I have a feeling there are two kinds of jealousy, and one is normal; some visceral, animal emotion whence you get fucking pissed at the idea of your sweetie with someone else. And not just in some “I can’t trust you, adios” or “you slut, you’re going to give me a disease” type way either – I guess it amounts to possessiveness, the same anger one gets when a possession is stolen, even if it gets stolen by someone who can . . . uhm . . . make it happier . . . I don’t fucking know.
But there’s a second kind of jealousy – or maybe this second kind is just an intellectualization of the first, or maybe it isn’t jealousy at all. Which is, one can think the words or deeds of his* lover are calculated to make him viscerally, bestially jealous. And one associates, right or wrong, such provocation with insecurity; thinking a person who engages in it does so to get some visible, violent reassurance of importance, being too insecure to be convinced of this importance with tenderness - and hence is probably ultimately a shitty lover because confident tenderness is the tits. So the 'provoked' lover gets pissy, dissappointed, even exhausted.
Do you know what I mean? Is this actually jealousy or is there a better name for it? Anyways, I’m perturbed at the moment because I have a feeling some people who are dear to me are getting needlessly provoked into the second type of jealousy, and it’s wiping them out. I hate seeing people get wiped out by each other. It’s the worst non-traumatic emotion I can think of, hands down – fucking horrible – like a goddamn looooong T.S. Eliot poem minus the imagery. And it can last for months, years even, because it's not quite enough all at once to make you stop loving whoever and after awhile you figure it's just normal. But is it totally unrealistic not just to hope, but to expect our relationships would be more refreshing tham exhausting?
Figaro isn’t tiring or provoking yet. Although he did talk too long about how nice Maggie Cheung looked in her wardrobe from In the Mood for Love , which (though true) I resented after I made a specific effort to spare his feelings by not mentioning the dream I’d just had about getting magnificently plowed by Stéphane Rousseau**. But martyr complexes are a different issue altogether.
*Just let me use the masculine as generic, please, it’s easier.
** Neither Figaro nor Stéphane Rousseau read this blog.