Fuck Dumb Love 

A while ago some psychos in New York came up with an experiment designed to look at intimacy or closeness. 

They published the results in some psycho journal. 


To be honest, I am not entirely sure I can summarise the results here because, as with most things psychology, it’s full of techno-waffle designed to lull me into some esoteric wanker-land where only the Club few can subsist. I hate the way they write. 

Anyway, the point of the experiment was to examine “closeness” by taking people through a series of questions in three sets (36 in tot), each set getting more personal than the last. 

The finding was: 4.06, or something. Whatever that means. Lovely that they applied some number to it. They may as well have picked 42. 

The media got hold of the paper and, of course, turned it into the “list of love”. This is exactly the type of Cosmopolitan fodder that people (including me) just love. And they, the mediazzi sealed the deal by revealing that after the experiment two of the couples in the group got married. We only have their word for it. But, wowser. Love potion number 9. 

The questions themselves have nothing to do with closeness or falling in love. The process of sharing the questions and answers (the conversation) simply opens some doors in a person which might otherwise be shut. The questions aren’t magic. Some peoples doors are more firmly wedged shut than others. And the questions might be little knob-turners under certain circumstances. 

Likely the circumstances designed to induce closeness lead to a lowering of peoples doors/walls/barriers (and they allude to this in the paper). For example, if I tell you I am going to do this “closeness” experiment on you, you are primed to give it a shot.

All up, I would probably fall in love with my questioner. I reckon I could fall in love just a little bit, little bit every day with someone new. Love for me doesn’t always stop the presses. It’s a feeling I experience easily. Athough I have no conscious ability to discriminate over how it’s dished out. I think love for me is not unlike how people report feeling fear. 

The simple act of loving me, whilst flattering, also isn’t going to be enough to swoon me. Some people think that love is like paper mâché, applied in layers and covered in goo and left to set so it takes on the shape of what ever was underneath it. And then, why bother with any more craft? The shape is cast. 

Fuck dumb love. 

I am more interested in something deeper and more fucking juicy than love. Maybe there’s a word for it – I don’t know. Conscious love? Mindful love? Effected love? Maybe it’s not even called love. It’something more mature that doesn’t just bask in its own glory. “I exist therefore I am a given”. Fuck dumb love. 

There is something better than dumb love – I know it. Its something that comes with a continued enthusiasm. Unlike those free emotions like love and fear that just turn up in response to brain chemistry; I’m talking about something worth efforting. Something that can’t exist after only 36 questions. Where does it start that efforting? I don’t know. It could be in giving someone you dumb love your undivided attention at the end of the day. 




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