't happen for all of us just because it can. Just because it strolls casually through the world full of confidence, full of faith that it won't be turned away. I see love this way. Like a big rolling force of nature.
I don't want to say this...but sometimes I think that I might be immune to it. Could that be so? Little T-cells built to ward off love's virus? I'm just not sure. And I don't want to end on a note of despair on Valentine's day, so let me say this.
Anything can happen, and usually does.